“What is the Greatest Nation on Earth? Imagination.”

John Moak

Chapter 1

“Connor Delacamp!”   

Connor could hear his mother’s muffled yell through his bedroom door. He was needed. Something had to be done, a chore no doubt. Whenever his mother needed something, she yelled for him. It was much easier than climbing the stairs and simply knocking on his bedroom door and asking courteously. No, shouting was a simple effort. One simply raised one’s voice and hollered, bellowed, or shrieked as loudly as possible. It was, and continues to be, an honored tradition among parents.

     “Connor, come down here!”  Mrs. Delacamp bellowed out a second time. She was growing impatient. She was not angry, just impatient this morning. Something was aggravating her, and she could not put her finger on what the root cause was. But something was not right.

Connor sighed heavily and lifted himself out of his bed. Stepping over his unopened school books, folders of papers, and other assorted school paraphernalia, he turned off the television, which was still on from the night before, and walked out of his room. The reruns of Spongebob Square Pants that he had seen countless times could wait. With minimal vigor, he replied, “coming, mom!”

Connor slowly shuffled his way down the stairs. The stairway was the family shrine of years gone by. The walls were filled with pictures of a younger Connor, family outings with the cousins, and roving vacations to faraway places. These were happy pictures of laughter and bonding and being a family, and no doubt you have many among them on your walls at home. Connor was in no hurry to come down those stairs. It was morning. And Connor was not what you would call a morning person.

“Connor that raccoon was in the garbage again last night. Can you hurry and pick it up before you leave for school?” asked Mrs. Delacamp, frustrated at what was becoming an all too familiar occurrence.

     “Again?” Connor asked incredulously to no one but himself as he nodded in the affirmative to his mother. It seemed that only he was plagued by an unmerciful and quite uncanny raccoon that had decided the Delacamps had the best rubbage in the tiny Village of Peculiar, Florida.

The Village of Peculiar, an odd name I grant you for a community, but let us not judge so early in our story, is a tiny hamlet sandwiched between the much larger cities of Palm Bay (to the south) and Melbourne (to the north), a wonderful town of friendly folk and home to many storytellers of great repute. If you should look on a map, you will find these two cities located squarely within the middle of Florida, bordering the great Atlantic Ocean. Unfortunately, mapmakers for years have derided the Village of Peculiar and left it off the maps, making the Village a rather unknown and hidden-away hamlet. And, for that insult, the Villagers of Peculiar are quite content. They rather enjoy not being noticed in this age where everyone knows everyone’s business.

The Village of Peculiar is home to a small assortment of happy people, many of whom are the descendants of the earlier original Peculiar settlers; a small assembly of people who followed a young lady by the name of Rea Lee Peculiar, who was first accused of witchcraft by her neighbor and then driven from her home in Salem, Massachusetts most unjustly.

This small, tight-knit group of ladies traveled south and found the Florida climate and the uncrowded nature of the territory to be to their liking. And, when they found a high spot that would not flood during the rainy season, they settled in and began to build their happy little Village, away from the prying eyes of anyone; well, anyone who would snoop and meddle in the affairs of others.

Ms. Peculiar believed in the therapeutic powers and beauty of nature on one’s soul, and she and her friends and followers designed their beloved little community with the idea of putting nature first. And set out preserving the Great Water Oaks that grew in abundance, planting gardens, and learning to live in harmony with nature.

The residents of the Village of Peculiar had adopted, from the beginning, an almost Machiavellian-like approach to preserving nature in its purest forms. The cutting down of trees was strictly frowned upon. And the grove of Water Oaks that the first residents of Peculiar took a liking to and built their homes among the trees, not atop the trees like so many others have done, had produced a collection of ancient trees whose broad and leafy canopies block out the sweltering Florida sun even during the worst dog days of summer. Over the centuries, these mythical trees had developed long beards of Spanish moss hanging from their limbs, which would sway to and from whenever a breeze would catch them. And, during the darkest of nights, the trees took on an almost supernatural look, like old men with long beards watching over the Village.

These ancient Live Oaks harbored and supported a vast array of native Florida wildlife, which found their trunks, limbs, and twisted boughs, and all the assorted nooks therein, to be the perfect nesting spots. Raccoons, possums, and squirrels were seen climbing to and from the limbs daily. Hawks and owls circled overhead or swooped in and among the trees in their hunt for the slightest error in judgment by the furry, four-legged creatures as they scampered about on the forest floor and the yards of Peculiar’s residents for their daily searches for food. Deer and wild pigs found sanctuary in the thick undergrowth, and at night they would emerge from their nesting spots to gorge themselves on the oak’s acorns that fell like rain from the trees. And, of course, to raid the local vegetable gardens, which have simply become buffets to them.

It was even reported that a black bear was now moving around the Village. Ms. Nicely’s video security cameras had captured the black bear rooting around the houses, sniffing and pawing about, obviously looking for food and whatever else very large bears look for in the middle of the night. Yet, the topic of the black bear was in question, as Mr. Smidley doubted the video and suspected it was obviously a loose dog. Albeit, a very large black dog, and he had every intention of voicing his complaint, and then some, at the very next Peculiar Village council meeting about loose dogs in the neighborhood, children laughing too loudly, and of course weed control amongst the homeowner’s yards.

     “We must protect the property values!” Mr. Smidley would exclaim to anyone who would listen.

     But let us not get distracted by loose black dogs and neighbors who complain about children being too loud. Let’s focus on the most important topic at hand. This troublesome trash bandit had marked the Delacamp’s trash cans as his favorite midnight snack repository. This raccoon, and, if I understand this story correctly, he was a raccoon of above-average intelligence, even by the standards of intelligence racoons are known for.

This raccoon had discovered that the Delacamp’s nightly trash was an abundance of good eating, and he decided he liked these offerings better than the natural foodstuffs he had been eating around the oak trees. No, people’s garbage was simply much better: day old pizza crust, leftover fried chicken bones, and every delightful pasta leftover (every Thursday night was pasta night at the Delacamp’s). It’s a family tradition. All of these delectable bites were there for his taking with little to no effort on his part. And, despite Connor’s best efforts at securing the garbage can lids, the annoying masked vagrant continued to outsmart Connor’s best efforts at stopping him. This raccoon understood he had a good thing going and was not prepared for it to end.

On this morning, which would later be remembered by everyone, Connor walked outside to the stinky clutter that awaited him and sighed heavily. The garbage cans had been knocked over and their smelly contents scattered about the yard and into the roadway. Carefully packed plastic bags of household trash had been torn open. Their innards dispersed as the raccoon sniffed and pawed his way through the assorted receptacles of processed goodness. As Peculiar’s morning commuters drove past the Delacamps house, the unsightly food wrappers, discarded tissues, and soiled paper towels became airborne and drifted further away from the scene of the crime.

     “Oh, come on!” Connor cried out in disgust as he surveyed the claim that awaited him. Resentfully, he righted the smelly garbage cans, those receptors of human refuse and discarded memories, and gingerly began picking up the jumble of garbage and rubbish before him. The rotten smell of three-day-old garbage caused him to want to gag. Holding his breath and using just his fingertips, he gathered up the banana peels, the thrown-away cans of beans and tomatoes, and other nasty waste that had just recently resided within his home. It was a filthy endeavor, but a necessity that had to be done.

Connor’s mother stood at the living room window and watched her son pick at the trash and slowly put it back in the can. She was worried about him, as mothers are for their children. Connor was struggling in school, and the transition to Peculiar High School had not been easy on him. His recent attempt at joining the track team had not ended well. Connor had developed very few friends. and attracted more unwanted attention than she wanted. But Connor was her pride and joy, as all children are to their mothers. And, while academics may not have been his strong suit, Connor more than made up for it in love and devotion to his family.

At  seventeen, Connor was your average student. He was not failing school like some were, but he was not showing his best either. And, despite his strong showing in track, his mediocre grades were preventing him from joining the Peculiar Track team. Connor’s friends were already making their future plans, but not Connor. Connor had not decided on any future endeavors. His mother knew it. His Father knew it. And Connor knew it. And he was okay with that. His parents still hoped that a spark would ignite and Connor would find his purpose. But they did not pressure him. They were confident he would find something soon.

But for now, Connor just had to pick up the garbage. Passing cars full of early morning commuters off to their appointments and work places slowly drove by Connor as he picked up the assorted garbage and cast looks of disdain, as if Connor had purposely knocked over the garbage cans. Some chuckled at Connor, finding humor in his misfortune. Connor knew many of those that drove by, as the little Village of Peculiar was a small and tight-knit community, which of course made this process even more embarrassing.

Most of the kids snickered at Connor as they passed by. Some laughed mockingly at his misfortune. Tommy, who lived on Oak Court (all the streets in Peculiar were named Oak Street, Oak Court, Oak Avenue, or some tree variation thereof). was sitting in the backseat of his father’s Cadillac and even rolled down the window and yelled out, “You suck!” Connor looked up at Tommy and responded with a half-smile. Tommy was the resident bully in the neighborhood. The one kid who Connor tried to avoid whenever he could though, in a small Village like Peculiar, it was not always easy.

“I am going to get that garbage muncher,” Connor thought to himself, as he picked up the last of the putrid garbage, a bag of last night’s salad, now rotting with flies buzzing about it. Ideas were swirling in his head. Not all were good ideas. Guns were simply out of the question. Connor did not have a gun. And his mother would never allow such a thing to happen. Shooting a defenseless animal, even a pesky raccoon, would never be allowed.

A trap or a snare was a remote possibility. But where could he get a trap? He could build one. Look it up on the internet. Find the pieces and assemble one. But that would take time. And, then, he would be stuck with a live raccoon. Maybe then he could sell the raccoon. Surely, someone must be in the market for live, garbage-eating raccoons, he pondered to himself.

     “Or, I could poison the raccoon. Raccoons are simply big rats,” he said out loud as he wandered back into the house. That would be quiet. No mess. No loud guns. No angry ball of fur snapped away, trying to bite him. He liked that idea the most. It was easy. Simple. Quiet.

     “Mom, I got an idea about this stupid raccoon of ours,” he announced as he walked back into the house.

     “Wash up, Connor, before you touch anything!” Mrs. Delacamp yelled out, cutting him off before he could finish his thoughts.

     “How about we poison that trash panda? I could set poison out with the garbage, and that should do the trick,” he suggested with a vindictive smile, as he worked to set his plot in motion.

Mrs. Delacamp thought about the idea for a moment. That raccoon had become a nuisance. And it was never good to have a rodent make your home their home. There’s no telling where your home’s value would go with a family of raccoons living in it. No, something had to be done, something drastic. Poisoning seemed to be the simplest thing to do. But it pained her to think of an animal suffering, even if it was a nuisance.

     “No, Connor, let’s not poison the poor thing. He is just trying to eat like the rest of us. Think of something else. I know you can,” she countered encouragingly. That was Connor’s mom; she cared about everyone and everything, even pesky racoons.

      “Sure, mom,” Connor replied as he rolled his eyes. Connor had tried tying the cans shut with bungee cords. He had tried placing heavy bricks on the garage can lids. Connor had tried leaving mothballs around the cans, something Mr. Pulaski had suggested. Nothing was working. This raccoon was ingenious, conniving, and determined.

A sudden clap of thunder rolled over the house. Florida, notorious for its violent stormy weather, started early this morning. Connor looked out the window and could see the ominously dark shelf cloud heading his way. Flashes of lightening could be seen. Very bright and coming in multitudes. Thunder following quickly behind them. It was going to get very ugly, very quickly. Connor swallowed hard as he saw the storm heading his way.

Connor’s dog, Wolf, a great snow-white Siberian husky that Connor had found several years ago, jumped up and out of her morning nap as the crack of thunder caused the windows of the house to shake. Wolf had an odd fascination with thunderstorms. Other dogs would run and hide, cower under a bed, and seek the comfort of their owner’s reassurance. Not Wolf: she had an odd habit of running to the windows and staring out, watching the storms as they occurred. Her muscles would tighten, and her hair on the back of her neck would rise. It was almost as if Wolf was watching for something, as if a threat was lurking in the storm, hidden from the view of others.

     “Good girl Wolf! Good girl!” Connor yelled out. Connor went over and patted her along her sides and rubbed her behind the ears. Wolf was powerfully built for a husky. The veterinarian suspected that she was indeed part wolf, given her extremely stout and muscular frame. Wolf turned her head and looked up at Connor with affection, licking his hand. Her brilliant blue eyes sparkled with love for Connor. No dog was more loyal to its human.

     “Anytime you want to do something about that raccoon wolf, just let me know,” Connor said sarcastically. Wolf was an inside dog, and the Delacamps never left her out overnight. And Wolf would probably just want to play with the raccoon anyway. Wolf liked everyone and everything. Even when strangers approached, Wolf was the first to try and instigate a game of tug of war with her favorite chew toy. Connor suspected Wolf would just make a play friend with their resident trash bandit if she was given a chance.

A second crack of thunder was heard again, and Wolf turned and stared out the window, growling quietly. Connor had to hurry. Other kids depended on their parents giving them rides to school. Connor, however enjoyed running to school and had made it his daily ritual to run to and from school. But now, with a thunderstorm approaching, he had to make haste. Connor bent down, re-tied his sneakers snug, put on a light jacket, and slipped his backpack that was bulging with a collection of math, English, and history books. And the dreaded unfinished homework.

     “Connor, you have to hurry,” Connor’s mother cautiously reminded him from the kitchen. She was staring out the kitchen window and could see the storm’s darkness coming from the north. The local weatherman had warned them about an approaching cold front and the associated storms last night. He was right. Here, it was now descending on them, looking more ominous by the minute.

      “Mom, I’m going!” Connor yelled as he reached for the front door and opened it halfway, letting the warm, humid morning air roll in. The smell of the approaching rainstorm filled the foyer. Connor took a deep breath and held it. The fresh smell of rain was one of his favorites. He exhaled and stepped out of the door and onto the front porch.

     “Just a minute, young man,” Mrs. Delacamp warned. Mrs. Delacamp caught up with her son, gave him a kiss on the forehead, and handed him his bagged lunch.

     “I love you more.” She cooed softly. It bothered her greatly that she could not take her son to school on a day like this. But, with only one car in the family and Mr. Delacamp having to be at work at the hospital at 5 AM, there was just no way she could. “I will have brownies ready for you when you get home today,” she offered.

      “I love you too, Mom,” Connor replied robustly, stretching out his legs, swinging his arms, and doing several stretches.

Wolf barked several times and came scrambling to the front door, her nails making a rapid-fire ticking noise as they struck the floor tiles. Wolf would not let Connor go without her goodbye affection. Connor bent down, looked her in the eyes, and scratched her face with both hands. Wolf eagerly responded with her version of affection: licks to Connor’s face.

Connor took several deeper breaths and checked his wrist watch. He had ten minutes to make it to class. He only needed nine minutes. Connor had made this run every day he went to school, and then he made it on his return home from school. Running was fun for Connor. He had made this routine a game, and it was paying off. Connor was the fastest runner in his class. He was even planning to step out of his comfort zone and join track this year if he could get his grades up a notch or two.

The running was not the challenge for Connor. The actual challenge lay in getting across Minton Road. Minton Road was a notoriously dangerous four-lane road that bordered the eastern boundary of Peculiar and served as the primary conduit between Palm Bay and Melbourne. It was this road that separated Connor from his home and school. As one of the three north-south roads in the area, it was a major traffic artery. And it was notorious for its aggressive drivers, who sped recklessly along its route.

Connor was questioning his logic and whether he could indeed make this run this morning before getting soaked. He decided to take his chance. He looked at the sky to get his bearings on the storm’s approach and then took his first steps. Connor always started his runs very slowly. He would let his body get acclimated to the coming exertion: let his leg muscles loosen, his heart rate sped up, and his lungs adapt to the heavy, humid air.

Connor glanced down at his watch and checked his time. His body was warming up, and he was starting to pick up his speed. He figured he was going to make the three blocks from his house to the street corner in less than four minutes. Not a bad time, but he could do better. His runner’s euphoria was just beginning to spread throughout his body, spreading the endorphins throughout his body. Beads of sweat were forming across his forehead from the exertion and the humidity in the air. Florida is notorious for its humidity, and today, with a thunderstorm on its heels, the humidity was staggering.

Connor glanced up at the storm. October is a tricky month for weather in Florida. As the cool winds of autumn struggle to bring sweet relief to the sweating Floridians, the warm Atlantic Ocean winds, heavy with moisture, struggle to push back and keep the state in ongoing sauna-like conditions. The resulting weather battles are epic and well-known. Many times, October will bring the worst weather to Florida. And, today, it seemed as though one of those weather battles was forming up.

The ominous black storm clouds were hanging low and swirling about. The clouds were thick and heavy with moisture; little specks of rain were beginning to fall around Connor, and on occasion they even hit him in the face. Connor began to suspect he might have misjudged this storm. For a brief moment, Connor thought of turning back and going home and calling out sick from school this day. But the thought only lasted a few seconds. His mother would be terribly upset with him. And he did not want to disappoint her any more than he had. He was in too much trouble with his school work as it was. Connor checked his negative attitude and doubled down on his efforts, more determined than ever. “I got this,” he said aloud to only himself as he breathed in deeper, filling his lungs to capacity with the warm air.

The air fueled his lungs with new energy. He could feel the prickle in his calves and thighs as he bore down and stretched his muscles to new and untested levels. Connor had learned to embrace this feeling of discomfort as he improved his running. He focused on each step now and paid little attention to the storm clouds swirling around him, seemingly directly overhead, if he ever looked up again.

Connor arrived at the corner of Oak Way Avenue and Minton Road and glanced at his watch. He had managed to shave off five seconds from his normal run. Not much to you or me, but to a runner, shaving off a few extra seconds from a run was a milestone. A surge of exhilaration was overtaking Connor as he took long, deep breaths, recharging his body. Connor exhaled the spent air from his lungs and replaced it with new air repeatedly as he studied the morning rush hour traffic. Connor pushed the crosswalk button, listened to the metallic clicking as the crosswalk went to work, and then he waited.

     “Good morning, young man,” an unexpectedly friendly voice announced.

Connor was startled by the unexpected voice. He had not noticed anyone at the corner when he arrived. The person must have walked up unnoticed. Connor turned to face the person and replied, “Good morning, sir.”

Connor noticed the man standing next to him. The man had quite a splendid appearance; he was dressed impeccably, although much out of date by today’s standards. A gray three-piece suit, hat, tie, and a walking cane. He sported a fine gray beard that was perfectly trimmed. The fellow made for a most distinguished person. He glanced at his pocket watch before speaking again.

     “A storm is coming,” the elder said, looking up at the clouds with disdain.

     “Yes, any minute now, it will be upon us.” Connor replied.

     “Storms are funny; they come and blow and make a terrible ruckus, but just be patient, and soon the sun always comes back out. Good always follows evil I say,” The old man mused.

More raindrops fell, and Connor could see the wall of rain approaching. He was getting nervous. He had to get hustling here. He was becoming very impatient. The rush hour traffic seemed heavier this morning. And it was. Like Connor, the morning drivers were also rushing to their destinations to beat the approaching storm. Many drivers glanced up from their focused driving and cursed the approaching thunderstorm. They knew if they were going to get caught in this deluge, then all of their early morning primping, grooming, and fussing over their day’s looks would be lost.

Connor glanced at his watch again, impatiently. His time was ticking away. He reached back and pushed the crosswalk button again. And then he pushed it several more times, just because he was impatient. He looked to the left, and he watched as the cars zoomed past him southbound. He glanced to his right, and he watched the cars zooming past him northbound. No one paid him any attention. The drops of rain were falling more abundantly around Connor. Several struck Connor in the face, and he just let them roll off his cheeks unchecked. He could feel the rain collecting and running down his back from his neck.

The traffic control panel behind him finally clicked out loud with the changing of the signals. The overhead traffic lights turned yellow. The traffic onslaught began to slow and break for the yellow light. Some drivers sped up to beat the yellow light, but most obediently slowed down. Connor breathed in several deep breaths and held the warm air in. He was inundating his lungs with fresh air before he bolted across the roadway and sprinted towards his final destination, Peculiar High School.

The traffic lights turned bright red. The clicking sound of the switch box could be heard as the lights switched over. Connor exhaled and glanced again to his left. The southbound traffic was coming to a stop. He glanced to the right and saw the northbound traffic also coming to a stop. A northbound driver, driving a local delivery truck in the inside lane, was slowing down and coming to a stop. The driver glanced toward Connor. Connor made eye contact and nodded to the truck driver, who politely returned the same gesture.

Connor felt a hand on his shoulder and turned, surprised at being touched by this stranger; his body tingled all over at the sudden and unexpected gesture. No one touches a stranger these days. The old man was looking at him and smiling. His blue eyes blazed with an intensity that astonished Connor. “You’re going to do well, my boy. “Your gonna do good,” the old man offered up reassuringly. Connor, confused at the exchange, simply nodded and then turned towards the school. He did not have time for this old man. And he did not need his reassurances, that was for sure.

Connor stepped onto Minton Road. His personal race was back on. In just a few more minutes, he would be inside the school and safe from the storm that was now fully over him. He stretched his legs out and counted each step backward. He knew he had to make 12 outstretched steps to safely cross Minton Road.

     “12, 11, 10,” Connor counted out loud as he bound like a gazelle across the road. He glanced to his left and saw Isabella and her mother in their minivan, two cars back from the stoplight. Isabella and Connor had been dear friends for years. She smiled and waved excitedly at Connor to come get in the van. The two shared several classes together and sat next to one another in one. There was talk of them going to the upcoming school Halloween party together. Connor, his attention shifting from the dangerous traffic, smiled excitedly, waved back at Isabella, and motioned that he would run the rest of the way.

     “9, 8, 7,” Connor continued out loud in between his breaths. He was across the southbound traffic lanes. At the traffic island, Connor stopped for a moment and looked around again, double-checking the northbound traffic. He made sure he looked at the delivery truck driver a second time. The truck driver was coming to a complete stop. The truck driver smiled and nodded at Connor. Feeling fearless, Connor looked ahead at the school just ahead of him in the distance and bolted onto the roadway again.

     “6, 5, 4, I got this,” Connor spoke out loud. Connor was his own best cheering squad. He was even going to arrive at school before Isabella this day. He chuckled slightly at the thought as he wiped the accumulating sweat mixed with rain from his brow. Connor was sweating profusely now, a serious drawback to running to school in the humid Florida mornings.

     “Connor!” Isabella yelled out the car window in a moment of excitement. Connor heard Isabella, and for a moment, he broke his focus and turned back to her, even as he was running across the road. It was a serious error in judgment, as I am sure even you realize sitting comfortably in your seat, away from any foul weather, and reading our story.

Connor never knew what happened next. A car was speeding towards him in the outside northbound lane. It was not stopping. Tucked in behind the delivery truck, an impatient young man driving a very shiny new car was running late for work. And, with the changing of the light, the young man saw his opportunity to pass the dawdling delivery truck that was in front of him and was now slowing down for this frustrating stoplight. This was very inconvenient for a person in a hurry. And the young driver had no time for it.

The young driver had not seen Connor standing and waiting patiently for his moment to cross the road. Perhaps it was the text message he had just received that caused him to divert his gaze for those precious few moments. Perhaps his view was blocked by the other cars or the delivery truck in front of him. It would not matter at this moment. What does matter is that in order to get past the red light and get around the delivery truck, the young driver was pressing hard on his car’s accelerator, and he was enjoying the rumbling sound of the engine accelerating and the feeling of power that he received when he pushed his car to the limits. With little thought, he was soon passing the delivery truck and swerving into the outside lane. And, as I am sure you have now realized, putting himself directly on a collision course with Connor, who was unfortunately in the same lane as the onrushing car.

From the corner of his eye, Connor could see the car barreling towards him. He could hear the unmistakable rumbling sound of a car engine accelerating. Connor’s brain suddenly shifted into a mode that he had never experienced. For a brief moment, his brain slowed everything down to the millisecond. Connor could hear every sound around him: the screeching of the tires as the car tried to stop; someone pressing a horn to warn Connor; the scream of a witness. He could see the looks of horror on the driver’s face as he too realized what was happening—that he was about to hit Connor as he was crossing the street.

Without thinking, Connor jumped for safety. Like a long jumper who was making the most important jump of his life, Connor pushed himself airborne with his arms and legs outstretched as he lunged towards the safety of the sidewalk. But nothing, nothing short of a miracle, could save Connor at this point.

For those who saw the accident unfold, it was as if their perception of time had stopped. It would be a moment of horror that they would never forget. And, despite their concentrated efforts at removing the disturbing experience from their memory, it would be forever lodged in their cerebellums. What had been seen now could not be unseen. For the driver who saw Connor crossing the road, the dreadfulness of his poor decision-making engulfed his mind and could not be undone. No matter how hard he pressed on his brakes or how much he wanted his car to stop, its forward momentum continued to carry him directly towards Connor.

The impact of the car hurled Connor through the air, his body spinning end over end. His backpack, so carefully packed the night before, exploded open, allowing the books and papers to burst through the air like a piata spilling its candies. Connor saw the world spinning around and around—first the sky, then the ground, then the sky again, over and over.

The only good thing about this incident, of which dreadfully there was none, was that Connor never felt the impact of the car hitting him or the roadway as his body was violently slammed onto Minton Road, his young bones shattering into pieces. Nor did Connor feel his skin being peeled off his body as he slid across the coarseness of the asphalt road. Connor also never heard the distinct sound a person’s head makes when it strikes such a hard material as asphalt or concrete; his skull cracking open and the precious cerebral fluids housed within his cranium now leaking from his ears—a clear indication of severe brain trauma. Connor’s brain was so overwhelmed by the sudden and unstoppable rush of pain that his brain did the only thing it could do: it turned itself off. Connor died upon impact.

The school bell would puncture the morning air minutes later, signaling the start of yet another day. And, for the 1,077 students of Peculiar High School, blissfully unaware that one of their very own lay in the middle of Minton Road, within eyesight of their beloved school, another boring and uneventful day of school was now beginning. But it would not remain a very boring and uneventful day for very long.

Chapter 2

     Events were now beginning to move at a very chaotic pace. The Peculiar Fire Department, a notably fine institution within the field of emergency service, was dispatched and quickly arrived on scene minutes before the police department. Traffic on Minton Road had come to a standstill. People were milling about their cars, talking on their cell phones as they gawked at the accident scene before them. A few very noble people were huddled over Connor saying their prayers and wishing there was something they could do. Others simply cried openly at the horror they had just witnessed. A few people, those who lacked any couth, snapped pictures of Connor’s corpse with their cell phones, just so they could share a macabre moment with others on social media.

     The Peculiar Fire Department wasted no time upon their arrival. Chief Parson, a square chested and seasoned by decades of exemplary public service, stepped out of the fire engine and began barking out orders to the young firemen and ambulance staff who followed his orders.  Rushing to Connor’s side, the rescue workers grimaced at what they saw, but with hope yet holding, started a thorough physical assessment of Connor. Moments later their sad faces confirmed what everyone feared. Connor had no heartbeat. His body was broken. He was not breathing.  And when the paramedics ran an electrocardiogram, there was not the slightest sign of electrical impulses. Connor’s brain had ceased to work. The last hope that Connor might be alive was now gone. He was dead by all accounts. Out of respect for the young man, and to prevent onlookers from gawking and further picture taking, the firemen quickly covered Connor’s body with a white sheet.

     The Peculiar Police Department, another distinguished institution I would add, would arrive only minutes after the fire department. The men in blue, all too familiar with such awfulness, went about establishing a crime scene; they began directing traffic around the accident scene. And dutifully gathered up witnesses and their statements. Of which, many were forthcoming.

     Isabella, who had just witnessed this horrific event, was convulsing and sobbing uncontrollably. Her mother, who was also sobbing terribly, tried to comfort her daughter but was of no use. She had seen the terrible event from the corners of her eyes and she needed as much help as her daughter did at this moment. The kind officers of the Peculiar Police Department ushered the two women to a safe space where they could collect themselves. They covered poor Isabella with a blanket fearing she may go into shock over the horror she had witnessed.

     The young, unremorseful driver of the speeding car was on his cell phone calling his parents. Highly agitated at this inconvenience, aggravated that his new car was now damaged, and now late for work for the fourth time this month, was yelling at his parents, who were desperately trying to understand what had just happened. As if to downplay the tragedy of the circumstances and his culpability, he left out any mention of him hitting Connor with his car. After all, it was not his fault. An argument, which he and his parents would later contend to the judge

     At Peculiar High, rumors were beginning to circulate. Late arriving students were whispering to other students that there had been an accident and it looked like one of their very own. Rumors move fast through high schools. Soon, students who were not allowed to use their cell phones, began disregarding the school policy and began texting, searching websites, and asking questions. They demanded answers from their teachers, who realized sadly they had none.  

     Mrs. Rucket, principal and resident matriarch of Peculiar High School had heard the sirens in the distance, but now tipped off by one student that something serious had happened at the intersection of Minton Road, rushed into action.  She dashed into the parking lot and from her vantage point could see the flashing of the red and blue lights of the emergency vehicles gathering at the accident scene. She knew that intersection was used by her students coming and going to school and always feared this day would come.

      She bowed her head and quietly whispered a prayer to her God who she prayed to every day and every night that everyone was safe. Then she went into crises mode. It was something she trained her staff on a regular basis just in case the unthinkable should ever happen at her school. And now it was happening here, at Peculiar High School. Mrs. Rucket said out loud, “it’s go time,” as she sprang into action.

     Mrs. Rucket sprinted to front office intercom, pushed aside Mrs. O’Leary who in her morning voice was reading off the cafeterias lunch menu of, “chicken fried steak and pepper gravy, green beans with bacon, fresh baked yeast rolls, and homemade made apple crips,” and announced a Code Blue. All students were ordered to their assigned rooms and assigned seats. No excuses were allowed. Staff members were to take up their pre-appointed positions in the hallways. Stray students found wandering the halls were escorted to their respective rooms by staff members, with the utmost haste and diligence. All students were to remain seated. No one could leave their classrooms, not even for the bathroom no matter how much they squirmed in their seats.

     Teachers were instructed to do an accounting of all their students.  All known absent students were to be reported to the front office within minutes. Teachers who dawdled were called out personally by Mrs. Rucket with a sharp “Mr. Fish, I am waiting on you,” or a “Mrs. Sands, I need your report now.” With each passing moment, that a teacher dilly-dallied, Ms. Rucket commands grew louder and more demanding.

     In the amount of time that would make any military commander proud, Mrs. Rucket had a list of names in hand of students who were missing from school. Then each student’s parents were called and queried as to the whereabouts of the student. Within minutes, she had the list narrowed down to three students whose whereabouts could not be verified; Paul, who lived in the Greenbrier subdivision normally had his mother drove him was running late this morning. He could be stuck in traffic. Sally who lived in Lost Lakes was home with cramps, her mother forgot to call and tell the school; and Connor, who always ran to school and lived in Peculiar, right across from the school. She took several deep breaths and then bolted out the door running towards the accident scene; she had a horribly, dreadful thought of who may be lying on the roadway.

     Mrs. Delacamp took the schools call and learning that Connor had not yet reported in, suddenly doubled over with pain and felt very shaky. “Why yes, he left minutes ago? Has something happened? He should be in class by now. She asked, perplexed. A sudden feeling of dread and anxiety began to overcome her. Feeling weak she stumbled to a chair so she could sit down. She had never felt such heaviness overtake her and it frightened her terribly. She just knew something had just gone horribly and utterly wrong. She had heard the wail of sirens in the distance. She knew someone was in terrible distress and now she feared the worse. A parent’s worst nightmare. She began to quietly say Connor’s name over and over.

    Wolf, Connor’s faithful husky, realized something was amiss and that Connor needed her, was scratching at the front door frantically and barking uncontrollably trying to get free and get to her beloved Connor.  

Chapter 3

     Chief Hugs, a veteran of the Peculiar Police Department, was the first of the many officers on the scene. He was on his way to the station when he heard the call crackle over the radio.

     “Morning Charlie,” he offered to the Chief of the Fire Department with curtness and as officially as he good manage. It was a professional courtesy, although the two had known each other for years.

     “Morning Bobby,” the Chief offered back glumly.

     “Any details?” Chief Hugs asked as he pulled out a notebook and began to make copious notes and sketches in it. He glanced at the white sheet covering the body and sighed deeply. Sirens could be heard in the distance as additional officers rushed to the accident scene. Today, was not going to be a good day.

     Of course Chief Hugs already knew what had happened; the crumbled car, the frantic driver yelling into his cell phone, the sobbing witnesses on the side of the road. And of course, the covered body in the roadway. He knew this conundrum. Now, he had to make sense of it. First, he had to establish command and control. Second, put the pieces together for a criminal and civil case. And sadly third, deliver a message to someone’s loved ones.

     Minutes later the balance of the Peculiar’s finest arrived. Chief Hugs went to work barking out instructions for the other officers to establish a perimeter, begin traffic control and start taking names and finding witnesses. A lot of police work had to be done and the storm clouds overhead were about to unleash a torrent upon them. No one wanted to get wet, however, it looked inevitable.

     “Bobby, it’s a student from the school. The boy is maybe 17 years old,” the Fire Chief quietly offered up to Chief Hugs, “and, his parents don’t know.”

     “Oh, crap,” Chief Hugs responded as he looked the Fire Chief in the eyes. The Fire Chief, a professional who had seen far too much death was also visibly shaken. The death of a child was always extraordinary painful to the first responders who we rely on so much and so little gratitude is given.

     Chief Hugs looked off in the direction of Peculiar High, he thought to himself, “This kid was just trying to get to school before these damn rains started”. As he looked in the direction of the school he could see a large framed African-American women dressed in the schools colors of blue and gold running frantically towards the scene. She was huffing and puffing and waving her arms desperately trying to get someone’s attention. In one hand was her list of names. It was Mrs. Rucket who the Chief knew and respected tremendously.

     Chief Hugs whistled to one of the officers standing around. The rookie officer turned and saw the Chief pointing to the running woman. The rookie instinctively knew what to do. He moved to intercept the woman and keep her from getting too close to the accident scene.

     Mrs. Rucket made the run to the intersection in less than a minute. She hurriedly passed the list of missing students to the rookie officer and when she looked about the accident scene, she saw the covered body and the backpack with the scattered books and papers in the road. Her worst fears were now confirmed. She bowed her head and prayed out loud, asking for a miracle this day, and she did not care who heard her.

     “Charlie, let me take a look at the body,” Chief Hugs asked. He had already gotten his camera out and was taking general photos of the scene. Now he had to take pictures of the victim for reporting purposes.

     The two men walked over to where Connor lay in the roadway. The firemen realizing the finality of the circumstances, had followed their departmental protocols and left the scene as intact as possible. The ends of the sheet were curling up from the coming storm winds blowing about them. Connor’s blood had soaked through the sheets leaving patches of crimson red in the otherwise snow white sheets. Drops of rain were evident on the sheet and more were falling profusely as the men approached the body.

     “Who pronounced the boy dead?” Chief Hugs asked with the utmost gravity.

     “I did myself,” the Fire Chief answered. Then as if to defend his decision, he went into details of what he observed, “his back is contorted and most likely his spine is snapped in half. His head is cracked open and has extensive trauma to it. Cranial fluids were leaking from the boy’s ears. Blood was seeping from every other orifice. We ran a cardio-tape and there was nothing on it. No life. The poor little fellow probably never felt a thing.”

     A bolt of bright lightning struck a nearby tree causing it to splinter apart. Instantaneously, a crack of thunder shook everyone to their core causing them to forget what they were doing for just a moment. Instead of investigating an accident seen, they were now in mortal fear for their safety as the storm’s dark clouds swirled overhead. A well founded alarm now gripped all who were at the accident scene. In Florida, lighting kills an average of nine people a year. The first responders on the scene did not want to add to that gruesome statistic.

     “Holy mackerel!” Chief Hugs bellowed at what he had just witnessed.  The hairs on his body were standing on end. His ears were buzzing from the crack of the thunder and he was not aware of how loud he was yelling.

     “Guys, we have got to hurry. I know this is an accident scene, but that bolt could have hit one of us!” The Fire Chief yelled frantically as he waved his arms for effect, his voice obviously reflecting the fear he now harbored.

     For the others, the anxiety of tempest that was descending upon them was now widespread. Those that could get back into the safety of their vehicles did so. The obedient officer’s, unable to retreat to the safety of their patrol cars, broke out their yellow rain slickers and dutifully stood their ground and quietly prayed they were not the next victims.

     “Help, me get a couple of pictures than we can move the body,” Chief Hugs yelled back, his sense of hearing now slightly distorted from the rumbling thunder. Chief Hugs glanced at his arm and noticed all the hair standing on end. Glancing up, he noticed the Fire Chief’s hair was standing on end. Both felt odd but neither admitted to it. It was as if a sudden surge of electricity was flowing through them. They felt oddly different, but could not describe what it was.

     As the two men stepped towards Connor, a ferocious gust of wind, perhaps forty or fifty miles per hour descended upon the accident scene. A tree limb cracked loudly and snapped loose from a nearby pine tree. Leaves were kicked up and swirled about. Gritty sand peppered those who were still standing outside in the open. Everyone had to cover their eyes to keep out the blowing grit. The white sheet that covered Connor became airborne and blew off of Connor. Connor’s body was now exposed for all the crowd to see.  Isabella screamed aloud at the sight of her Connor lying on the roadway.

     “Oh no!” The Fire Chief ran after the sheet, trying to catch the floating specter as it became airborne and drifting away. If this had been anything other than a death investigation, the scene of an overweight fireman chasing a blowing, dancing sheet would have been comical.

     “Son of a biscuit!” Chief Hugs said out loud as he watched the sheet fly off Connor as he tried to protect his eyes from the flying sand picked up by the gusting wind. The cries and screams of the onlookers hastened his resolve. This was getting bad. Embarrassingly bad. Professionally bad. He had to move quickly and get this scene investigated. Or, there would be Hell to pay from the Mayor.

     Chief Hugs bent his head down, shielded his eyes, and sprinted over to Connor. He was trying to keep the sand out of his eyes.  When he got to Connor, he kneeled down for a closer look. The damage to the boy did not look as bad as he had expected. There was a pool of blood, but it had already dried with the warm Florida air blowing on it. There was no exposed brain matter that Chief Hugs could see. Connor’s body was not contorted or twisted as he expected to find. It almost looked like the boy had purposely laid down on the roadway and was taking a nap.

     “Who moved this body,” he yelled angrily to the firemen, who either could not hear him, or chose not to answer him. It was obvious someone had moved the body here. He would have words with the Fire Chief over this afterwards. The rain was beginning to fall harder now. He had to hurry, the storm was almost upon them now.

     Chief Hugs stood up and held the high powered crime scene camera to his eye and zoomed in on Connor’s face. He was standing straight over the body.  He needed to take several photos for the accident report. And, for identification purposes the first set of photos was always of the face and head.  He zoomed in and out several times. He adjusted for the lack of light as the dark storm clouds overhead blocked out the sun and a deep darkness settled over them. Then he moved in closer again as he checked his meters searching for the perfect distance to the victim. The first picture was the most important. And, having focused in, he snapped the picture of Connor, laying there, deceased.

     Nervously, Chief Hugs looked up and checked the storm about him. The wind had suddenly died down. A brilliant ray of sunshine was breaking through the storm clouds. Suddenly, it seemed as if the storm would die out before the expected deluge would ever hit them. Florida is funny like that. It can be raining on one side of the street and dry on the other. If you are ever caught in a Florida thunderstorm, just wait a few minutes, it will clear up before you know it.

    “Imagine that, the storm is breaking up,” the Chief mumbled to himself.

     Chief Hugs adjusted his light meters and again adjusted his camera for the unexpected light now streaming in. More light, less exposure. He positioned himself over Connor and looked through his camera again as he pointed it downwards at Connor’s face.  

     “One more picture…,” Chief Hugs had started the sentence out loud, but he never finished it. Looking down at Connor he saw something that had dumbfounded him.  His mouth dropped open. He was speechless.

     Connor was looking up at Chief Hugs; and not to be rude to the police chief, Connor asked, “Can I help you.”

Chapter 4

     The Emergency Room was a scene of frantic but orderly chaos. The ambulance had transported Connor from the accident scene to the Emergency Room in record time.  The doctors and nurses moved in a choreographed ballet, each dutifully doing the task for which they were assigned and charged with.

     Words among the staff were minimal. Occasionally the senior doctor would bark out a command, give guidance or answer a question, but these were few. So trained was the staff that each person performed their job with the utmost perfection.

     “I really feel fine,” Connor apologetically offered up to the staff as they hovered attentively over him. The doctors simply ignored him and continued with their examination. A patient knowing best was a ridiculous concept in today’s era of modern medicine. Connor felt terrible for causing everyone one so much trouble. The car had not done any harm he countered. He really felt fine. He simply wanted to leave, see his family and find Isabella. And, get back to school oddly enough.

     “No indications of broken bones. No signs of internal injuries. This boy is one blessed young man,” a younger doctor quietly said to another doctor as he pressed ever so slightly on Connor’s abdomen with his hands. Connor chuckled as the doctor pushed inward on his stomach. He was very sensitive to being tickled.

     “Astonishingly, this young fellow does not even have any signs of road rash,” replied the other doctor who was examining Connor’s left arm with a magnifying glass.

     “According to the witnesses, this young fellow slid almost forty feet along the asphalt. And, that was after he flew almost twenty feet through the air. And, if you look at those clothes he was wearing, I believe it,” a third doctor, older than the others, chimed in as he held up Connor’s ruined pants. He winked at Connor to reassure him that all was going to be okay; which of course, Connor already knew.

     One of the nurses examining Connor’s school shirt. The shirt had been violently torn and ripped to shred as Connor slid across the roadway. It was ruined of course. Connor looked at it and shook his head. His Mom-Mom had bought that for him as a Christmas gift last year. “Boy, is she going to be upset,” he thought to himself.

      “What is up with that Fire Chief? Does even know what he is doing?  He declared this poor fellow dead. What was he thinking?” asked the senior doctor, who was exasperated at the breakdown in basic triage at the accident scene. He would be making phone calls shortly to address this confusion and quite possibly incompetence.

     “Everyone keeps saying I died, and, maybe I did. But, you can see I am fine. Please don’t hold the Fire Chief at fault.” Connor chipped in, almost matter of fact, as if it is a common occurrence for one to die and come back to life shortly thereafter. 

     Silence befell the room. The hum and beeps of the medical machines was all that could be heard. No one moved a muscle. No one spoke. Everyone turned towards Connor and stared with wide eyes and surgical mask covered faces. Connor swallowed hard and regretted he said anything, but now he was committed.

     “I don’t think I was really dead. I mean here I am talking to you.” Connor offered up rather sheepishly, almost embarrassed he was taking of these good peoples time. He spoke more slowly this time as he heard himself say those very words. The reality of the situation was sinking in. He knew something had happened. Something horrible. Connor’s head was spinning with the thought of what he knew had happened; he had died there violently on the road. He could not explain what had happened. He could not prove it. He simply knew it had happened. Yet, here he was, talking away and despite some soreness, was ready to go toss Wolf her favorite ball and get back to class and to talk to Isabella.

     One of the doctors moved in closer to Connor. He raised his hand and pulled his surgical mask off. He had a gentle face. From underneath his cap, streaks of gray were mixed into his coal black hair. His eyes were big and now, as astonished as one could be at what he was seeing with Connor, they were even bigger with wonder.

     “Well young man, you have amazed us all this evening. Can you tell us your name?” He queried politely. 

     “Connor. Connor Delacamp. And I am terribly sorry for all this trouble I have caused you. Can I be on my way sir? I am sure I am running horribly late for school,” Connor humbly offered up. He was a bit nervous being the center of attention. He did not like being the center of attention.

     Connor did not see who laughed first. But, the emergency room erupted in laughter. It was an explosive release of nervousness through humor that Connor had inadvertently interjected. Connor, not laughing, opted to join and he too snicker at what he said, so as he would not be the outlier of the room.

     “Let’s get Mrs. Delacamp in here. Tell her, her young man is just fine. And, tell her Connor would like to still get to school,” the kindhearted doctor requested of a nurse that was standing nearby.

     Connor reached up and grabbed the gentle doctor by the arm and pulled him in closer. “Doctor, what do you think happened out there? On the street.” Connor whispered.

     The kind doctored smiled and placed his arm onto Connor’s in an effort to reassure him, “Somebody or something was looking out after you my boy. That is all. In the medical world, we call these,” at this point he leaned and whispered to Connor, “a miracle.” He then leaned in and put his fingers in front of his mouth to signal to keep it a secret. He was a man of science after all, not religion.  

     “Connor, I would not mention any of that death gobbledygook to your mother, she has had quite the scare this morning. Mothers are very special people, but they can only take so much in one day,” he gently counseled to Connor as he smiled down on him.

     And, as if on que, the emergency room door burst open. Mrs. Delacamp stood at the door, and locked her eyes on her one and only Connor. A look of terror was quickly replaced with exuberant joy. Tears of joy began gushing down her face as she ran to her boy and threw her arms around him. With all the adrenalin flowing through her body, she did not realize how tight she was holding her boy.

     “Mom, I can’t breathe,” Connor mumbled after many seconds had gone by.

     Mrs. Delacamp continued to squeeze and hold her son tight. The fear of what could have happened was not yet vanquished. She could not let go if she wanted to. She sobbed uncontrollably for several more minutes.

     “I really can’t breathe,” Connor struggled to get the words out. His lungs were unable to expand as his mother’s grip was so tight on him. Oxygen was becoming precious. He began to wave his hands trying to get someone’s attention.

     Like a wrestler pinned to the ground by a mighty opponent, Connor surrendered, and began tapping his mother’s back. He was trying to get her attention; he really could not breathe. His face was starting to turn red as his eyes rolled back into his head.

     The older doctor chuckled and understanding Connor’s plight stepped in. Reaching in between mother and child and with the utmost gentleness, he pulled back on Mrs. Delacamp giving Conner a chance to catch his breath.

     Mrs. Delacamp then turned and grabbed hold of the doctor and continued to pour out her grief for several more minutes. The good doctor was no stranger to this. Many mothers had cried on his shoulders in the past. He simply stood there and supported Mrs. Delacamp in her moment of need. He looked down at Connor and winked.

     “Connor will be just fine,” the doctor guaranteed her as he grinned from ear to ear. Victories like this were few and far between in his line of work. And, he wanted to enjoy this one as much as everyone else, and then he said something that no one else overheard, “I expect great things from him going forward.”

Chapter 5

     Before the accident, few knew who Connor was in the very small Village of Peculiar; now, everyone knew who Connor was and everyone wanted some of this special luck. Connor was the talk of Peculiar.  Everyone had hoped some of his “special luck” would rub off onto them. Connor had never shaken so many hands, received so many pats on the back, or head rubs as he had this week. He thought the head rubs were a bit odd and pushed the boundaries of personal space, but he said nothing about those and endured them quietly.

     Mrs. Rucket always made a point of finding Connor when he was on the school grounds and giving him the biggest bear hug she could. “It is so good to see you Connor,” she would offer up grinning from ear to ear. Connor would reply with his enthusiastic, “It is good to see you!” The routine had become a running joke between the two.

     The school’s athletes took to slapping him on the shoulder every time he walked by one. The school’s smartest students offered to help Connor with his homework. Even the Peculiar High School Dungeons and Dragons Club which met regularly on Wednesday’s and was led by the very smart and charismatic Randy, had offered to let Connor serve as their Dungeon Master for one afternoon; a truly coveted spot among the gaming crowd as I am sure you are aware.

     The young ladies of the school simply giggled, smiled and took to talking excitedly among themselves when Connor was nearby. Which to Isabella’s frustration, Connor did nothing to stop. He liked all the attention. And of course who wouldn’t.

     “What was it like being hit by a car?” Many of the curious would ask. It was a common theme among his classmates.

     “I don’t really know,” Connor would reply. “I don’t really remember any of it,” he would honestly respond.

     “Are you going to sue the driver?” Was the second most asked question.

     “Not really sure about that,” Connor would again respond. Connor was not into the legalities of the situation, and he really preferred not think about it.

     “I bet your getting a lot of bills from the hospital,” others would ask.

     Ironically, the Delacamps were not getting billed. It seems that Peculiar Village Hospital, the hospital that Connor had been admitted to, had decided to waive all of their fees.  The administrators had decided that it was such a “feel good” story that they would just absorb all the costs that were incurred for the tests and examinations.  No need to bill (or, was it bilk) somebody out of thousands of dollars when nothing was wrong with them; even if they had been hit by a car, cart wheeled through the air and landed with a thud.

     So, the hospital administrators had taken it upon themselves to visit the Delacamp’s one evening and personally give the family the great news. With of course, a reporter and photographer from the local newspaper, The Peculiar Today and The Peculiar Tomorrow, a rather unusual name for a local newspaper, but then again this was the Village of Peculiar.

     “No medical bills for Connor care and treatment.  Lucky young man there, mighty lucky,” the hospital’s Chief Executive Officer cheerfully said as he rubbed his left hand on Connor’s head during the press release. The administrator was hoping for some of that good luck himself.

     Peculiar One Television was not about to be left out of the story of the month and ran with several news stories on the accident; each designed to attract as much attention as possible. Each news segment offered a different angle of the story as it the producers sought maximum use out of the news; “Boy Hit by Car; Are We Safe Crossing the Road?” “Boy Declared Dead by Fire Chief; Who is Next?”, “Fire Chief Bungles Job; Are We Really Safe?”, and of course, “Hospital Waives Fees for Connor; Who is Next?.” Peculiar One Television had their highest viewership in years.

     Eventually, the story made it to the national news syndicate where it was distributed to hundreds of other papers. A few papers, lacking any other sensational stories now about who did what to who and why, decided to run the story about Connor as a “feel good piece.” It was a great story for those millions who read it and for a moment and it would inspired hope and optimism among them for the moment. As, the story was meant too.

But, not everyone likes feel good stories, happy endings, and feeling good about life in general. No, there are other people who like to wallow in misery, take solace in others suffering, and long for dark, gloomy days. And, now for those people, their turn in our story begins.

Chapter 6

     Far away from the kindly people of Peculiar, in a city that I think that best remain unnamed, was a bar that honest folk, like you and me, avoided at all costs. It was an unwholesome place where only the wickedest members of society would congregate. Here, amongst like minded villains, they would share their stories of anarchy, the pain they shared on others, and in the smoke-filled rooms, make plans for their malevolence among us good people.

     You and I would not go to such a vile place. But, for those who relished the thought of bedlam and darkness and seek to bring trouble to respectable people, well for those few foul people, and there are always a few among us, they were welcomed here with open arms.

     This bar had no name. It needed none. It did not exist as a licensed business. To the city, and the police and others in charge, it really did not exist. Yet, the local residents knew this was a dark gathering spot where reputable people did not go. And, it was found deep in the basement of a very tall building. Tall steel doors, painted black and inscribed with ancient symbols painted in red, were the last line of defense between the society outside as we know it and the chaos that resided within.

     The bar was purposely kept very dark, not pitch black, just very dark. The owner here preferred the darkness and avoided the light. Especially daylight, which he detested above all else. With only a few dimly glowing lights being lit, some candles on the walls, and the glow from a very large fire place, the bar had a very unnatural ambiance too it.  The interior was painted in dark reds and blacks and all the furniture was black.

     The owner kept a large fire was burning in the fireplace. The owner liked it hot, Even when the weather outside, and people sweated for just walking about, the owner would yell, “throw another log on the fire.” The fireplace was constructed of very large black stones roughly cut. Mounted on wooden pegs all around the fireplace was a collection of hundreds, maybe even thousands of personal trinkets; gold and silver necklaces, many beautiful bracelets, and hundreds of rings. These were not misplaced or lost items left behind by a few intoxicated patrons. No, these were mementos.

          Much like some people like to keep trophies of very big fish they catch on their walls to show others; these mementos once belong to people who had crossed paths with the proprietor of this bar. And every ring, bracelet, necklace and trinket, no matter how small, told a sad story about someone’s demise. But these sad stories are for another day, and maybe even another book, so let us not go down this dreary rabbit hole for now.  

     Asleep in front of the fire, and actually almost in the fire, was a large beastly hound; a dog of enormous size and muscle, with paws the size of small dinner plates. This beast was perhaps the biggest hound you would ever see, if you were so unlucky as to actually see it in person and live to tell the tale. The hound’s coat was the color of the blackest coal and with each deep sigh it took, the black coat would shimmer in the dim light as the dense muscles moved in unison with its breaths.

     Occasionally, the hound would exhale, and in doing so, small wisps of smoke emerged from its nostrils. Beneath its closed eyelids, glimmers of red light emerged, like sunlight peeking beneath a closed curtain on a very sunny day, so intense was the light behind those closed eyelids, it could not be blocked out completely. The beast paid no attention to the noise level of the bar or its occupants; it was soundly slumbering in his own world for the time being.

     The bar was crowded this evening. A heavy, caustic smoke filled the air dark room as the patrons defied the indoor smoking laws now common in our civilized world and stood about smoking long cigars, flavored cigarettes or making use of water pipes. Loud rock music was playing in the background. Groups of young people, dressed in black clothes and wearing long black coats, were gathered around tables, speaking loudly to one another, making their plans or boasting of their recent exploits. Others laughed out loud at a story that they found to be humorous. Several women danced and gyrated among themselves on the small stage, their bodies whirling about in a rhythmic fashion to the song playing over the speakers.

     The leader of this group of malcontents and evil doers was sitting at the bar reading a newspaper when he stumbled across the story of Connor, his accident, and his amazing story of living when he should have been dead. The man took a long puff from his thick cigar as he read the article several times over. He was a slow reader and as he understood the story he would nod his head, and mumble quietly to himself, “Miracle Boy.”

     The man was brutish and of enormous size with a dark, reddish complexion. He wore a black suit that was ill fitting and filthy. And, if you were to look at him, you would think something did not seem right. Something was odd about him. But, that required staring and you would not stare at this man so intimidating he was. And of course, staring is rude.

     For now the man was sitting at the bar, paying no attention to the crowd of regulars that were gathered in the room with him. He had no interest in the crowds at the moment; no the man was focused on the newspaper and he poured over Connor’s story several more times, studying every word, every sentence of the article about Connor.

     “I’ll be damned.” The man eventually muttered to himself quietly.

     “What are the chances?” the man mumbled to himself.  

     “A Healer has come forth. And he is right here under my thumb,” the man murmured out loud. His dimwitted mind now racing at the thought of what he had discovered.

     Immersed by the story, he took a pen out of his worn, ill-fitting jacket and made note of items of particular interest: Connor’s name, the Village of Peculiar, and of course, Peculiar High School. All of these were very important nuggets of information to the man. Information like this was very, very, valuable in his line of work.

     The man, known as Ira to his very few friends, knew someone else would also be interested. Everyone has a boss, and Ira served another person who was far more malevolent and wicked than Ira could or would ever be. Ira was just an underling, a servant, a middleman in a hierarchy of evil doers, although he was very important underling. And, Ira did not have to wait long before the phone rang, as he knew it would. 

     Mounted on the wall, behind the bar and above the mirror that ran the length of the bar, a blue light began blinking. The flashing light caught the attention of Ira, whose eyebrows went up when he saw it begin blinking. The bartender, an unnaturally tall and extremely gangly person with spindly limbs and the widest eyes you may have ever seen, also noticed the blinking light. The bartender and Ira quickly made eye contact with one another. The blinking light signaled there was a phone call. With the loudness of the bar crowd and the blaring of the rock music, listening for a phone to ring was simply impossible. However, in the darkness of the bar, the blinking blue light got everyone’s attention. Everyone knew what it meant. Only one person used that phone. It was the Boss. Ira’s boss, and by default, everyone in that room’s boss.

     Once the light began to blink, the bartender turned a switch turning off the deafening music.  Several malcontents in the crowd yelled their disapproval at him. It was a poor choice of actions. “Shut your pie holes maggots, the Boss is calling,” he yelled with a shrill voice while shooting the crowd a glaring look. The loudmouths rebuked, fell silent. The crowd grew quiet. Deathly quiet. The bartender was not one to be crossed.

     The crowd had turned their eyes on the man sitting at the bar. When the bartender was sure no one was speaking, he answered the phone.  He did not need to say anything. Only one person called this phone line. His job was to simply listen at what his instructions were. The bartender shrilly said “of course sir,” and “right away sir,” and then rushed the phone over to Ira.

     “It’s him,” the bartender fearfully said, holding his hand over the receiver.

     “Are you stupid? Of course it is him, you idiot,” Ira retorted as he scowled at the bartender. Ira was anxious. The person on the other end of the line had that effect on people. He did not want to take this call, but he had no choice. He loyally served the caller on the phone line. Slowly, he reached out and took the receiver, his hand trembling in the process.

     “Ira here sir,” his voice quivered as he spoke into the receiver. He quickly began to nod his head in the affirmative as he listened to his master’s instructions. “I was just reading the article Boss,” he softly spoke as he over accented and dragged out the ‘ss’ of boss. Perhaps it was a just a lisp, but it sounded an awful like a hiss to those who were trying to listen in.  With not a sound being made by the other patrons, they too could hear Ira’s responses. Some were quietly inching their way to the nearest exit, hoping to get away for the time being.

     The bartender saw the movement of the mischief-makers as they crept towards the exit and he quickly reached for and turned a mechanical switch. A loud metallic sound echoed through the bar and like that, the doors were locked.  Everyone was now locked inside of the bar. No one could leave till the bartender released the locks. He glared at the collected malcontents around him with contempt. They were a weak lot, a pitiful crop of newcomers and aspirants, not deserving of his attention.

     “Of course Boss, we will get right on it,” Ira hissed into the phone. He then hung up the phone.  A slight tremor went through his body as the anxiety left him. He had spoken to the Boss many times in the past. He had served the Boss for a long, long time. But, each encounter, however slight, left him weary and drained by the experience.

     The bartender had already poured a glass of a brown liquid for Ira and had it setting on the counter next to the phone. The bartender knew the effect the Boss had on Ira.  This liquid could solve many problems on a temporary basis and Ira always partook of it after talking with the Boss.

     Ira reached for the liquid with his trembling hand and downed the shot of the brown liquid. The caustic liquid burned as it raced down his throat. Ira shut his eyes and did not move for minutes. He was allowing the liquid to work its mystic effect on him. It was several minutes before he moved or spoke to anyone.

     “Oh, that’s good stuff,” Ira said to the bartender, a slight smile escaping the corner of his mouth.

     Ira turned in his stool and looked at the crowd behind him. He was different now. He appeared to have become physically bigger. Under his jacket his muscles bulged. His neck veins pulsed as a newly invigorated blood was coursing through his veins. Everyone in the bar was staring at him. Ira took several deep drags off his fat cigar and slowly exhaled letting the smoke hang around him. The cigar ash fell from the cigar and into his lap where it continued to burn. In the darkness, with a cloud of cigar smoke hanging about him, with the red lights creating a very unearthly ambiance, Ira looked suddenly very different. He exuded malevolence and wickedness. No one dared to speak. Some in the crowd were actually in mortal fear and wished they were anywhere but where they were at this moment.

     Finally, one of the younger patrons, emboldened by too much drink from earlier and now bored with the quiet suspense of the moment, foolishly yelled out, “Well, what’s up dude?”

     “We got a job you morons. You think the Boss was calling to chat? To ask how we were doing?” He roared angrily at the crowd. Ira made eye contact with the foolish young man who had been so bold to speak up. He grew even more agitated as he looked at the man, who was now smirking at him. Ira did not suffer fools gladly. Enraged at the man’s assumed mockery, he moved swiftly and with such savagery, that few saw him fling the empty glass at the nosey and wretched young man. The glass whistled through the air, tumbling end over end. It was flung with such ferocity that it was now a deadly missile and Ira never missed his target.

     The young fool’s eyes went wide as he realized too late the error of his judgement. The glass missile struck him between the eyes and shattered into a thousand shards, showering those around him with fragments of glass. The man’s eyes went wide. He staggered forward two steps. And, now with a reason to be disorientated, spoke up again.

     “Not… Cool… Dude,” the poor fool’s speech was halting. He was stuttering and stumbling. His eyes rolled back up into his head and he fell to the ground quivering and shaking where he lay. No one dared to offer him any help. No one called emergency services. The convulsing man did not last much longer.

     Ira grunted his amusement at the man’s misfortune. This simple gesture allowed the rest of the crowd to lower their guard and they too roared with their own brand of sick laughter. The crowd exploded into a fit of clapping and cheering at the sudden and unexpected evening’s amusement.  The hound opened one eye for a moment, awoken by the change in the crowd’s behavior, looked about, then quickly fell asleep having lost interest in any current activities.

     Ira’s anger subsided and he looked the crowd over. He was now focusing on his assignment. It was a simple job that needed doing. And, these were solid brutes and thugs he had gathered around him. Not people of intelligence mind you. More of the muscle types. Very big in stature. And very good at taking orders, while not asking a lot of questions.

     “Two of these meatheads should suffice,” Ira mumbled to himself. It was just a kid in school after all. How hard could this job be?

     Ira finally settled on two thugs who were sitting at a corner table. He glared at them for several minutes; sizing the two of them up, considering them for the job. They were cruel looking men, one much taller than the other, but both were of stocky build. Both were dressed all in black, Ira’s chosen uniform. Each had Ira’s name tattooed on their arms. Although the name Ira was not written in English, it was another language, a language spoken by few among us anymore.

     These two would do for this job. Ira motioned over at the two to come join him. The men briefly stared at one another excitedly and then scrambled to their feet. They had been beckoned.

     “Turn the music back on!” Ira roared to the bartender.

     The bartender chuckled to himself, turned around and threw the switch and turned the music up even louder than before. It was back to normal for the crowd. The dancers returned to dancing with one another. Two doormen men picked up the dead man lying on the ground and carried him outside. There they threw him into an overflowing trash bin with no thought of their actions. The man was simple carrion now, to be carted off with the morning trash. One of the thugs, reached in and removed the man’s ring before leaving. It was just another memento for the wall.

     The two brutes cautiously approached Ira, and stood still in front of him while he looked them over again considering his choices. Ira always needed to break in the new help, give the recruits simple assignments in order to test their mettle. These two look competent enough for this job.

     “All right you two, you two idiots get this job. The Boss has a special interest in this kid and if you two screw it up, it will be the pits for you. The pits! Do you two morons understand?” he hissed at the foul men standing before him.

     “We understand,” they replied in unison excitedly.

     “Can either of you two morons read?” Ira inquired. Many of his henchmen lacked this basic skillset. But, then reading was a skillset not prized among such ruffians as Ira like to gather; he gathered goons and thugs like you and I might gather coins or stamps.

     The tall brute looked down at the floor, embarrassed at his failing. The short one nodded in the affirmative. He could read. Though he seldom did.

     Using his left hand, Ira slid the newspaper across the bar towards the short thug. In the dim red light of the bar, the hand was contorted and the fingers bent, it resembled more of a claw than a human hand, but perhaps it was just the lighting. The tip of his claw like fingers were pointing towards Connor’s name. Connor’s name had been circled in red.

     “Give them a black blade,” Ira barked at the bartender.  The barkeep was washing classes and avoiding contact with Ira at all costs.

     “You want these two morons to have a black blade?” The bartender asked incredulously.

     “Give them a black blade,” Ira roared. His patience for the day was ended. He did not want to suffer another fool.

     The bartender frustrated at being yelled mumbled something unintelligently under his breath, turned around and opened a glass cabinet. The cabinet held a multitude of long black knives, intricately adorned and shaped. And once the cabinet was opened, each blade was awakened as if it had been in a long slumber.

     “Pick me,” yelled one knife.

     “Me, me, me,” squeaked another.

     “When do I get a turn?” shouted yet another blade.

     These were demonic blades. Cruel blades that were possessed with an evil life-force that allowed them to speak and cry out as if they were you or me. These were created by the Dark Prince himself and given out to his most trusted lieutenants, like Ira. And, for those poor souls who were stuck with a demonic blade, they could feel their very souls being sucked out from their personage. No one had ever survived a demonic blade attack. These blades were reserved for very special occasions. Or, very special people.

     The bartender chose one blade that stood out among the rest; black as coal, with red lettering along its hilt, and much longer than the rest, once removed from its cabinet it bursts alive with its demonic energy.

     “Souls! I need souls!?” It squeaked in a high pitch voice over and over. Long had it been between feedings and the blade was now voraciously hungry.

     The tallest thug reached over and carefully took hold of the blade. The demonic blade could sense the human soul near it and struggled against the thug, attempting to stab him and suck his very soul, even while he held the demonic knife in his hand. The black blade did not care whose soul it took. As long as it was fed soon. The thug struggled with the blade and then forcefully slipped the blade into a specially crafted and reinforced black scabbard where the blade quickly became muffled and fell quiet. It was again imprisoned and returned to its slumber.

     “Don’t screw this up you worms,” the bartender hissed ominously. “That blade is for the victim. Just the kid. Stick him with it, let the blade do what it does, and then get back here with the blade. Don’t deviate from these instructions. Don’t get sidetracked. Get in and get out. Do you two morons understand?”

     “We understand,” the two thugs answered in excited unison.

 Chapter 7

     Normalcy was slowly descending on the Delacamp household. The excitement at school began to wane. People stopped rubbing Connor’s head for good luck. Strangers quit asking him for six winning numbers to play in the lottery. Connor’s good luck charm persona was wearing thin as time progressed. And, he was happy about that. Connor like a simple, quiet life. No reason to bring any more excitement into it.

     Connor had resumed his running habits and began training for the upcoming track season. He was confident he was going to make the team this year. But, he still had several weeks to train for it. He could take nothing for granted this year and had been running in his spare time. Now, as, he was running home from school he noticed a mangled ball of brown and black fur lying in the street gutter in front of his house. It had not been there when he had left hours earlier.  As he got closer, he realized what it was, it was a dead raccoon. The unfortunate creature had been hit by a car and now lay on the roadway, its crushed and mangled body baking under the hot Florida sun.

     “I wonder if this is the raccoon that has been getting into our garbage?” he wondered to himself as he stepped closer to the carcass. Connor leaned in for a closer look. He had never seen death in the flesh before and it was at once both a curiosity and abhorrence. The raccoon was lying in a pool of its blood, its eyes had clouded over and its body contorted and twisted in ways not normal. Connor could smell the air of heated, putrid flesh and blood about the poor thing and he was revolted by the odor. Flies buzzed about its carcass, indulging on the exposed flesh. Nearby, several black birds were awaiting for Connor to leave before they would swoop in for their meal.

     Connor stared at the raccoon. This could be the very raccoon that he wanted to poison last week. But, now seeing the raccoon before him, a feeling of great remorse descended over him. Now, he found himself pitying the creature. This raccoon was no different than Connor a week ago.  Connor had no doubt he looked the very same after his accident. Connor’s body had been contorted, his eyes had glazed over and his bodily fluids had leaked out onto the roadway. He knew he died on the roadway. Even if no one believed him, which they didn’t, even if they thought it was just his imagination, which they did, he knew what had really happened.

     Connor squatted down next to the raccoon. Waving the pesky flies away. He wanted a closer look at death. He had not told anyone, but he was developing a fascination with death and what happens when life passes. And, now here it was, right before him, a victim of death’s cruel hand. He reached out and clutched the raccoon’s paw. The raccoon’s digits looked like tiny little fingers. It was like holding a small hand.

     “I am sorry about your luck,” he quietly said to the raccoon, meanwhile hoping that no one was watching him.  “I wish I could help you,” he whispered. Connor had never felt such pity before and the feeling was overwhelming him. A tear came to his eye and it rolled off his cheek. Connor wiped the tear with his free hand, when he felt something odd happening from within him.

     With his right arm still clutching the raccoon’s paw, he could see the hairs on his arm begin to slowly rise up. Connor had seen this effect before when his science class was studying static electricity. Connor’s right arm began to tingle. He reached over and scratched it, but the tingling grew more intense. It was as if an electrical charge was welling up inside his body and was passing through him and into the raccoon.

     Connor’s eye grew wide with astonishment as he watched the fur on the raccoon’s paw began to stand up. The two were now sharing a connection. The raccoon’s hair on his torso rose up and then finally the fur around his black facial mask, along his back, and finally his fur tail became fully erect.

     “This is crazy,” Connor said out loud.  He released his grip from the raccoon and stood up. The hair on the raccoon returned to its normal, matted state. Connor looked around to see if anyone had seen him holding the raccoon’s paw, but there was no one on the street. Connor was as bewildered by what had just happened as would anyone. He stood staring at the raccoon’s body for several more minutes trying to make sense of what he had just experienced, but, he could not.

     Suddenly, Connor felt a wave of weakness suddenly coming over him. He was suddenly very tired and thirsty. His head was spinning. He took several steps backwards and found himself stumbling as he took a few more steps towards his house. Now, Connor just wanted to get home to rest.  

     Connor started home when he heard a faint cough behind him. He stopped in his tracks. He knew no one was behind him. He had not seen anyone on the street. Who had just coughed?

     Connor heard the faint cough again; someone or something was in distress. Connor looked all around him. Maybe one of his friends had caught up to him and was hiding from him? Maybe someone was standing on a porch and had seen him stooping over the raccoon. Connor hoped it was Isabella just being silly, she liked practical jokes.

     Connor kept looking around when he saw out of the corner of his eye a slight movement from the gutter. It was the raccoon. His tail was twitching. Now, Connor stepped closer towards the mashed ball of fur, which now did not look as mangled as before. He stared in amazement as the raccoon’s bodily injuries did not look as bad as they had minutes ago. In fact, the raccoon’s body looked whole again. The blood was still there, but now it was dried. No longer fresh and wet like it was moments earlier. There were no signs of the raccoon being crushed by a car. No exposed organs festering in the sun. The raccoon did not look anything like what it had when Connor first saw it only minutes ago.

     Then Connor saw something that made him gasp in astonishment.  First the raccoon’s paws began to flex, each little digit opening and closing. Then his legs began to twitch, as if the raccoon was testing his ability to move again. Connor was befuddled and at the same time amazed by what he saw. He leaned in for a closer look. Then as Connor stood over the raccoon, much like Chief Hugs stood over Connor a week ago, the raccoon opened its eyes and blinked several times.

     “Holy mackerel!” Connor shouted excitedly as he stumbled backwards almost losing his balance.

     The raccoon fluttered its eyes several times and looked upwards at Connor. Connor also blinked his eyes several times as he stared down at the raccoon. It was the raccoon that broke the staring contest first; he shrieked in his little raccoon voice, jumped to its feet, shook off the dirt and pebbles that had been sticking to its fur and scampered off to the nearby wood line. At the edge of the wood line, the raccoon turned and stared back at Connor again. The two stared at each other for several more minutes, then the raccoon turned and melted into the dense Peculiar undergrowth.

    Connor just stood there on his street, sweating under the hot summer sun, not believing what had just happened.

Chapter 8

     Connor returned back into his house.  He was tired and the last few steps seemed almost impossible to make. He was physically drained and his head was spinning. A sudden exhaustion had overcome him and he just wanted to sleep. Wolf met him at the door and showered Connor with licks while her tail wagged excitedly. The loving husky sniffed about Connor and could sense a new smell that she had never been associated with Connor. Wolf could tell something had just happened. Her eyes blazed bright as she understood more than Connor did. Connor smiled feebly and loved on his Wolf as best as he could at the moment. Connor always made time for the girl who licked him over and over.

     Entering the foyer of the house, Connor could smell fresh baked brownies; chocolate brownies, his favorite.  His mother loved to cook and the house was a constant source of new aromas as his mother experimented weekly with such sugary desserts as cakes, assorted cookies, and of course brownies.  Connor loved coming home to a plate of chocolate brownies and a cold glass of milk. No matter how bad a day of school had been, brownies always made it better.

     “Mom, I’m home,” he mumbled as he entered the house. His voice was barely audible. Connor dropped his book bag in the hallway and made for the small plate of brownies his mother already had laid out for him on the kitchen table. He had become ravenously hungry and thought if perhaps if he ate something maybe he would not be so exhausted. But, before eating he thought to wash his hands. He had touched a dead raccoon after all.

     “Well how was your day? Anything exciting happen?” Mrs. Delacamp asked inquisitively as she made a beeline for her boy. She had to have her hugs; hugs when Connor left for school, hugs when he came home from school. She even had to have hugs just because she felt like everyone deserved a hug.

     “Nothing unusual today Mom. Bobby got sent to the Dean for being late. Lots of history homework. I got an A on the math test from last week,” Connor replied as he yawned. Of course it had not been a normal day. Just minutes ago he had witnessed something bizarre, something inexplicable. But, Connor thought it better not to mention that to his mother. Why bring up something so odd?  His mother would think Connor was going crazy. Which Connor was questioning at this moment himself.

     Connor rapidly devoured the two brownies and swallowed the glass of milk in one gulp. Then he helped himself to another brownie and another glass of milk.  Despite being so tired, a great hunger had welled up in him and the still warm brownies were but a tease. 

     “Mom’s what’s for dinner?” He asked quietly.

     “Meatloaf,” she replied. She was looking hard at Connor. She sensed something was amiss. She could see something was not quite right.

     “Great, I am going to go lay down for a while. Try and take a nap. It should be pretty easy with the way I feel,” Connor replied quietly. He dragged himself from the kitchen and shuffled off to his bedroom. 

     “I’ll wake you before dinner,” Mrs. Delacamp replied cheerfully as she watched her son head towards his room.

     As Connor began to climb the stairs, the raccoon incident that he had just experienced was weighing heavily on his mind. That raccoon was dead. It was dead on the side of the road. That was obvious. It was not a trick. It was not an illusion. It was a reality. He had even touched it. Why did he touch it he kept asking himself? Why? That was ridiculous.

     Connor was bewildered, confused, he felt a sudden wave of anxiety coming over him.  Since the accident with the car, he wanted to avoid thinking about what had happened to him. It was just too overwhelming. The emotional roller coaster was too much. However, like clockwork, every day his brain relived the accident. Every day he saw himself being struck by the car and being hurled though the air. He could remember the feeling of his body being slammed into the pavement and the shudder as he was breaking under the impact. His body had been shattered. No one could live through that experience. And, he certainly did not. He believed that he had died that day. Even if no one else did.

     Of course he did not tell anyone that. No, he played along that it had been a crazy moment of good luck that had saved him.  No one would believe him that he had come back from the dead. Even Connor did not understand it. So, he stuck with the good luck story. That was clean and simple and everyone can believe in luck. Just look at all the people that play the lottery.

     Connor slowly climbed the staircase to his room. Each step taken was slower than the last. When he reached his bedroom he turned and simply collapsed onto his bed. Staring up at the ceiling, he watched as the room began to spin out of control. He could feel his body beginning to shake as something unknown erupted from within his core and struggled to take hold of him. Sweat was beading up on his forehead and was dripping into his eyes. He closed his eyes and tried to focus on a happy thought. But, the shaking became too violent as he began to flop uncontrollably on his bed. The seizure he was experiencing now had taken control over him.

     Moments later, Connor fell into unconsciousness while his devoted Wolf stood quietly watching over him.

Chapter 9

     Connor awoke hours later. He struggled to remember where he was. His head and body ached, as if someone had beat him silly hours early. He glanced to the left and to the right and rubbed his eyes to help them focus faster. He was in his bedroom. He was home. He was still in his clothes. He glanced outside of his window and saw it was dark.  Connor was confused and bewildered.  Was it nighttime? Was it morning? How long had he been asleep? Connor did not have a clock in his room, which added to his level of confusion. His head was full of cobwebs and he desperately needed to clear them out.

     Connor sat himself up in bed and noticed he still had his school clothes on. They were damp, and they smelled of him. Apparently he had been sweating profusely. Connor even had his shoes still on. Connor put his feet to the ground and slowly stood up, steadying himself as he moved. 

     It was then he saw Wolf sitting by the door. The husky was still watching him, her eyes blazing with an intensity that Connor had never seen before. Connor had not realized the husky had followed him up the stairs and stayed with him during the seizure. Connor smiled at the girl, and she walked over and greeted him for the second time that day. Her tail wagged excitedly again. She had an unconditional love for Connor as all dogs do for their humans. Connor leaned over and scratched behind Wolf’s ears and then rubbed his face alongside of her face to show his affection for the old girl.

     Connor moved slowly. He needed to work out the kinks and soreness in his muscles. The exhaustion that had plagued him earlier had lifted. He was sore, but, at least he was not exhausted. Connor opened his bedroom door and leaned out. He could hear his mother in the kitchen. The sound of plates clinking together as she washed the dishes was a welcomed sound. From the TV room he could hear the evening news. His Father no doubt was catching up on the day’s headlines.

     Connor walked down the stairs and into the kitchen with Wolf at his heals. The bright light hurt his eyes and he blinked several times.

     “Well good evening Connor. Glad you could join us. How was your nap?” his mother asked gleefully.

     “How long have I been asleep,” Connor asked, still a little confused.

     “Oh, you have been asleep about three hours. Ever since you came home from school. Can I make you some dinner?  You must be hungry? I tried to wake you for dinner but, you just shrugged it off. I figure you needed the sleep and let you lay there. You looked so peaceful.”  Mrs. Delacamp added without any indication of anything amiss happening. She was blissfully unaware of Connor’s seizure.

     Connor eased himself into the dining room table. Whatever had happened in the last few hours, he had little memory of it. He remembered eating the brownies. Then the onset sudden tiredness, climbing the stairs, and, then the violent shaking that overtook him and from there, he had no further memory of what had happened.  Connor thought it best not to say anything to his mother. No need for her to worry more.

     Mrs. Delacamp without further direction took it upon herself to heat up dinner for Connor. Within minutes she placed a large plate of tonight’s meatloaf, mashed potatoes and corn on the cob in front of Connor. The meatloaf and mashed potatoes were covered with Mrs. Delacamp’s special peppercorn gravy, a favorite of all who tried it. A basket of warm yeast rolls quickly followed with a side of cinnamon butter.  And in case Connor got thirsty, a tall glass of sweetened ice tea was served.  Connor was famished and he dug into the meal like he had not eaten in weeks. Wolf, watching from the sidelines, wagged her tail excitedly; her hopes high that Connor would break the Mrs. Delacamp’s cardinal rule about feeding the great husky from the table and slip her a bite here and there. Or, at least lick the plate.

     Connor’s mother continued to clean the kitchen and tidy up for the night. But, before putting away the meatloaf, she gave her son another thick slice of her delicious meatloaf.  She was worried that Connor was losing weight. He was looking thinner since the accident. One might even say he was a little gaunt looking as if he had survived the accident only to be wasting away now.

     “Oh, I forgot to tell you, Isabella stopped by while you were napping,” she cheerfully added.

     Connor’s eyebrows perked up. His whole demeanor suddenly shifted at the thought of her coming by. He even stopped eating for the moment, a fork load of meatloaf tangled in front of his mouth.

     “What did she want?” he asked surprised, but more so delighted.

     “Well, she wanted to see you of course. I told her you would call her when you woke up. She is a lovely girl, I really like her, and she even stayed and chatted with me for a few minutes. Give her a call when you finish your homework.”

     Connor’s evening had suddenly taking a different tack.

     “Of course I will,” he replied grinning, “of course I will.”

     Connor’s mom stepped behind her son and gave him a kiss on the head. A moment later Connor felt a tug from his head as his mother pulled something out of his hair unexpectedly. She held it before him; a lone gray hair about eight inches long. Connor’s eye went wide as he studied it.

     “Look at this Connor, you are getting gray hair before me,” she laughed nervously.

     Connor reached up and took the hair from his mother’s hand. Holding it between his thumb and index finger he stared at it intensely. It was one more bizarre thing in what was becoming a very long list of inexplicable things that were happening to him.

     “Huh, a gray hair. I guess I am getting old now,” he chuckled out loud as he stared at the evidence before him. Quietly, he was very perplexed. He took great care in his personal hygiene and often spend a solid hour in the bathroom grooming himself. That gray hair had not been there this morning. He knew that for sure.

Chapter 10

     Connor called Isabella right after he finished his homework. Isabella had become more attached to Connor since the accident than she had ever thought possible. Perhaps the accident had made Isabella realize how much she cared for Connor and how quickly all of that could be lost. But since the accident, the two had become very close to one another. Connor had never expected his relationship with Isabella to advance into anything other than friendship. Now, he knew it had room to grow. And, he wanted it to grow evermore.

     “We need to go shopping for our costumes,” Isabella reminded Connor gently. “Have you forgotten we have the Halloween dance and party coming up? Me and you? Hello, McFly, do you hear me?”

     “What,” Connor had been staring out his bedroom window and had gotten distracted by something he thought was moving in the shadows. He was not sure if had really seen something and was questioning himself and, in the process, he lost his train of thought with Isabella.

     The nights silvery full moon was hidden behind a thick layer of clouds and the few moon beams that penetrated the tall oak trees cast just enough light to cause dancing shadows on the ground. Something was indeed sneaking about. The creature, adept at moving in darkness as you are in daylight was moving from shadow to shadow, and was watching Connor as he was looking for it. Now, the creature was hiding under the gigantic leaves of a Philodendron Selloum, a beautiful, dark green plant that thrives in the warm tropical climate of Florida with its frequent rains and is quite popular with homeowners. The sulking creature now was using the leaves as a shield while staring upwards at Connor in the window. And, despite Connor’s best efforts at finding him, was all but invisible to Connor’s searching eyes.

     “Our costumes. You said we could go shopping with you would help pick out our costumes,” Isabella again reminded Connor. She had noticed Connor was easily distracted, more so than before the accident, but she just figured it had to do with everything he had been through recently.

     “Of course, I remember now. Let’s go Friday. Right after school. I have a few dollars and we can get some dinner. Make a date of it,” Connor offered up happily.  He was staring out the window. He was sure he saw something dart from shadow to shadow. Connor glanced at Wolf who was sleeping on the floor. She was of no help at the moment, she was asleep in her own bliss dreaming of chasing squirrels. Maybe this was just his imagination. Maybe nothing was out there.

     “Great, I am sure my mom can drive us,” Isabella suggested excitedly. She was on the planning committee for the Halloween party and had spent many hours going over the details for the upcoming event. And, as the chairwoman of the upcoming party, she wanted to have the best costume party ever.

     Connor laid back down on the bed while he held the phone to his ear. He was not so good at the small talk part of the relationship. Isabella, however, excelled at talking. She talked about dresses. Then she moved onto classroom gossip. The local gossip was a favorite topic of hers.

     Connor found all of this talk to be rather boring and trivial. But, he understood the importance of it. Connor’s answers were rather simple to Isabella’s long narrations. But, that was fine. What was important to Connor was just being on the phone with Isabella. She could talk all she wanted. Her voice was music to his ears, and relished every moment of it. Then he heard the sound of something hitting the window.

It was a shrill sound. Something had just struck something Connor’s window. Connor’s eyes went wide open, and he sat straight up in bed, when he heard the first tap. He tried to ignore it.  Perhaps it was fluke. But, then he heard it again. Something was here.

     Tap, tap.

     It was a very distinct sound. Very sharp sounding. Like someone tapping on something. Connor looked over and could see that even Wolf had heard it. She was awake and looking about also trying to find the source of the sound. Then it happened again, a third time.

     Tap, tap, and tap.

     It was coming from his window. Connor turned slowly, almost afraid to look out the window. Something was here and it wanted his attention. Connor could feel the hair on his skin rising. He was scared. Connor slowly turned his head towards the window. He was compelled to do it. He had to look at what was out there.

    A dark ball of excitement was on the windowsill waving its arms frantically trying to get his attention. It was a raccoon. The raccoon had been knocking on the window with a pebble and he still had it in his paw. Even as Connor stared at the racoon, the raccoon continued to tap the window.

     “Isabella, you’re not going to believe this,” he excitedly interrupted her story about one of the girls on the cheerleading squad.

     “What?” She queried back.

     “There is a raccoon at my window. And, he is staring right at me.”

     “Shut up!” She exclaimed. Actually, Isabella doubted Connor.

     “I swear to you.”

     Wolf had also seen the window and scrambled to it to investigate this masked intruder. The raccoon had seen Wolf, yet, had showed no fear of the great blue eyed husky. The raccoon was motioning rather frantically, as if it was trying to get Connor’s attention. Which it had certainly had accomplished. Connor wandered over and stared through the window at the creature wandering if it this was the same raccoon that he had found earlier in the gutter.

     “What is going on?” Isabella asked questionably. She was not sure if she believed Connor. Raccoons just don’t show up on someone’s window sill and announce that they are there.

     “It’s standing on my window sill, looking at me and waving his little raccoon arms. I think it wants to come in,” Connor replied to Isabella. He was astounded by what he was seeing. Connor had not told Isabella that story about the raccoon from earlier yet.  In fact, he felt it was just better not to tell anyone that story. I am sure you would never have believed it if I had not told you, and it is possible you still don’t believe me. But, it is my story, so have patience with me.

     “What are you going to do?” She asked even more doubtfully.

     “I think I am going to open the window and let him in,” Connor replied casually. As if letting a raccoon inside your house was a common thing. Which we all know is not.

     “Connor please stop this,” Isabella demanded. She was becoming worried, in fact even alarmed.

     Connor opened the window a crack.  Wolf immediately stuck her nose into the crack and sniffed at the raccoon. Her tail was wagging excitedly as she took in the scents of the masked newcomer.  Wolf was probably the friendliest dog one could find to either people or varmints.

     The raccoon seemed overtly friendly as well. He bent over and offered up his tiny paw to Wolf’s nose so that she could take in his scent. Wolf sniffed several more times and apparently satisfied with the odors of the newcomer, licked the tiny bandit’s paw.

     “Isabella, this is so bizarre,” Connor narrated, “apparently Wolf, the world’s worst guard dog, has just made friends with this raccoon.”

     “Connor we need to talk,” Isabella softly offered up. Her concern and doubt growing by the minute.

     Connor decided to take a chance and he stuck his hand through the opened window.  The raccoon responded by clutching Connor’s hand with his paws and rubbing his face into Connor’s hand. It was as if the raccoon was acknowledging Connor.  Connor was now sure this was the same raccoon from earlier in the day that had been struck by the car.  He set the phone down and opened the window all the way. The raccoon scrambled in and climbed atop of Connor and perched itself on Connor’s shoulders. Connor was astonished.

     “Isabella, you have to see this,” Connor excitedly exclaimed into the phone. He held his cell phone out and took a selfie of the raccoon and him and sent it to Isabella.

     “Connor please,” she exclaimed confounded. She never received the photo. In Connor’s excitement, he only thought he had hit the send button. No picture was ever sent to Isabella.

     The raccoon scrambled about Connor’s shoulders. Liked a very large masked cat, he rubbed his body up against Connor’s neck and the sides of his face. It was as if the raccoon was intentionally trying to thank Connor in his own special raccoon way. Connor reciprocated and eagerly scratched the raccoon about his body, his neck and his face. Wolf just sat on her hunches, her blue eyes ablaze with excitement, wagging her tail, watching Connor and the raccoon bond before her.

     As Connor scratched the raccoon, the raccoon responded with squeals of delight and pressed his body ever harder against Connor’s body. It was a large racccon, by racoon standards. Having found a liking to human food he had grown larger than all the other racoons and was of considerable mass and weight. But, he defeinetly enjoyed Connor’s attention and he rolled over onto his back so Connor could scratching his belly. Connor stopped smiling for a moment when he saw the raccoon’s scars. The scars ran across his belly in many directions and were obvious very fresh. His fur had not fully healed over the wounds. Perhaps it never would. These scars were the very real reminder that the raccoon had been hit by a car and was lying dead in a gutter just hours ago.

     “Well I guess you and I have something in common there big fella,” Connor suggested to the raccoon solemnly. “We both have come back from the dead now. Not many people can say that.”

     Connor had almost forgotten about Isabella, when he heard her faint voice yelling over the phone, “Connor! Connor!”

     Connor grabbed the phone and apologized. “I am so sorry Isabella. This is just so amazing. I have this big raccoon snuggling up to me.  I am just completely flabbergasted by what is happening here. I am going to get off the phone and play with this raccoon. I think I am going to call him Bandit. Bandit the Raccoon. I can’t wait to see you tomorrow.”

     “Connor, I am terribly worried about you,” she replied as Connor hung up the phone not hearing Isabella’s last words.

Chapter 11

     The next afternoon, Connor and Isabella walked the Melbourne Town Square Mall for hours. Stepping into the various costume stores, big box stores and other outlets, Isabella tried on several costumes to which Connor dutifully, “oohed” and “awed” over.  Not that he had to try very hard. Isabella was stunning and each costume simply accentuated her beauty. He often called her “Princess.” And, that was not meant as a mockery, but as a genuine compliment. He even suggested they go as a Prince and Princess to the party.

     While Connor hated shopping and fighting the crowds which in the malls have gotten to be less and less, the time he was spending with Isabella more than compensated him for his distaste for walking the vast indoor mall. The two were content with being in each other’s company and had no need of extravagant adventures. Not that they could afford them. But, combining Isabella’s baby-sitting money, with Connor’s weed pulling money, the two found they could share lemonades and pretzels in the food court. It was over this buffet of hot salty dough chased down with sweet ice cold lemonade that Connor confided in Isabella about the raccoon experience.

     Isabella already knew about the living raccoon experience. Now, he wanted to share the dead raccoon experience.  He needed reassurance he was not going crazy. He needed to hear there was nothing wrong with him. Isabella would set him straight. He spend the next thirty minutes sharing his story.

     “You’re crazy,” she replied astounded at the story she just heard.

     Who would ever believe of raccoons coming back to life?  Isabella had doubted the story about the raccoon in Connor’s bedroom. She suspected the selfie was just a practical joke that Connor was taking too far. Now, this second story was sheer madness. And, she proceeded to tell Connor such. Her tone was serious. She was worried about Connor and his behavior as of late. She had been talking with Mrs. Delacamp and the two agreed something was going on with Connor. The doctors had warned them about post effects from the accident: possible depression, hallucinations, even feelings of grandeur. Now, they were seeing the evidence of them.

     “We all know it was the accident. You are suffering from some lingering effects Connor. A possible brain injury,” she tearfully offered.

     “Okay, this is not helping as much as you think it is,” Connor replied flabbergasted. Maybe, sharing the raccoon experience was not such a good idea he thought to himself as he reached across the table to take Isabella’s hand.

     “No seriously Connor, if you’re thinking you brought a dead raccoon back to life, just because you touched his little paw and wished it better, you are in need of some serious help,” Isabella was quite serious. There was no tone of humor in her voice. She stared Connor directly in the eyes when she spoke.

     “But, you saw the picture,” Connor quietly offered up. He screwed up. He never should have said anything about the dead raccoon. What was he thinking? Now, here he was trying to salvage this conversation and not look like he was crazy. Or, worse.

     “Connor, I never received a picture from you,” she replied curtly. Isabella knew her facts. As a member of the debate team, she had come to love facts and their use in arguments. She was thinking about studying law in college.

     “Wait a minute, I will show you right now,” Connor interjected. He reached down and felt in his pocket, it was then he realized he had forgotten his phone. “Funny, I forgot my phone,” he replied sheepishly.

     “Connor, you were hit by a car. I saw you fly through the air. This is obviously some series of hallucinations you’re having as a result of the accident,” Isabella reached across the table and took Connor’s hand in hers. She knew he did not look as well since the accident. She had noticed the weight loss, the look of gauntness about his face. She was worried. And, Connor’s crazy raccoon confession just reinforced her belief that he was not well. She would speak to his mother when she could about this.

     Connor sat there and stared into Isabella’s eyes. Perhaps it was true. Maybe he was beginning to slide down a long slope of confusion, hallucinations, and fantasies. Connor leaned forward in his chair and clutched Isabella’s hand with both of his as he looked deeper into her brown eyes. Connor knew something had overcome him last night.

     “I will speak to my parents about seeing the doctors again. I will tell them I would like to see a doctor,” Connor offered Isabella quietly. He wanted to reassure her. Maybe she was noticing things he was not.

     Isabella nodded, leaned over and gave Connor a small kiss on the cheek.  “Let’s get out of here, I have had enough shopping for now.”

     As the two got up to leave the mall, Connor noticed two men several tables over from him and Isabella. Connor thought the two were odd looking in their all black outfits and long black coats. No one in Florida wears a coat till at least December. Maybe at night for a formal occasion.  But, certainly not during the day.

     The men had a map laid out between them and they were arguing about an address. One man had a finger pointed at one point, the other was pointing towards another unseen point on the map. Connor suspected they were lost and he was correct in that assumption. Connor, friendly and helpful as always, approached the two and politely offered his assistance.

     “Piss off,” the bigger, angrier of the two men murmured without even looking up at Connor.

     “Yeah kid, get out of here before I put my boot up your ass,” the other echoed, glaring angrily at Connor.

     Connor’s eyes went wide. A cold chill sudden went down his spine; something was terribly wrong here. He could feel his body reacting to something. He just did not know what was causing it.  Connor quickly turned around, and took Isabella by the hand, pulling on her, forcing her to leave.

     “We need to leave,” Connor quietly, but urgently, whispered to Isabella as he led her away.

Chapter 12

     Connor walked Isabella to her front door. It had been a wonderful time with her, despite, the talk of his delusions; which Connor said nothing more of. Connor knew he needed to let that story lie low. He just told his best friend and she responded with exactly what everyone else would tell him; that he was hallucinating and something was wrong with him he needed help, professional help. And, lots of it.

     “Are you coming in? My folks would love to talk with you,” Isabella implored with her siren voice.

     The two were standing on Isabella’s front porch. The moonlight was hiding behind the clouds. And, the porch light cast a soft light about the porch. Moths were circling the light, drawn to its false security. Dozens of moths lay dead on the porch, victims of the light’s dangers. Mixed among the insect carrion were several large Monarch butterflies.

     “Not tonight. I need to get home. I told mom I would knock down some chores when I get home and I need to get started.” Connor was fibbing. He just did not feel like visiting with Isabella’s parents. But, he was tired. Walking the mall had seemed to tire him out faster than he had expected. “But, please tell them I said hello,” Connor added cheerfully.

     Isabella stepped closer to Connor and took his hands in hers. Connor sensed what was coming. “Please talk to your parents about these hallucinations,” She asked softly. “I am worried about you.”

     Connor looked Isabella in the eyes. They were large, brown eyes, the darkest brown without being black and, Connor thought they were beautiful. Isabella’s concern was real. Connor nodded his head and began to pull away. Isabella pulled Connor back and leaned in and kissed Connor on the cheek. A wave of heat rolled across his face as he became flushed with embarrassment.  Connor smiled back at Isabella. He stood there for another second then stepped back. He needed to leave before he said something stupid and ruined the moment.

     As Connor stepped back, he looked down for a second to check his footing and then he noticed it. He had not noticed earlier. But, then again he was not looking for anything as he walked Isabella to her door. Connor bent down and scooped up a dead monarch butterfly. It was a beautiful creature. Or, it had been. It had died and now was lying unwanted on Isabella’s front porch. If Connor had not looked down at the right moment, he never would have seen the handsome butterfly lying on the porch.

     The butterfly was huge. It was the size of Connor’s hand and as he held it gently, he felt the wave of sadness for this creature of beauty that he felt for the raccoon. Isabella stepped forward, curiosity taking hold of her.

     “What a beautiful butterfly, is it dead?” she asked.

     “Yes, it is dead,” Connor replied. And, then a thought struck him. As he passed the monarch from hand to hand.

     Connor raised the butterfly to his mouth and whispered to the graceful creature while he caressed its soft body. He looked up at Isabella who had a sad look of bewilderment on her face.

     Isabella, was now sure Connor needed help. She was witnessing it firsthand. Connor continued stroking the butterfly’s body while he whispered to it. Isabella stepped back and opened her front door. She did not need to see any more.

     “Goodnight Connor,” she said sadly, as a tear welled up in her eye.  She had seen enough. Isabella turned to leave but then she saw a flicker of movement from the butterfly. It was just a slight movement, just a flicker of a wing, that if she had not been staring at Connor at that specific moment, she would have missed it. The monarch butterfly stretched out its antenna. Moments later its wings fluttered in unison as it struggled to stretch out its wings that now ached for flight. Then, seconds later it flew off, but not before hovering in front of Connor’s face. Then, it was gone. The monarch had caught a puff of wind and with wings born anew, it flew off.

     Isabella looked at Connor. She was astounded. She tried to say something, she even opened her mouth, but she was speechless.

     “I know crazy right?” Connor offered up modestly. A smile crossed his face that quickly spread ear to ear.

Chapter 13

     “Let’s order Wagon Wheel pizza.” Connor suggested to Isabella. He was famished. He had not eaten all day and had helped his Father with the yard work.  A favorite palm tree of his mothers had come down during a storm and Connor and his Father took turns digging it out of the ground during the afternoon. It was a hot, sweaty and tiresome exercise.

     “As long as there is no fish on it,” Isabella countered. She loved pizza; hot baked bread topped with molten cheese and crisp vegetables. She was not a fan of meat and was considering taking up a vegan lifestyle. But pizza, well she could never get enough of pizza, as long as there was no meat.

    With their high school Halloween party coming up, the two knew they could not spend much money going out, so they had agreed to an evening of watching movies, eating pizza and just being together.  Connor’s parents were going out for the evening and the two kids decided to have a stay at home date this evening.

     While Connor called Wagon Wheel, Peculiar’s oldest and most favored pizza shop, and placed their order, Isabella played tug of war with Wolf.  She loved the husky and wanted one of her own.  Isabella often brought over left over soup bones for the zealous canine, which simply endured Wolf to Isabella all the more. But, in a game of tug of war, Wolf took no prisoners and her powerful muscles were no match for Isabella. She could easily pull Isabella off balance as she jerked back on the knotted tug of war rope and she knew it. Yet, Wolf understood the balance of power and whenever Isabella offered up a game, she knew she could not beat her too badly, else she risked Isabella not wanting to play. Even Wolf had her soft side.

     “Wagon Wheel says they are running about an hour right now, due to the storm coming in,” Connor voiced to Isabella. Then he continued, “I did not know a storm was brewing.”

     “No worries,” Isabella replied in between gasping breaths, as she struggled to pull back on the rope that Wolf was pulling on. “Boy this dog sure is strong, good thing she likes us.”

     Connor reached down and patted Wolf on the sides. “Easy girl, settle down. You win.” He cooed to the enthusiastic and overly excited dog who wanted the games to continue.

     Wolf knew this command and she let the rope go. She had won another round with this contender for Connor’s affections. She wagged her tail furiously, jumped up and licked Isabella in the face.  Isabella laughed out loud, patted Wolf on the head and pushed her back down.

     Connor poured soda for the two while Isabella set the movie up. Connor glanced out the kitchen window and could see the ominously dark storm clouds coming in fast. He shuttered at the thought of another storm. It had not stormed since the accident. Now, he had an uneasy feeling as he watched the storm clouds gathering. He could see great streaks of bright lightening in the distance. A sense of dread was descending over him. The doctor had warned him that there might be flashbacks to the accident. That certain loud sounds, memories, or moments might trigger a flashback. And now, Connor suspected that this was what was happening and he worried how he would react.

    A knot was growing in his stomach. He felt sick. Cold sweat was forming across his brow. He had to support himself with the kitchen counter. His legs were trembling. Connor feared a seizure was coming.

     “Oh no,” he said out loud. He did not realize how loud he had said it, but Isabella heard him. She turned and could see something was wrong. She jumped up and ran over to Connor, supporting him before he fell over.

     “Help me,” he cried out. Weak, and unsteady, he fell into her arms. She supported Connor and struggled to help him to the couch.

     “Connor what’s wrong?” she shrieked.

     “Just need to rest a moment,” he panted, “it’s nothing. Just got a little queasy.

     “I’ll call 911.” She reached for the kitchen phone.

     “Just give me a minute,” Connor begged. “It is a flashback. Or, so I hope. The doctor warned me these could happen. I just did not expect this pain and weakness. Just let me rest a moment.” He was breathing hard and now was sweating profusely.

     Isabella jumped up and ran got a washcloth, soaked it in cool water and came back and washed Connor’s face. The gesture did little to alleviate the problem, but, it lifted Connor’s spirits. He was leaning on Isabella, and she had her arm around Connor. She was cradling him. Protecting him as she helped him to sit down on the couch.

     Connor probably never realized that he would say the three most important words in the English language, but, he let them slip next. “I love you,” he weakly muttered to Isabella. Not that those words were meant to be taken lightly. An intense pain, coming from his core, had overcome him, and as he lay against Isabella, leaning on her for support and help, he continued to believe that this would soon pass.

     “I love you more,” Isabella countered, holding Connor close to her. She continued to wipe his face with the washcloth.  Connor could not see the tears in her eyes. She had decided that she was going to call 911 despite whatever Connor said.

     An unexpected crack of thunder shook the house. The windows rattled for seconds. The power flickered. The storm was now directly over the house. Wolf ran to the windows and began barking excitedly. Connor clutched his chest. The pain from within his body was becoming unbearable.

     “Isabella,” Connor whispered faintly.

     “Yes, Connor,” Isabella asked back her voice filled with anxiety.

     “Tie Wolf to her restraint and call 911. I need to go to the hospital,” Connor quietly implored as he gasped for breath. The Delacamp’s had a restraining bolt that they would leash Wolf to on the very rarest of occasions. It was to prevent her from jumping onto strangers or running off when the house was opened up. Connor worried that in case he did pass out or he became so incapacitated, that Wolf would stand guard over him and not allow the ambulance crew to take him to the hospital.

     Another round of violent thunder engulfed the house, so loud and for so long, that Isabella fearfully covered her ears. Wolf, looking out the window, was barking incessantly at something outside. Connor innocently suspected she was barking at the storm clouds.

     Isabella rushed to the phone and dialed 911. She dialed and listened for the reassuring voice of authority on the other end, but it never came. She tried dialing the number a second time. Again, no one answered, with the customary, “911; police, fire, ambulance, what is your emergency?”

     “Connor the phone is dead,” Isabella cried out, her voice was full of fear and anxiety almost panicky. She reached into her purse and grabbed her cell phone. There was no signal on her cell phone either.

     “Tie up Wolf and then run to the neighbor’s house,” Connor replied meekly. “I need help,” he whispered, as he gasped for breath. An unseen weight was crushing him pushing down, much like you might crush an aluminum can for the fun of it.

     Isabella grabbed Wolf’s chain and tethered the struggling Wolf to the restraining bolt. Wolf resisted this effort, but only minimally. She was first and foremost an obedient dog. Now, restraint to the wall, Wolf could only go a few feet; she was now a prisoner in her own home. But, Wolf never stopped barking. Now she barked ever louder and more incessantly at whatever had aroused her aggression. She was raising the alarm.

     “Wolf stop, please stop!” Isabella screamed out in exasperation. The barking of Wolf, the roar of the thunder, and Connor collapsing was overwhelming her sense of normalcy. She was trying to hold it together, not to panic. But, she was quickly becoming overcome by everything happening about her.

     Connor rolled off the couch and onto his knees. He felt like he was going to vomit. He was trying to crawl to the bathroom before it was too late and he had an accident on the carpet. Connor heard the doorbell ring and looked up optimistically. “The pizza man?” he thought to himself. That did not take nearly as long as he thought. The pizza driver could help; take him to the hospital, he hopefully thought to himself.

     “Thank God,” Isabella exclaimed. She ran for the door and swung it open. The pizza man would help them, she was sure of it. Only, it wasn’t the pizza man.

      Ira’s two thugs were standing at the door. Wet from the rain, standing on the porch, dressed all in black, the two were a frightful sight. With the door open wide, the tall one stepped into the foyer and immediately grabbed Isabella by the throat with his huge hand and lifted her off the ground, her feet dangling beneath her. Isabella was thoroughly frightened as the man snarled dangerously, “Where is your healer friend; the one they call,” here he paused as he stared into Isabella’s frightened eyes for a moment before continuing, “Connor?”

     Isabella’s eyes were wide with horror. The tall one was a brute of a man and his strength was evident as he began squeezing Isabella’s neck, slowly crushing her windpipe and cutting her oxygen off. So strong was he that Isabella was completely powerless. She could not speak even if she had wanted to. She tried to speak, but all that could be heard were gasps as she struggled for air.

     Wolf, seeing the two aggressors in the house, hurled herself with all her might towards the two thugs. Yet, now tied to the restraint chain all she could do was bark. And, it was barely a bark. Wolf was pulling so hard that she was choking herself. She was struggling frantically at the home invaders; she had to get into the fight, she had to defend her Connor and Isabella; but chained to the wall, she was powerless. She could do nothing, and she knew it.

     “Very nice house,” the short thug offered sarcastically as he stepped into the house. He noticed several family photos of the Delacamps and simply picked them up and threw them against the wall towards Wolf. He meant to hit her, but she dodged the incoming missiles as they came at her. In response, Wolf lunged ever harder at the thug, pulling with such force that her collar was choking her. Wolf was wheezing in-between her barks as she tried to catch her breath.

     The short man laughed out loud. He had no fear of the animal. Yet, he knew not to get to close. He had a healthy respect for the beast.

     “Where is your friend,” the tall thug again asked as he pulled Isabella closer to him, sniffing her. He liked the way Isabella smelled. The way she struggled against him. “Maybe we could get to know each other better after this,” he joked. Isabella struggled to free herself, hitting her assailant several times. But weakened by her lack of oxygen, her punches were useless; she was powerless against this monster of an assassin.

     The short thug walked triumphantly into the living room where he saw Connor lying on the living room floor, “Here is the chap, just lying on the floor. ” He laughed at the site of Connor, who was struggling to get up. He squatted down next to Connor and spoke loudly into his ear. “Well Mr. Connor, we have been looking for you,” he snickered as he stuck out his hand and poked Connor on the forehead.

     “Who are you,” Connor groaned as he looked up and recognized the two thugs from the mall. He fell backwards to the floor and curled up into the fetal position. The pain from within was overpowering him.

     “Who we are is not important. We are no one. We are simple servants. Messengers really.  But, who we work for is rather important. And, he would like you to pay him a visit. But, not the whole of you he said, and I quote, ‘Kill him where you find him, and bring me his head.’ So, here we find you.” The man pulled out a long, crooked black blade from its bejeweled scabbard and showed it to Connor. “I assure you, this is nothing personal. It is simply business.”

    The dagger pulled from its scabbard was now awakened. It’s own evil lifeforce awoken as it smelled fresh souls about it. “Feed me”, it cried out, in its shrill of a voice, “Feed me.”

     The tall man dragged Isabella into the living room and threw her onto the ground. He grabbed her head by the hair and turned it towards Connor. He wanted Isabllea to see this act of barbarity. This despicable act that they were about to do to Connor.

     “Don’t hurt her please,” Connor begged. He was struggling to get to his feet. Despite the overwhelming pain that was flowing through his body he knew he had to get up and to fight. Connor with all his heart feared what was coming. Not so much to him, but, what could happen to Isabella. He had to get up, to overcome the pain, to fight these two. Isabella needed him.

     The thug kicked Connor in the head knocking him back to the ground. Connor was dazed by the impact of the boot. Connor glanced up and all he could see were a thousand points of light; his head was swimming from the impact. The thug stepped behind Connor, grabbed his hair and pulled Connor’s head back exposing his neck.  He placed his demonic blade against Connor’s neck and pressed hard. Connor could feel the steel against his neck. It was hot. The metal singed his skin burning it; the acrid smell of burning flesh filled his nose. A trickle of blood escaped where the knife had broken through the skin. Connor knew what was coming next. He steadied himself. He tried to control his breathing. To slow everything down.

     The blade screeched with excitement, “let me stick him, let me stick him. Don’t stop now. We must hurry, the Master has ordered it you fools. Stick to the plan!”

     Isabella screamed, and tried to lunge forward to help Connor. The second thug tightened his grip and held her back. He grabbed Isabella by the hair and with his powerful hands was forcing her to watch the violent act that was coming next.

     The short thug, seeing an opportunity to torment Connor before his death, spoke with a cruel rasping voice, “You love her don’t you?”

     Connor nodded in the affirmative. The fear in his eyes for Isabella was evident. The thugs were enjoying this moment of making Connor suffer.

     The thug laughed at the concept of love. He knew only torment and misery. He released Connor and stepped towards Isabella making sure Connor was looking. When Connor looked him in the eye, he saw nothing but malice and hatred within those black eyes. Then the hooligan smiled down at Connor and unexpectedly shoved the screeching black blade into Isabella’s breast. The blade penetrating so deep into Isabella’s chest that it pierced her heart.

     The black blade screamed its delight at tasting flesh and blood after such a long slumber. Isabella screamed, the pain exploding throughout her body. Isabella’s eyes were wide with fear. She struggled to free herself from the thug and the knife, but she could not.

     Not satisfied, the thug twisted the blade, forcing open Isabella’s wound so that it was now a gaping wound, then pulled the blade out. Blood gushed forth from Isabella’s gaping wound and began covering Isabella in a crimson red shroud. Isabella screeched in agony as the knife was pulled from her, ripping her flesh apart.

     The blade screamed its anger at having been disrupted from its feeding, “you fool,” it screamed at the thug, “I have not finished with her soul, stick me back in, stick me back in!”

      “No! “Connor screamed. Isabella had suffered on his behalf. She was innocent. She had not hurt or offended anyone.

     The two thugs laughed out loud. This had been too easy. Too simple a job for their Boss. They were already counting their reward before they had it in hand. But, in their elation and excitement they had failed to notice that events beyond their control were beginning to occur that could affect their evil plans.

     The storm that had proceeded the duo’s arrival was breaking apart fast. Silver moonlight was beaming through the clouds draping the Connor household in a gray light. The rumbling of the overhead thunder storm had subsided and it had grown unnervingly quiet. Although the thugs had not noticed it yet, so excited were they at their own evil doing they failed to pay attention to their surroundings. It was a grave mistake.

     The sudden pain Connor had felt abruptly and unexplainably began to dissipate as quickly as it had begun. In its place a feeling of calm and peace amidst all of this chaos and mayhem was now suddenly empowering him. If the two servants of Ira had looked Connor in the eye, they would not have seen a scared boy kneeling before them of moments ago, but a man whose eyes were burning with rage. But, that was not all.

     Outside the house, hiding in the large oak tree in the front of the house, was Connor’s newest furriest friend, Bandit the raccoon. Like anyone of us, Bandit was hiding out from the sudden storm and had found himself the perfect cozy nook in the oak tree. It was a comfortable spot for a raccoon like Bandit. And, unless you made a point to look up as you stepped onto the Delacamp’s front porch, you would not have noticed his black masked face staring curiously down at you wandering who you were and if you had any treats with you. Certainly, the two thugs had not notice Bandit the raccoon. But, he had certainly took notice of them.

     Now for those folks who are not familiar with raccoons, it is important that we establish certain facts about these curious and intelligent creatures of the woodlands. First, raccoons are very smart and crafty creatures make no mistake of that. In fact, some biologists say raccoons are the smartest and the craftiest of the small mammals. Even as smart as young children, which if you were to know my nieces and nephews, is very impressive, because they are exceptionally smart.

     Bandit could feel in his heart Connor was in trouble. His bond with Connor was strong, unnaturally strong since he had been brought back. Bandit could hear the frantic commotion coming from within the house; Wolf barking frantically, the angry voices of the thugs and the screaming of Isabella. Bandit knew something was terribly amiss, and he just had to investigate.

     Climbing down from his cozy spot, Bandit entered the front door of the house that was standing wide open. Inside, Bandit saw Wolf choking and gasping for air as she continued to struggle to free herself from her restraining bolt and get to the thugs and get into the fight. Inside the house, Bandit could hear the thugs angrily taunting Connor, the cries and screams of Isabella and Connor gasping and crying out in fear. Bandit’s curiosity quickly turned to animalistic anger. He had to take matters into his own paws.

     Normally, a chained up dog would be a rather laughable situation for a raccoon. But, Bandit, knew he would need Wolf’s help. Wolf, could smell the raccoon as soon as he entered the foyer and she turned to look at him. She needed his help. The whimpers in her voice told Bandit all he needed to know. They would have to work together and at the moment an alliance was formed between the two creatures. The details of the alliance would come later, but for now, there was much biting and gnashing to do.

     Bandit was not your average raccoon which is saying much since we already know raccoons are so smart. He quickly waddled over to Wolf, reached up onto his hind legs and looked her in the eyes. Wolf, understood and sat on her hunches and stopped whimpering. Bandit, looked at the clasp that was restraining Wolf to the wall and chuckled at the bolt’s simplicity. He began using his nimble paws to fiddle with Wolf’s restraining clasp. To Bandit, this was a simple restraining bolt, he had seen many of these in his nightly haunts for food. But, for Wolf who had no opposable thumbs, unlike Bandit, it was a prison sentence. In seconds, with little effort, Bandit had the restraining bolt undone and the great Wolf was released.

     Released from her entrapment, Wolf suddenly changed her demeanor and quietly and stealthily approached the thugs from behind. Her blue eyes were aglow with a flaming hatred.  Her hunting instincts were fully galvanized and at the ready. With each step she took, her muscles quivered with a fury that ached to be released. In only a few quiet steps, she found herself standing behind the two intruders, pondering for a moment which of these two fools would be the first to feel her fangs. She would taste man flesh this night.

     Connor had caught sight of Wolf and Bandit approaching out of the corner of his eyes. He tried to not bring attention to this sudden change of events; but he inadvertently breathed a sigh of relief. The great Wolf looked at Connor and she made eye contact with her Connor. Connor looked into Wolf’s eyes and saw something he had never seen before; a pent up fury, a cauldron of anger and a hatred for evil. Wolf’s eyes had never seemed so blue; had never burned so bright before. Her whole persona seemed to be bigger than ever. As if somehow she had mysteriously grown several sizes bigger than he could ever remember her being.

     Connor looked at Bandit and understood the bond he shared with the raccoon. The raccoon knew Connor was in trouble and had come to him in his time of need. The raccoon looked at Connor, and perhaps it was a trick of the light, or just the stress of the moment, but Connor, was sure he saw Bandit wink at him.

     Connor knew he would not be alone in this fight tonight and that comforted him greatly. A smirk escaped his lips as he realized what was about to happen.

     Had Ira’s two assassins been more acutely aware of their surroundings, they might have understood their circumstances had suddenly shifted, and, not in their favor. Wolf was no longer barking loudly and incessantly. The deafening thunderstorm had suddenly ceased rumbling overhead. And Connor had replaced his look of horror, with a slight grin. But Ira never hired underlings for their intelligence. He employed his underlings for their absence of intelligence.

     The two thugs saw the grin escape Connor and come across his face. A quizzical look came over them as they wondered what had suddenly changed. Why wasn’t Connor afraid? Their dim wittiness would be their undoing as they looked at each other quizzically. It was their time.

     “Now Wolf! Now Bandit!” Connor yelled out. With his strength renewed and then some, Connor stood upright and balled up his fist.  It was their time to fight.

     Wolf, growled loudly announcing herself, then lunged towards the short man, her fangs bared.  It was the short thugs turn to scream now as the white fury descended upon him. He lashed out at Wolf with the black knife but missed. Exposing his blade arm which made an easy target for the great Wolf to bite down on. Wolf bite down onto his forearm, easily crushing his ulna and the radius, the two bones of the forearm. Wolf pulled the screaming man to the ground while shaking him violently from side to side. The black knife fell from his hand and flopped about on the floor.

     “Let me stick the beast, let me stick the beast,” the knive screamed aloud as it flopped about, helpless without a human to wield it.

     Bandit roiled with anger as he too sought to enter the fray. Quick as lightening he jumped onto the couch and used it for a springboard leaping onto the tall thug that was holding Isabella down. Bandit made quite the sight, his arms and legs spread wide, his years of hopping from tree to tree coming into full use now.

     The tall thug who had been so distracted by Wolf attacking his companion, he never saw the ball of screaming, gnashing, scratching black and brown fur flying through the air towards him. Only at the very last moment did he see what was coming for him. Bandit landed squarely on his head and began his own attack. The thug screamed like a banshee and released Isabella as he thrashed about the living room, knocking over tables and lamps in the family room, struggling to pull the enraged, biting rabit ball of fur ball off of his head.

     Connor grabbed Isabella and pulled her away from the fray and moved her to a corner where she might be safe from the fracas. She had to be tended to first. She was dying, and Connor knew he only had a few seconds. He pulled her blouse down and glanced at the knife wound. It was deep and blood was pouring forth freely from the gaping wound. The black knife had penetrated her fatally. Isabella was dying. Every time Isabella exhaled, tiny pink blood soaked bubbles frothed from the wound as it hissed releasing the oxygen she desperately needed. Isabella was gasping trying to catch her breath but it was useless, her much needed oxygen was just percolating out the wound. She tried to speak but she could not. She knew she was dying. Connor could see the fear in her eyes that were wide with fright as she was being pulled into an abyss of darkness. Isabella did not want to die. Not today. Not anytime soon. She grabbed hold of Connor and pulled him in close so as not to be alone; she was desperate in these last few moments.

     Connor seized the moment and took charge. He looked Isabella straight in her eyes, “You are going to be okay!” he yelled. Without hesitating, he pressed his open palm against the bleeding breast wound. Connor could feel Isabella’s warm blood against his palm, some of it oozed through his fingers. Connor forced himself to concentrate on the wound.

     “I can do this,” he muttered to himself quietly. He focused ever harder. He had to shut out the fracas that was occurring behind him out; the breaking of furniture, the screams of the thugs, the barking and growling. He thought only of Isabella. He had to focus. Find the connection. Within moments, he could feel the connection with Isabella being made and he could feel an energy source welling up from within him. He focused on Isabella and on the wound. He could feel this energy, this yet unknown thing within him, travelling from his arm, as it was transferred into Isabella.

     Connor focused first on her heart and lungs, then the veins, then the muscle tissues. And the more he focused on the Isabella’s wound, the more he saw the healing taking place both in his mind and on her person. It was almost as if Connor was inside Isabella, making the repairs to her damaged body himself. Time was stopped. What seemed like minutes to Connor was mere nanoseconds to you and I.

     Isabella suddenly stopped sobbing and gasped as a feeling of calmness emerged from within her. The fear was fading fast. She could feel the healing as it was happening; the wound was closing in on itself. She could feel her muscles and tissues reconnecting and fusing together. Her heart was pumping faster and stronger as more oxygen and blood were returning. She looked Connor in the eyes and nodded. Connor pulled his hand back to check the wound and gasped. Even he was amazed at what was happening, how fast the healing was taking place before his very eyes.

     Connor had started the process, now Isabella’s body was doing the rest. Healing and repairing the damages from the knife. In a few minutes all would be well. A sense of peacefulness overtook Isabella. “They need your help,” she whispered quietly to Connow, referring to Wolf and Bandit. Connor winked at Isabella and turned to the chaos behind him. Wolf and Bandit were fighting his battle for him. They were defending Isabella and him with their lives. Now, it was his turn to enter the fray and to defend everyone.

     But first, Connor needed a weapon; however, the Delacamp’s had none. They had always felt safe and secure in their lovely Peculiar neighborhood and the thought of having weapons present in the house was not something they harbored. But, fortunately for Connor, his mother had left her favorite iron skillet out on the kitchen stove. It even had cornbread in it which she was planning to use for her famous cornbread stuffing the next day. Connor rushed into the kitchen, grabbed the frying pan and went after the closest invader to him. A surge of anger had welled up within him that he never knew existed and now he wanted to unleash the fury.

     The one thug was fighting for his life with Wolf. He had dropped the black blade and was unarmed. But Wolf refused to release her bite onto his arm, she had the advantage with her strength and was able to keep him off balance as she shook him to and for. No matter how many blows he struck against Wolf’s head with his free hand, Wolf’s hunting instincts were too strong, her fangs were in too deep, her strength to great, she would not let go.

     The thug was so distracted by Wolf who was trying to pull his arm out of its socket, he had not realized that Connor was coming for him. Connor seeing the opportunity afforded him, took aim at the thugs head and swung with all his might. The skillet struck his temple and a great metal “dong” echoed throughout the house. Cornbread exploded from within the pan and showered bits and pieces across the room. The thug’s eyes rolled back up into his head. Staggering and weak, he fell forward towards Wolf as he quickly slipped out of consciousness.

     Wolf, not realizing that her victim had been knocked unconscious and was no longer fighting back, exerted such a violent pull at that moment, that she literally ripped the man’s arm off and began shaking it violently, causing blood to splatter about the house. Connor’s eyes went wide at the shock of such a thing, Isabella shrieked out loud at the sight.

     The second thug was having his own set of problems. He was thrashing about the house, trying and very unsuccessfully, struggling to free himself from Bandit who kept up his violent assault. Bandit, used to scrambling up trees and having spent a lifetime evading dangerous dogs, was using this thug as he would any oak or pine tree. Moving up and down the man at will, Bandit was biting and scratching different spots with resolve. These multitudes of bites and scratches were adding up. Bandit had even managed to bite one of the attacker’s ears off.

     “Hey Van Gogh,” Connor yelled out at the besieged attacker who was flaying about. The thug looked towards Connor just in time to see Connor swing the skillet striking the man square in the stomach. He doubled over, gasping for breath.  Connor swung the skillet a second time, striking the man across his arched back. The thug collapsed onto the ground, his legs quivering. Connor suspected, but not really caring, that he may have just broken the man’s spine. 

     Both of the assassins now lay incapacitated in the living room, moaning and begging for mercy. They were bleeding from their many wounds; one was missing an arm, the other and ear and he could not walk. The fight in them was gone. This battle was now over.

     Wolf sat on her hunches and panted heavily. At her feet was the ripped off arm of the thug she had fought. Connor walked over and hugged his dog and thanked her profusely. Then he found Bandit standing up on its hind legs, waving his front paws, also vying for Connor’s affection and love. At his feet was the second thugs bitten off ear. Connor laughed at the sight, patted Bandit on the head and thanked him profusely as well.

     Connor came back to Isabella and sat down next to her and put his arm around her and held her tight. She leaned in and began sobbing hysterically. The realization of what had just happened was overwhelming her. She was shaking uncontrollably.  “You’re okay,” Connor said repeatedly, “you’re okay,” as he held her close in his arms. The two sat there for several minutes when they were again interrupted. A loud knock at the front door was soon followed by someone yelling, “Mr. Delacamp!”

     “Here,” Connor yelled.  Connor was quite certain assailants don’t announce themselves.

     “Pizza man here; I got your pizza’s,” the young pizza delivery driver muttered loudly as he entered the living room. His eyes growing wide as he surveyed the crime scene around him; the beaten intruders lying on the living room floor; Wolf with her hard fought prize, the dismembered arm, and Bandit eating cornbread crumbs from the floor.

“What the Hell,” he cried out in disbelief at the scene before him.

Chapter 14

     Fortunately for Connor and Isabella, Mrs. Pennycamp, next door neighbor, lifelong friend of Mrs. Delacamp, and defacto den mother to the neighborhood kids, had heard all the commotion and had the whereabouts to call the Peculiar Police. The loud barking of Wolf, the breaking of glass, the yelling and breaking of objects, she feared the very worst and had beseeched the Peculiar Police to send everyone; which for the little hamlet, was just the Chief who happened to be on duty.

     Chief Hugs was the first of officers on the crime scene; fortunately, other agencies who shared the same police radio system heard the report and fearing the worst responded as backup to the Chief. For the Chief, who was pulling a night shift this evening so that Officer Buddy could go to his daughter’s choral concert, remembered the address from the recent traffic accident report he had recently filed regarding Connor. The Delacamp address was etched in his mind. He knew the address all too well, which in this emergency, served him and of course Connor and Isabella, just fine.

     Chief Hugs had rushed in with his weapon drawn and found a scene of chaos unlike any he had ever seen. Wolf was sitting on her hunches watching the two thugs, who were rolling about the ground moaning in agony from their inflicted wounds. If either man squirmed too much, or appeared to be attempting to get up, Wolf let out a fearsome growl and barred her teeth. At Wolf’s feet was the torn off arm and the ripped off ear. These were the trophies of the violent clash that had occurred here minutes ago.

     The two villains beseeched Connor for mercy. They begged for their freedom. They were afraid of what was coming for them now that they had failed in their mission. They now feared something worse and every minute they staid where they were, their anxiety multiplied many times over.

     “Please Mr. Connor have mercy on us.” The big thug begged. He was not such a fearsome character now. Now, he was a defeated man. A man who had failed in his assignment and who worked for someone who did not take such shortcomings lightly. He knew what was coming for him. He had been warned.

     “You don’t understand what is going to happen to us,” the smaller man added in, his voice trembling.

     Connor and Isabella were still propped against the wall. Each had a slice of pizza in their hands. Isabella was sharing her pizza with Bandit who had surprised the two with his voracious appetite and love of pizza. Connor was ignoring his two attackers. He thought their pleas for mercy were simply another ploy to get at him. He did not yet understand the full extent of the malevolent forces that were at work here.

     “What the Hell happened here?” Chief Hugs queried to no one in particular as he bewilderedly stared about at the carnage and destruction about him.

     “These men broke in and attacked us,” Connor offered up nonchalantly, as he contently chewed his pizza. He was quite calm about the situation. No, Connor was quite cool with things. As if people breaking in to kill him was a natural occurrence.

     Even Isabella, who had been hysterical earlier as you remember, was also quite calm, in fact she was downright giddy. She had never been in an altercation before and the experience was to say the least, exciting. It was the adrenalin flowing through her. Never, had she ever felt such a rush of emotions and now, her mind and body had gone places she had never thought of.

     Chief Hugs stepped over the two and handcuffed them the best that he could. He had never handcuffed a one armed man before, but, being resourceful, he found a way to secure the thugs so they could not flee the scene.

     “Nice doggy,” he offered Wolf as she eyed the Chief with caution. Chief Hugs cautiously scratched Wolf on the head. He had learned long ago to always be kind to strange dogs. Especially, those powerful enough that they can rip the limbs off of burglars. Wolf acknowledged the good Chief by licking his hand and wagging her tail. She was content he offered no harm to Connor or Isabella.

     Chief Hugs retrieved his first aid kit and applied bandages to the two burglars. He was duty bound to offer help even to criminals.  As he bent down to help, it was the big man who began to yell and scream first. The smaller of two soon joined in with his own yelling and screaming. “Please, help me I am burning up! I am on fire!” The two were screaming in agony and rolling about the floor.

     “Please let us go!” the big man yelled. His screams of suffering and torment also filled the living room.

     Chief Hugs was not sure what to make of things, and he took several steps back confused and bewildered. The two assassins rolled and thrashed about on the floor. He could feel the heat coming off of the two. Their bodies were getting hotter and hotter filling the room with heat. Moments later small flashes of yellow flame began to burst from their skin. The horrifying smell of burnt flesh was beginning to fill the room.

     “Please help us!” they screamed in unison. Isabella covered her ears and closed her eyes. Connor yelled out, “What we do?” He wanted to help. He now felt empathy now for his attackers who earlier were trying to kill him. They were suffering horribly. Something unnatural was happening and it horrified everyone.

     Chief Hugs stepped further back from the two men, the heat was now affecting him and he felt his skin burning, as if he had been laying in the sun far too long. Wolf, who could sense those things that only dogs could sense, had abandoned her post and scampered off to hide under a bed. Bandit had unlatched a kitchen cabinet, climbed inside Mrs. Delacamp’s prized Dutch oven and pulled the lid over his head.

     To the revulsion of all, the men suddenly burst into open flames. So hot was the flames that they burned various hues of green and blue, which indicates the hottest of fires. Connor, Isabella and Chief Hugs retreated to the kitchen. Connor shielded Isabella and held her close so she could not see the horror. She could however, hear it. She begged Connor to make it stop.

“What’s happening?” Connor screamed out to Chief Hugs.

     With one final flash, the flame flared up, the screams stop and as fast as you could blink your eyes it was over. In place of the two men were ashes; piles of smoldering ashes that were once men. Mixed into the ashes, were Chief Hugs’s handcuffs. They now glowed red hot from the heat of the fire they had been exposed to.

    Chief Hugs turned to look at Connor. His face was ashen. He had never seen anything like that before. Connor and Chief Hugs just stared at one another, their mouths agape. It was Chief Hugs that broke the silence first.

     ”Can I use your bathroom?” Chief Hugs asked humbly, his voice choking with emotion.

     “Make it quick, I have to use it too,” Connor replied quietly.

Chapter 15

     Connor’s parents were aghast at what they returned to; their home torn apart from the fight, a pile of smoldering ashes in the living room, someone’s severed arm, a ripped off ear (oddly those two items had survived, perhaps it was at they were not attached at the time of spontaneous combustion). And, two horrified kids, one distressed police officer, the family dog hiding under their bed and a raccoon in their kitchen cabinet. Amongst all the chaos, oddly the raccoon made the most sense.

     “What happened here?” Mrs. Delacamp asked both mortified and flabbergasted.

     Mr. Delacamp just walked around, his mouth open, but nothing coming out of it.

     “Who can explain this?” Mrs. Delacamp demanded.

     “It’s kind of a long story Mom,” Connor offered up sheepishly.

     “Does it look like I am going anywhere young man,” Mrs. Delacamp barked at her son as she held a handkerchief over her nose to block the stench.

     Mr. Delacamp poured himself a tall scotch.  He also poured one for Chief Hugs who desperately needed a drink. Even though drinking on duty was against the Peculiar Police Department regulations, Chief Hugs felt certain that having just seen two people spontaneously combust, one strong scotch could be justified. Maybe even two.

     Connor motioned to his parents to sit down and proceeded to tell the story of the attackers. Mr. and Mrs. Delacamp listened with rapt attention and were glued to every word that Connor had said. They were not mad at Connor. It was certainly not his fault. It was obviously just a fluke that two thugs had chosen their house for a home invasion. They certainly had nothing of value.

     Chief Hugs having regained his composure, broke out his note pad and began making copious notes. Occasionally he would interrupt and ask a question, but mostly he just wrote. Once he stepped outside to use his radio and update headquarters. A second time, he called and requested a forensics team. When asked by headquarters if the medical examiner was needed, he replied, “We are way past the medical examiner helping us on this one.” Dispatch replied one would be enroute nonetheless.

     Isabella also called home and began to explain to her parents about the home invasion.  Her parents, just as shocked and horrified as the Delacamps, jumped into their car and drove to the Delacamps house in record time to be with their daughter and provide whatever support they could.

     What Connor and Isabella did not tell their parents or Chief Hugs, was the whole story that of course you are now privy to. Connor and Isabella had decided maybe it was best not to tell anyone that this home invasion was not so much for the Delacamp’s money or goods, nor, had it been a fluke event, no; no this attack had been planned. The target of this attack was simply Connor.

     Connor and Isabella had also decided to leave out the part about Isabella being stabbed by the brute; Isabella, was justifiably upset. However, considering what she had gone through, was in a pretty good mindset. The wound had healed astonishingly quickly and all that was left was a small scar which she rubbed and scratched at continuously while she talked to everyone. She felt as good as anyone who had been dying just a short while ago and now had been miraculously healed could feel. In fact, she was bursting with a new found energy. Had, there not been such a commotion and so many questions being asked, she might have gone for a run; that’s how much energy she had.

     In between answering questions for the police, her parents, and the Delacamps, Isabella would stare at Connor. She knew the real story no one else did. She had also been the victim in this attack. She had felt the attacker’s hot knife penetrate her body; the steel burning as it pierced deep into her body. The feeling of her soul being sucked into the knife. She knew how close to dying she had been and worse; she had seen the darkness of the eternal abyss and within that blackness she saw an intense burning flame. A flame that took on the shape of a man; a man welcoming here into the abyss and reaching out for her. And, Isabella had reached out to him. She had almost connected to him when she felt Connor pulling her back in.  

It was Connor who had come to her rescue. He had laid his hands on her; infusing her with a piece of him. Connor did something that should not have been possible. He had brought her back from the edge of death; and from the abyss and the burning man who was awaiting her.

     Isabella had only needed to experience it once. She was now a true believer in Connor. But, she had seen something that horrified her to the core of her soul. The flaming figure, he had almost taken possession of her.

And she had reached out to him, willingly, to go with him.

 Chapter 16

     What had started out as a quiet evening had turned into anything but a quiet evening for the good people who lived in the normally very sleepy town of Peculiar. All of the night’s commotion had drawn them out to investigate the cause. The good citizens of Peculiar were gathering outside of their homes and asking questions of one another. “Why were there so many police in their neighborhood? Why the fire trucks? Was someone in trouble or was a home on fire?” The people of Peculiar gathered not to gossip mind you, but to help their friends. And, yes gossip. Just as you and I would do.

     Chief Hugs and his assembly of police officers continued to search around looking for evidence, witnesses, and anything else that would give them a clue as to who the home invaders were. The pile of ash, that had been left behind was of little use.  Chief Hugs had once again assumed the lead on the investigation and was barking commands at his squad to interview every person, search every corner, and “to leave no stone unturned.”  Which was silly, as I have never seen any clues hidden under a stone. And, I have looked for many a clues.

     “Unacceptable having such criminals in our Village. Unacceptable. We will get to the bottom of this,” the good Police Chief was overheard saying to one of the neighbors with as much authority as he could muster at the moment. The Chief was in charge of the crime scene, and to demonstrate such, he stuck out his chest as he moved about barking out his orders, just in case anyone had any doubts as to his authority.

     The fire department was also present and the Fire Chief had his men and women checking the house three times over to make sure there was no further threat of fire. The good Fire Chief also had the young men and women of Peculiar Fire Brigade #1 set up large fans in an attempt to air the house out of the horrid smells of burnt flesh and smoke that hung about the house. Terrible, nasty situation as it was.

      “Just horrible,” the Fire Chief kept saying, “just horrible. In all my years, I have never seen anything like this. Just horrible.”

     The local news crews had heard the calls for assistance go out over the police scanners and had also responded to the scene. Now they stood on the front lawn and pestered the neighbors, the police and the firefighters for quotes and information for their nightly newscast. Mrs. Delacamp had asked the news crews numerous times that they not step through her flower gardens, but, it was a not to be. They trampled about paying no attention to her lovely tulips, begonias, and daffodils.

     There was one individual though that stood out during the investigation; he seemed to be the most well-dressed man among all that were present. The man distinguished himself, by his professional composure; he was the one person most in control of his thoughts and emotions during this investigation as he snooped about, sniffing the air, rubbing ash between his fingers, and looking about. As if he had seen these events before.

     An older man, perhaps the age of your grandfather, he carried himself with distinction, nodding to the police and fire officials as if he knew them. His hair was white and cut tightly. He sported a well-trimmed goatee and wore wire rim glasses. Atop of this gentleman’s head was a white fedora hat that gave him a rather sophisticated and worldly look.

     You would have to look twice to notice that something seemed odd about the back of his shoulders. There appeared to be two knobs where his shoulder blades were. It was an obvious he had some condition, perhaps even a deformation, which he tried to conceal by his dressing well, but it was still noticeable.

     This gentleman wore a tweed coat with patches on the elbows. The kind you often seen distinguished college professors wearing.  Every so often he would reach into a breast pocket and retrieve a magnifying glass, a pair of tweezers, or some other investigative tool from which he would use to assist him as he poked and prodded about looking for those unique pieces of evidence that only he knew what he was looking for.

     When he got to the pile of ashes, he stooped down low and pulled out a long slender telescoping metal wand and sifted through the ashen remains of the two attackers. Mixed into the ashen was the occasional fragment of charred bone, burnt tooth, or fragment of clothing that had oddly survived the inferno. If the odd piece of evidence amounted to anything, he did not let on to anyone else in the room.

     “Now this has promise,” he muttered to himself, as he picked up the severed arm as if it is everyday one wields a dismembered arm, he went about twisting and turning the tattooed arm as he studied it closely. He was examining the arm for clues as to its former owner’s identity, and this one had many. Tattoos are applied for many purpose, but they always tell a story; most often a story of the person’s life. Their personal accomplishments, their hopes and dreams and unfortunately, sometimes even their failures and sufferings.

     It was here that the investigator saw the one name that to him gave him all the information that he needed. In black ink, the word “Ira” was still visible; but not for much longer. The black ink was slowly dissolving and fading away, like all memory of its former owner was. But, it was visible long enough for the goateed investigator to know what he needed to know.  His inquiry was now over.

    “Damn, damn, damn,” the old man whispered quietly under his breath. He knew the name all too well. But if Ira was involved, the something else was missing. And, that something that had to be recovered and he had to make haste to find it.

     The man continued to look about the room with a quizzical look was upon his face. A piece of the puzzle was still missing, lying around the house somewhere. He scratched his goateed chin while he scanned the room. He got on his hands and knees. He looked under the furniture, behind the bookcase, and in every nook and cranny.

     “Are you looking for something?” Mrs. Delacamp asked curious as to why this man was moving all of her furniture.

     “Just looking things over. You never know where a piece of the enigma might be hiding,” he replied when asked. “A fine house you have here by the way. Just lovely,” he added politely.

     The man continued to snoop around, and only when he looked behind the curtains, did he find what he was looking for. The others in the room were no longer paying the man any attention. But, Connor was.

     “Here you are,” the man said quietly to the knife.

     “Stay away from me!” the blade replied, “I’ll stick you, I’ll stick you. Stay away from me,” It hissed angrily to the man as it tried to flop itself away. Without the evil thugs to wield it, much of its ferocity was gone. But, it was still dangerous to the untrained person.

     The man paid the knife no heed, grabbed it by the hilt, and slipped the struggling knife into a red silk bag, where it immediately quieted down. The gentleman slipped the bag into his jacket for safekeeping. He looked about the room to see if anyone had seen him and he made eye contact with Connor, who had watched the whole thing. The gentlemen winked and smiled a toothy grin. 

     “Connor,” the voice underneath the fedora bellowed out. He spoke quite loudly.

     Connor heard it, as did everyone in the living room.

     Connor stood up and approached the investigator so the man did not have to speak as loudly.

     “Could I get a cup of hot tea? Earl Grey if at all possible. If you don’t have it, I think I have an extra tea bag from this afternoon still with me. And, I see some cake on the kitchen counter; would it be too much trouble to ask for slice? I just love chocolate cake. And, that one looks scrumptious. Is it a Double Dutch Chocolate by chance?” The gentleman asked with excited politeness.

     Connor was a bit put off by this request. It seemed odd that a perfect stranger would be asking for cake and tea as if he was partaking of afternoon tea. But, he referred the request to his mother, and Mrs. Delacamp who was a dutiful host, seemed happy to do oblige so she could take her mind off the evening events. She stood up from the kitchen table and began boiling the water and slicing thick slices of her chocolate cake with her homemade chocolate frosting, which had fortuitously not been ruined in all the earlier turmoil.

     “Chief Hugs would you like some tea and cake also? Anyone else?” Mrs. Delacamp queried the officers still on duty.  Much to her surprise, many of the officers took her up on the offer, which pleased her greatly. Investigating a crime scene was hard work, and the officers had built up an appetite despite the gruesomeness about them. Soon, Mrs. Delacamp was moving about serving fresh tea, coffee and of course her freshly baked chocolate cake to those who asked for it and there were many requests. Mrs. Delacamp was well known for her baking in Peculiar and had been won the town’s Fourth of July baking contest three years running. She was planning on entering a Double Dutch chocolate cake this year and had been practicing.     

     The man with the hat and goatee sat down at the kitchen table and shook hands with everyone. When it came time to shake Connor’s hand, he shook it most vigorously and excitedly spoke in his loud voice which seemed to be louder than necessary even though everyone was just a few feet away. It was apparent the man had a bit of a voice modulation issue.

     “Connor is it?” The man asked excitedly, making sure he understood he had the right name for Connor. “A pleasure meeting you,” the goateed man bellowed.  “I am truly excited to meet you; it has been a very long time since a person of your caliber has crossed my path. We really have so much to talk about.”

     Connor was perplexed. As were the Delacamp’s. Who was this man? But, it was good Chief Hugs who spoke up first as he too was confused by who this goateed bellower was.

     “Excuse me sir, I am afraid I don’t know you,” Chief Hugs queried the.

     The man laughed heartily over the conundrum he had created. He had not introduced himself and of course had simply shown up uninvited.

     “Of course not, we have never met,” he offered up. “I am Professor Saint Graham.”

     “With the Medical Examiner’s office?” Chief Hugs asked hopefully.

     Professor Saint Graham laughed again at the good Chief’s expense. The Professor seemed to find laughter in many things and was actually quite a jovial fellow.

     “No sir, I am with the library.”

     “What library? The University Library?” Chief Hugs, who himself was a graduate of that fine institution, asked, “Why would someone from the library be here?”

     “An excellent deduction there Chief Hugs, and, I see why you are the Chief; however, an incorrect one. But kudo’s on the attempt, I can tell you are a fine officer of the law. No sir, I am with the Peculiar Public Library, Antiquities Division.”

     Chief Hugs snorted at this response and almost choked on his coffee. This was unacceptable on all levels. “Then why in the Hell are you sniffing through my crime scene,” Chief Hugs asked angrily. He was now quite upset at this interloper intruding on his crime scene. And, he treated every crime scene and accident scene as his own personal property.

     “Chief, an excellent deduction there. And, you are not as far from the mark as you may think.” Saint Graham added cryptically. “Let me continue Chief Hugs, your team assumed I was someone else. And by your question, you assumed I was the medical examiner. I suppose it is who you are expecting. I admit it, in all the confusion, it was rather easy to step into your perimeter. I just acted like I knew what I was doing. Which, of course, I always do. But, if you did not want me interfering with your investigation, which I have not, then you would have stopped me sooner. But you did not. And if you knew who those two deviants were, which you do not, you would not be so indignant of my efforts to ascertain that information for which you currently do not know.” The Professor replied self-righteously as he took another bite of the most delicious chocolate cake he had ever tasted.

     Chief Hugs was stymied and the look on his face displayed it. He was not use to being spoken to in this manner. He was a man of authority after all. But, the Professor was correct. He had nothing to build his case on. His officers had found nothing other than the arm and a few other scraps of human remains. The Chief knew nothing of the knife as he and his officers had overlooked it. There was no witnesses to the crime other than Connor and Isabella. It was as if the two assailants had just materialized from nothing and then having failed at their attack on Connor, then just disappeared in a ball of incinerating flame.

     “So, you know who they are,” Chief Hugs asked hopefully, lowering his guard. He desperately needed answers.

     The Professor shook his head. He knew more than he dared let on, but now was not the time to reveal to much. He did not know these thugs by name, but he knew who they worked for. He knew the name all too well. And, he knew they type of men and women who were attracted to working for Ira.

     “Chief Hugs I would just note them as John Doe number one and John Doe number two.  Who they were, is not who they are now. Or, to be more precise, who they were before they became what they are now, these piles of ash. They were simply two misguided individuals who chose a life of wickedness over virtue.  I think all record of them has probably been erased by now. We will never know from where they came or how they came to live this life. Let’s just agree, that the world is a little better off now that they are gone. But, let us not dwell on what has happened; let us dwell on what is to come. That is something entirely more perilous and pressing to us.”

     Everyone gathered stared quietly at the Professor. He had issued an omen; a warning of things to come. But what things. What could be so perilous?

     Professor Saint Graham looked about at the ensemble staring at him and then began laughing. He laughed out loud for several minutes for no apparent reason other than to break the mood. It had become far too somber and serious for his taste.  He had said just a bit too much. It was a habit of his to say too much, too speak to long, to not listen to others more. His sudden outburst of laughter succeeded and the mood of the room seemed to soften just a bit.

      “Mrs. Delacamp this tea is delightful; I could not have done a better job myself. Say, could I trouble you for another cup? And let me say, that this cake is absolutely lovely. I must have this recipe. If you would be willing to part with. I bet you are keeping it secret aren’t you” he smiled at Mrs. Delacamp, attempting to charm her, which he was.

     “Would you like the last slice?” Mrs. Delacamp blushed as she offered her coveted Double Dutch chocolate cake to the good professor.

     “Mrs. Delacamp you are an angel! If no one else wants it, I would be most delighted to have it. I am truly famished,” chuckled the Professor.

     Connor noticed this Professor Saint Graham seemed to be a most jovial fellow. Which, considering the circumstances that they were meeting, seemed an odd time to be so jovial.  But, then again, Connor had never been the focus of a crime scene, although, as we learned in our first chapter, he had been the focus of an accident scene and so he wondered if it was common for investigators of such terrible event to make light of what to others seemed so serious. And, truth be told, it is true.

     “I do have a question though, and perhaps Connor could enlighten me, exactly how did the arm and ear become separated from their respectful owners? I am sure there is a story here?”  The Professor queried with a puzzled look on his face as one bushy eyebrow turned upwards.

     It was Connor’s turn to laugh now. Oddly, no one had asked that question yet. Perhaps, in the shock of all that had happened no one thought to ask, or perhaps no one had simply gotten around to it, but, now asked, Connor knew he had to go into a little more detail.

     Connor started the story over again from the beginning. Well, not the whole beginning of course, but, he started the story a second time, and again Chief Hugs began writing copious notes. He told of how the men burst into the house and attacked, how Wolf got loose from her restraint and attacked, and how the raccoon, also jumped into the fray coming to the defense of Connor and Isabella.

     “What raccoon?” Mrs. Delacamp demanded to know. Where did this raccoon come from? She was not aware of any raccoon other than the one that had been digging through their garbage.

     “It is the same raccoon that has been digging through our garbage Mom and I call him Bandit,” Connor offered up. Connor left out the part about finding the raccoon dead in the gutter and bringing it back to life.  No one was ready for that story. He was still not sure about it himself.

     “You mean to tell me, the raccoon that has been digging through our garbage; the raccoon that you wanted to kill just days ago; this raccoon just wandered into our house and attacked a man who was attacking you and Isabella and it bit the man’s ear off,” she asked incredulously.

     “I know crazy isn’t it,” Connor replied with made up astonishment. In all the excitement Connor had forgotten all about Bandit and now stood up, made his way to the kitchen counter, opened up the counter and found Bandit still hiding amongst the pots and pans. Bandit had found some cornbread from the skillet and was happily muncing on the cornbread when Connor scooped up the raccoon, and held him close like a big cat and scratched his head. Bandit relaxed and snuggled Connor closely as he eyed all the strangers about the room. He was wary of people in uniform. Nothing good ever came to raccoons by men or women who were in uniform.

      Professor Saint Graham chuckled as he listened intently to every word that Connor offered up. The Professor understood there was more to the story, but, he said nothing of it. But, he understood far more than he let on.

     Connor looked over at the Professor and noticed for the first times how brilliantly blue his eyes were underneath the fedora. The Professor had about him an air of intelligence and Connor suspected this man knew things that he was withholding from the conversation.

     “Well Connor, Mr. and Mrs. Delacamp, Chief Hugs, I must be getting on my way. I am very late for my book club meeting and tonight we are discussing the tradition of oral story telling during the time of Homer. I have been looking forward to this discussion for weeks. I do hope I am not too late. Professor Ana Graham, no relation if you are wondering, is moderating this discussion and she is very strict about book club protocols to include tardiness.”

     The good Professor rose, shook hands with everyone as he proceeded out the front door. The Professor, might have been an older man, but he had a powerful grip. Far more powerful than one would have expected. The Chief remarked later it was “like shaking hands with warm steel.”

     “Oh Connor, by the way, if you should ever need any help with your school work, especially those of a historical or philosophical nature, or those really bizarre questions that just don’t seem to make sense no matter how many different ways you look at them, come by and see me. Most days, you can find me at the Peculiar Library, deep within the Antiquities Department. We have a wonderful collection of rare manuscripts, scrolls and cuneiform tablets and I have the privilege of keeping watch over them. I would love to show them to you. And, I suspect you might learn a few interesting things along the way.” The Professor patted his jacket pocket, the pocket that concealed the black knife. And, winked at Connor.  

      As the good Professor reached the front door, Connor noticed Wolf, who had either been resting or hiding, walk down from the stairs and meet up with the Professor at the front door.  The Professor upon seeing Wolf, stopped, bent over and scratched her about the face and quietly whispered to her as he patted her side most energetically.  Connor thought that was odd that the Professor who had been so boisterous at the kitchen table, was now quietly speaking to Wolf.

     Wolf wagged her tale excitedly at the Professor’s affections and licked his hand. When the Professor left, the snow white husky quietly wandered back up to Connor’s room, climbed atop of his bed, curled herself into a tight fur ball and quickly drifted off into a deep slumber. It had been a good day indeed.

 Chapter 17

     Ira’s slammed his monstrous hands into the bar repeatedly.  His anger was uncontrollable. He flung table and chairs all about the bar as if they were simple play things.  Many of the bar’s patrons were moaning, bruised or beaten, themselves having accidently been caught in Ira’s rampage. Some lay motionless on the bar floor, already victims of his fury. Now the few survivors huddled in the corner hiding behind overturned tables, hoping to avoid the next flying projectile or misdirected fist. Only, the great black hound was undisturbed by all the commotion. It continued to lay quietly asleep, so, close to the fire that on occasion an ember would jump out and land on the beast. The beast took no notice of the burning embers on its fur and slept on.

     The bartender had long ago locked the doors. Everyone was trapped inside the bar with Ira. Escaping was not an option, but was highly desirable to the wannabe’s who had found Ira’s lifestyle attractive and inviting. Now, they thought differently. Many harbored thoughts of escape. But, fleeing was no longer possible. Survival this evening was now the their focus.

     Only the bartender kept his cool. He calmly smoked a long cigarette and on occasion would blurt out to Ira as he attempted to intercede on the throng’s behalf, “not that one,” or “take it easy Ira” or, “I like her.” But it was of no use. Ira’s rage had to run its course. In the meantime, the bartender kept the music turned up loud.  It helped drown out the moans of the victims and the panicked screams of the patrons who still hoped for an intervention, which was yet forthcoming.

     Ira was just about to toss a hapless onlooker into the fire, when the blue light began blinking over the bar. Ira coked his head and sighed heavily. He knew this would happen. For the ensemble hiding, it was the reprieve that the few remaining patrons had hoped for. Ira would be distracted for some time and they may yet be able to flee.

     The bartender saw the beacon and turned off the music. The hapless victim begging for mercy and squirming, trying to free himself before he met such a horrible fate.     

     “Ira, it’s the phone!” shrieked the bartender, trembling as he spoke.

     Ira cocked his head in the direction of the bartender. He snorted. He hated to be interrupted, but he had no choice. It was him.  He dropped the poor man at his feet and ambled back to the bar to sit down. The man hurriedly crawled back to the arms of his cohorts. He had been given an acquittal. Mercy had indeed intervened for the time being.

     Ira took a few moments to gather his thoughts and calm down. He needed to be calm. He had some explaining to do. This call good easily go very bad for him. He had to salvage it. Ira looked the bartender in the eye and nodded. He was ready. The bartender brought the phone over to him then scampered out of range of Ira’s fist, least the beast of a man should take a swing at him.

     “Ira here,” he humbly mumbled humbly. He knew who was on the phone. He understood his consequences. Now, he had some explaining to do; if he was allowed to.

     Ira said nothing for the next few minutes. Beads of dark sweat broke out on his forehead. Several times he held the phone away from his ear as he listened to his thrashing. He had failed in his one mission. His one very simple mission.

     “I suspect this boy has a Guardian with him. Possibly others. There was no way for us to know these Guardians were there until we arrived on scene. They intervened. They helped him. It was not our fault.” Ira offered submissively. He was not arguing. He was simply stating a fact. But, he had to be careful. Least he suffer a terrible fate like the others. Or, worse.

     The caller was not moved. Ira was quiet as new instructions were delivered to him. He nodded in the affirmative as he was told what to do next. He understood. .

     “Of course, your Excellency,” Ira stammered, “Of course Father. I will dispatch another group immediately. Only, this time we will make it public. We will not fail you again,” Ira reverently offered before he hung up the phone.

     Ira, let loose a great sigh, turned to the bartender and smiled, his crooked, yellow and black teeth exposed at the good news he was given, “we get to live another day.”

Chapter 18

     The next several days were quite hectic.  Again, Connor was the focus of all the possible media and social attention that could come one’s way when one lives in a very tight knit and loving community such as Peculiar.

     At school Connor was again the hero of the moment.  At a special class assembly he was given a standing ovation by the students as he was awarded the “Medal of Peculiar Bravery,” by the kindhearted Mayor Goodly, who as his name implied, was a very kind and respectable man. The award was given to those residents of Peculiar who had exhibited bravery under the most difficult circumstances; however, no one had given much thought to the name of the award.

     Again, a local newspaper, Florida Yesterday (as all print news is now a day old), ran front page headlines about the home invasion and how brave Connor and Isabella were fighting off their attackers. Chief Hugs was quoted as saying “that the attack was isolated and no one should live in fear.” Connor’s mom bought up numerous papers and mailed the articles to all of Connor’s aunts and uncles.  She even had the local hobby store frame one, where upon she hung it right on the staircase wall so everyone could see.

     Connor, however, was tired of all the attention and just wanted his life to settle down. He craved his normal life back, or, as close to normal as one’s life could be following a deathly experience, which was then followed by a home invasion where you are the guest of honor. But we do not always get what we want, as Connor would learn.

     Connor was no longer the care free young man as before. Now, he took to looking over his shoulders, locking doors and windows, and then checking the same doors and windows three times before he was sure they were secure. He had begun studying about all of the current alarm systems and talking to his dad about having one installed. His family thought this was a good idea. Connor still did not feel comfortable telling his family that he was the target of the thugs in the attack and that he was not being paranoid.

     Those two thugs had come looking for him specifically. And, it got Connor to thinking about the big picture. It was Isabella who had been hurt in the process and she was just an innocent bystander. What if they came again?  What if they came after his mother and Father? Who else would get hurt because of Connor? And, what was happening to him. He understood he was no longer the same Connor. He was different.

     Thoughts of danger were not the only thoughts bouncing around Connor’s head.  He was also wondering how he had willed Isabella to be healed from the stab wound. He saw the black knife plunge into her breast. He saw the woman he was now in love with scream in agony as she suffered because of him. Connor had felt the surge of energy within him as he willed her stab wound to heal; this unexplainable energy surge that was flowing through his body. He had recalled that experience multiple times as he tried to come to terms with it and understand what was happening to him.

     Connor needed help; he had questions that needed answering. Connor needed someone who understood bizarre and unexplainable things. His mind settled on the one person who could help. He held his business card in his hand and stared at it. He would take a gamble and ask the Professor.

     “Mom, I am going to the library!” Connor yelled out to his mother.

Chapter 19

     The Peculiar Public Library is a sleek modern library. Offset from Minton Road by a short distance, it is easily accessible for those who prefer to walk, bicycle, or even jog in the Florida sunshine, as Connor was doing this day. The Library is a modern example of contemporary architecture; it was designed with sharp corners, square shapes and little that would offset from any other building. It could have passed for a dentist’s or attorney’s office. It was no different than any other building. Yes, it was depressing to behold. But, buildings are much like people, no matter what they look like on the outside, it is what inside them that really matters.

     While the Peculiar Public Library holds a fine collection of current period books it is best known among the academic world for its prized rare manuscripts, ancient scrolls, and period maps drawn hundreds and even thousands of years ago.  These rare bibliophile gems had been donated by a very wealthy family of Peculiar who prefer to stay anonymous, yet understood these were the seeds of what would become a magnificent collection. But, this generous family understood their rare books should not be trusted to just anyone or to any institution. So, they endowed the Peculiar Library from the beginning to care for their special collection and to find someone who would care and nurture the collection over the years; someone unique, someone who understood the value of written words. This generous couple could never had imagined what a small donation could swell into over the years under the right guidance. And, that job announcement would attract the attention of Professor Saint Graham to the town of Peculiar.

     It was here that Professor Saint Graham held court.  Each day he chose one tome and took to reading and deciphering the book in an effort to unlock whatever hidden or forgotten information that could still be squeezed out of its fragile pages. The work was plentiful enough for a group of scholars. But, the Peculiar Library budget was small and they could only afford one academic. Fortunately for the city and perhaps by an odd quirk of fate, only one person ever applied for the job. It was the esteemed Professor Saint Graham who noticed the help wanted ad many years ago and had answered the advertisement.

     For those who asked how he liked his job, he would confess, “I don’t have a job, I have a mission.”  For such a simple answer, it was far more cryptic than the Professor would ever let on.

      The run had taken a little longer than Connor had expected. He had been noticing that he seemed to be getting slower, but, had not thought much of it. He attributed his slowness to his recent fatigue that he had been suffering from.  He was suffering from some mild aches and pains. And, had been trying to stretch more in the hopes of “working things out.” It was not working.

 Connors heart fluttered as he approached the library and noticed Isabella waiting for him on the bench in the front. She smiled from ear to ear as she laid eyes on him.

     “What are you doing here,” he asked delighted.

     “I called, and your mother said you were coming over here. You’re coming to speak to the Professor. And, I thought I would join you and hear what he has to say. Connor, I am just as confused by this as you are.” Isabella replied while she rubbed the knife wound as she spoke. The wound still troubled her. Not physically, Connor had resolved that. But, mentally, she was scared from the attack; it still distressed her and would for some time. As Connor walked up the sidewalk, Isabella hopped to her feet and kissed him unexpectedly on the lips. It was just a light kiss, nothing too serious. More of, “I am so happy to see you, I just love being with you,” kind of kiss.

     Connor’s eyes went wide with the surprise. His heart beat faster now than it had at during the run. The two just stared at each other for a moment, blocking the sidewalk as other patrons who were both trying to get into and out of the library, were forced to sidestep them. Many patrons, older and less patient with today’s youth, were quick to react with a highly exaggerated, “an excuse me,” or “pardon us,” or an even the more affronting, clearing of their throats, as if the young people of today are expected to know what a throat clearing means in terms of social conduct.

     It was Isabella who pulled back and broke the silence, “let’s go find this Professor.”

     Connor and Isabella walked into the library and found it to be your standard library, like any other library, in any other town. There were two librarians were on duty this day.  And, neither took to paying any attention to Connor and Isabella when they walked in. Patrons and visitors came in every day. There was nothing unusual about that.  There was no reason for the young clerks to look up at Connor.  Connor, glanced around and then walked over to their station and stood there quietly and waited to be noticed.

     There were two attractive young ladies at the Peculiar Library information desk. Here it was that these two held court, dispensing library trivia, helping wayward patrons to find their answers, and guided those who sought knowledge to their specific volumes of interests. But for the moment, lacking any patrons to help, they were very focused in on the checking in of dozens of books that had been returned this day. It was a simple task; open the returned library book, check said book for wear and tear, and then stamp said book with the appropriate returned date. Once the appropriate preparatory steps were taken, then physically return said book back to its proper location in accordance to the directives of Melville Dewey, and his decimal classification system. Which we know of as today as the Dewey Decimal System. It was simple, but a most important tasks; otherwise you would have books scattered everywhere, and no one wants that.

     Finally, annoyed with Connor simply standing in front of them, fidgeting about, and not saying anything, the tallest of the librarians look up at Connor with a rather solemn look.  Connor noticed her name tag was written with Ms. B.  A little shorter than Connor, she had long brown hair and sported black horn rimmed glasses that made her look quite sophisticated. Which she was. Looking at Connor, it seemed she had a rather perplexed look on her face. It was as if to say, “Why are you standing here looking at me?”

     “Can I help you,” Ms. B asked politely and most professionally. Which she always was.

     “Yes, I am looking for Professor Saint Graham, is he here?” Connor queried.

     Ms. B looked Connor up and down. She had an intelligent face, which hid an even quicker mind. Ms. B was one of the few people ever to score a perfect score on the International Reference Librarians Grand Master Exam. And, she did it at a very young age. In fact, she was the youngest Grand Master Librarian in the country. A very coveted title among librarians.

     “And, you are,” Ms. B asked carefully and speaking slowly, drawing out her question, examining Connor ever more closely as the words left her. 

     The second reference librarian stepped several feet to the side of Ms. B and reached for something under the counter. Out of the corner of his eye, Connor could see her name was noted “Ms. T” and he could tell Ms. T was fiddling with something under the cabinet.   

     “Connor. Connor Delacamp,” Connor replied slowly, quietly, and most definitely mocking Ms. B’s question with his own brand of sarcasm and humor. Ms. B, did not see the humor in his response.

     “Professor Saint Graham. Sorry that name does not ring a bell at the moment. Perhaps you have the wrong library,” Ms. B responded curtly. She then went about stamping her books and being most efficient while ignoring Connor.

     “That’s odd. I am sure he said he worked here at this library.  Big fellow, goatee, wears a hat, well dressed, a bit of a loud talker.”

     Ms. B looked back up sharply. She looked Connor up and down a second time. She was carefully measuring him up, trying to determine what kind of person he was. Who he was and what his business was. She then looked over at Isabella and looked her up and down, studying Isabella as she had Connor. She paused for a moment, then replied, “I am not sure who you’re describing.” Turning to her partner, she asked pointedly, “Ms. T, do you know this Professor Saint Graham?”

     Ms. T responded quickly, “Saint Graham. Saint Graham. Name rings like a ping pong ball in a bucket of water. It always keeps popping up. But, I am afraid not.” Ms. T’s still had her hands below the cabinet.

     “Well this is perplexing,” Connor said dismayed, “we have his card here and this is the Peculiar Library. Is there an annex or another library that I am not aware of?”

     Ms. B noticed the business card in Connor’s hand. “May I see that card,” she asked politely, stretching out her hand. Her demeanor was quickly changing.

     Connor handed the business card over to Ms. B who studied it carefully, then she turned it over.  On the back of the card was written in the Professor’s unique long hand, “friends of mine.” Upon noticing the “friends of mine,” she smiled a great friendly smile showing her remarkably white teeth.

     “Oh, you mean Professor Saint Graham. I thought you meant another Professor,” she sniggered. “Why of course he is here. He is always here. Unless he is at the coffee shop. We just love having him around. Always good for a laugh, afternoon tea and cake. He just loves his cake. You can find him in the antiquities department. Just go down this long hall, just pass the men’s room you will see a door marked janitor’s closet. Just step into the closet, it is a bit of tight fit. Just ignore the mops and brooms and the elevator will take you down.” Ms. B was now the friendliest public servant around. And, as a matter of fact, she had won the Peculiar Library Employee of the month for 12 months straight setting the record among the staff. Ms. B was just being cautious. Her and Ms. T were very protective of the Professor, more so than Connor could realize at the moment and she just needed to make sure Connor and Isabella were indeed actually friends of the Professors; not just some busybodies, meddlers, or troublemakers. Apparently, those types often wandered into the town of Peculiar.

     “Well, thank you,” Connor replied smiling, as he turned and took Isabella by the hand and walked down the hallway. Once out of ear shot of the two librarians, he leaned over to Isabella and whispered, “That was odd.”

     “Very odd,” Isabella agreed.

     What was even more odd, and something that neither Connor nor Isabella noticed, was Ms. T, putting the shotgun back in its holder under the counter. Ms. T was always ready for trouble.

     Connor and Isabella walked past the periodicals department, past the walls of library cards, the banks of computers being used by old and young alike, past the racks of magazines that were neatly organized and past the local artist’s paintings on the walls. The two walked down the hallway and just as Ms. B said, next to the men’s bathrooms was the janitor’s closet. Connor opened the door slowly and glanced in. it was indeed a janitor’s closet. It was filled with cleaning supplies, smelly mop buckets, and other odds and ends for someone who took their cleaning seriously.

     “Should we go in,” Isabella questioned.

     “I guess so; she said we should,” Connor responded as he stepped in. Isabella following close at hand.

     Connor closed the door behind the two. They were now in the janitor’s closet.  Connor turned on the light and looked about. “I think this is a joke,” he whispered as they stood there looking about.

     “Why are you whispering,” Isabella asked curiously.

     Connor cleared his throat, “I don’t know why I am,” he replied. His voice sounding his more normal octave. “Okay joke is on us, those two librarians got us. Let’s go speak to them again.” Connor reached for the door handle when he suddenly felt the closet lurch and then begin moving downward.  The whirl of pulleys could be heard and they felt the closet elevator slowly descending lower and lower.

     “I guess the joke is on us,” he chuckled looking at Isabella, who was as surprised as he was.

     The elevator creaked and groaned for several minutes before it finally came to a slow stop. Connor reached for the door handle and opened it up, not sure what he was expecting but for some reason, he expected the worst. Connor stepped off the elevator expecting a dark, damp, and dusty room filled with stacks of unread papers, musty old books and ancient tomes still tucked into clay urns. Connor expected a great many things. But he did not expect what he walked into. Isabella gasped as she stepped off the elevator, glancing about, wide eyed at the room they had stepped into.

     “We really need to get too more libraries,” Connor exclaimed, his eyes wide with astonishment, as he looked around in amazement.

     The Antiquities Department was no mere room off in the corner of the Peculiar Library. No, the elevator opened to a room that was at least three stories in height, filled with tens of thousands of precious books that were divided among multiple levels, sections and departments and then cross referenced by subject matters. A walkway went around the upper levels allowing the curious bibliophile to easily access the ancient treasures on the second and third floors.

     The room was not only a testament to books, but to paintings and other works of art from the ancient world. Displayed on the walls were many paintings of famous figures and advocates of lifelong learning, such as Plato, Socrates, and Leonardo Da Vinci. The arched ceiling had been painted over with scenes of woodlands, great waterfalls and billowing clouds and with many angels circling over. Someone could have easily laid down on the floor and looked up, forgetting where they were as they gazed with wide eyes at the brilliant frescoes painted above.

     Hanging along the walls were ancient maps that represented the Greek, Roman, and Persian worlds. Many of these maps were the size of bed sheets and made of cloth materials. On these maps the known world had been drawn as it was known by the makers during their time and era. The names of the world’s major cities were written in shiny gold thread.  In the time of the maps, lands where no one had yet explored, dragons were sewn in with red thread and the warning, “there be dragons” was noted. Some of the cities names Connor recognized, such as Rome, Paris and Troy. Many other names he did not know, as they had been lost over the centuries to war and calamity and were now simply forgotten by modern man.

     Connor noticed that many paintings, marble statues and bronze statues were of angels. Angels hovering over people, angels fighting demons, angels fighting dragons. It seemed a common theme around the library. Connor and Isabella stopped by one enormous painting, as tall as they were and stopped and stared at it. It was a woman, a striking red haired woman, with a milky white complexion. The woman was dressed in a full length emerald dress from an earlier period. She wore a small crown. She was a lady of dignity. And, at her side was a pure white wolf. Both Connor and Isabella found the woman mesmerizing.

     “She is beautiful,” Isabella commented quietly, captivated with the woman.

     “Yes, yes she is,” Connor mumbled beneath his breath in agreement.

     As Connor and Isabella walked about the room they found many books on the floor, the tables and in boxes. Most were organized into neat piles with regard to their subject matter, period of writing, or by their respective author. Many more were not and were simply in piles waiting to be categorized and filed away. Almost all were in foreign languages; Latin, Greek, Persian, and many others. There were just too many books for one person to read and decipher. A whole class of historians could spend their years studying this collection and still not be able to decipher all that the library held.

     The Professor had spent his lifetime cultivating networks of friends, patrons and donors who when tired of their collections, made a point to send them to the Professor out of their love and friendship for him.  He was amassing a great treasure in the Peculiar Library. And, so few outsiders actually knew or understood that one of the world’s greatest treasures of antiquities was held in the local library of a very small, but very special town in Florida.

     “Look, there he is over there,” Connor whispered to Isabella.

     The Professor was in a corner of the library. He was slumped down in a large overstuffed red leather chair, with a leather bound book on his lap and his fedora pulled down over his eyes. Connor and Isabella approached quietly. As they got closer, they could see that the Professor was sleeping. And, from the obnoxiously loud snores that he would emit every few seconds as he inhaled, they assumed he was sleeping quite soundly.

     “Should we wake him?” Isabella asked quietly.

     “I don’t think so,” Connor whispered back to her.

     “Should we leave him?” Isabella whispered back.

     “I am not sleeping my good friends,” the Professor murmured back to them with his eyes still closed. “I am simply contemplating the historical writings of Plato and his influences on the Western European philosophical tradition. I have been known to do some of my best thinking with my eyes closed.”

     “You were snoring,” Connor replied smartly.

     “I breath heavily when deep in thought my boy,” the Professor retorted cheerfully as he glanced up, pushing his hat high on to his head. A big smile broke across his face as he saw Connor.

     The Professor sprung out of his chair and struck out his hand to shake both Connor’s and Isabella’s hand with a mighty grip; but, no so mighty with Isabella’s hand of course.

     “It is a true delight to have you two here!” he bellowed. “And Isabella you are indeed a vison of beauty. I am delighted the two of you could come. I do get so very few visitors that I enjoy having were as I do get plenty of visitors that I certainly don’t enjoy. And, not all of them are as pleasant as you two are; I can assure you of that. Please sit down. Let me put a pot of tea on. It is near tea time, and we must have tea forthwith.”

    Connor and Isabella sat down at long oak conference table stacked high with rolled scrolls. The table was covered with a thin layer of dust; dust that had been dislodged from the unrolling of the scrolls this very morning.

     “Just make yourself comfortable. Now, what brings you two here to see me?” The Professor asked. Of course he already knew the answer. It was rhetorical question. He knew the answer, he was just making small talk, being polite, which he preferred to do while he prepared afternoon tea and snacks. Most quickly, the Professor laid out a plate of cucumber sandwiches, butter cookies, and assorted vanilla cream cakes onto the table to accompany the copper tea kettle that was in the post which was beginning to toot as the water was beginning to roil. 

    “Please do help yourself,” the Professor muttered as he shoved a whole cucumber sandwich into his mouth. “Eating alone is a terrible business. Of course, I do it much too often. A bit of a hermit I am these days.”

     Isabella and Connor both reached for the sugary cookies. No one should ever decline cookies when offered.

     “I just love afternoon tea? Don’t you?” The Professor queried his two visitors excitedly. The Professor did not wait for the response. He brought over a copper kettle of hot water that was whistling and poured the boiling water into a small clay tea pot. “Now in a few minutes we will have a cup of fine tea. I do hope you like Earl Gray it is all I have at the moment. How do you like your tea?”

     “Professor, I think I need your help,” Connor offered up. He wanted to get right to the point, but, in hindsight, he realized his rudeness as quickly as the words left his mouth. The Professor was just being polite; making small talk.

     “I am sure you do, young man. We all need help at some time or another. I am no stranger to asking for help myself.” The Professor offered encouragingly. “But, what can I help you with?” he asked with all concern.

     Connor stared off at the stacks of books. He thought he knew what he wanted to ask, now he was not so sure. He was almost embarrassed to say anything now and he sat there fidgeting with his tea cup for several seconds before Isabella broke in and went right to the point, her mouth full of cookies.

     “Why were we attacked? What has happened to Connor? How did he do what he did to me?” She asked pointedly. Isabella was very direct when it was needed. Now, she was speaking quickly and to the point.

     “All very good starting points,” the Professor responded as he poured three cups of steaming hot tea. “Now, let us give these tea bags a few minutes to seep and then we will be quite social.”

     The Professor did not say anything as he stared at his tea cup. He fiddled with his tea bag raising and lowering it into his steaming bath of hot water. Each time he raised the tea bag he stared with excited anticipation as the black water drained from the tea bag into his tea cup, slowly changing the clear water to a murky black water. Steam rose up from the cup. The trio sat in silence as the Professor pondered his words and what to say next. It took several quiet moments, before he looked Connor in the eye and said those words that terrified Connor.

     “Connor it seems you are being hunted. Which is just terrible. You seem like a truly nice person, and it always pains me to see the young marked for death as you have been.” the Professor, was speaking gently, trying to not alarm our Connor as much as one could be given such dire news. He took a loud sip of his tea, then mumbled, “Do be careful, the tea is quite hot.”

Chapter 20

     Connor was at a loss of words. His head was spinning. He did not know what to say. How does one respond to such a statement? Auspiciously, it was Isabella who spoke; jumped in and took charge.

     Isabella repeated those appalling words, “marked for death?” She wanted to know more. How was this possible? Where was this information coming from that someone could just be so flippant about making this comment?

     “Terrible? That’s all you can say is terrible?” Connor asked the Professor; his brain was processing the news and trying to generate a proper response.

     “Connor, you asked a simple question. I am afraid this is something you will need to get used to,” the Professor offered up rather nonchalantly, and then changing subjects, he asked, “and, could I get you to pass me the sugar bowl behind you please.”

     “What do you mean, ‘get used to’?” Connor was mystified at that statement. But, not confounded enough to not pass the sugar bowl. That would have been rude.

     “Connor, there are many things in this world that we do not understand. And, sometimes, when we think we understand things, we later come to find out we do not really know what we thought or think we knew. And, you are now entering that phase of your life where you do not know as much as you think you know; hence you have sought me out for advice.”

     “That makes no sense old man,” Connor replied confused.

     “Of course it does Connor, you have defeated Death.  I read about the accident in the paper and in fact, I have it right here.” The Professor leaned across the table and placed his hand on the paper to demonstrate his point. “You died in a horrible car accident, but then something remarkable happened. You come back from the other side. It seems the afterlife was not quite ready for you and Heaven intervened and they tossed you back to the Earth to be among the living. Heaven sent you back to make a difference Connor here on Earth. To be a symbol of hope when others have no hope. But, there is a problem with this Connor. When the Heaven does sent someone back to the land of the living, it disrupts the natural process of life and death. And, the Devil, and let us speak quietly of him least we draw his attention, does not like disruption to the status quo. He likes a steady flow of lost souls coming his way; to feed to his legions of demons. And now, he has gotten word of you, and he sees you as a threat to this order,” the Professor was speaking very softly now, leaning forward to speak with both Connor and Isabella who were forced to scoot closer in their chairs so they could hear. 

The Professor was always worried that unwanted ears were listening in. The Devil had many resources that took countless shapes and forms. The Professor then glanced about, checking the library before continuing, “And, the Devil wants you dead Connor. Gone. Out of the way. But, not before he steals your soul. He desperately wants that and will pay a high price on it before this is over. And, by the way, your tea is getting cold. Earl Gray is a tea best served hot, wouldn’t you agree?” The Professor had noticed Connor was not sipping his tea. He plopped a butter cookie into his mouth, chewing slowly to enjoy the flavors, he smiled at Connor, his blue eyes shining brightly.

     “Do you mean those two guys that came for me were the Devil himself?”

     Professor Saint Graham roared with laughter. Connor was not sure why that would be so funny. He was not laughing. Isabella had a horrified look on her face. She was neither drinking her tea nor eating her cookies. She sat quietly.

     “No Connor. Those people were not the Devil. Oh, no, they were simply aspiring young acolytes for his team. Modest assassins they were. And, I would say by the looks of things, they were not very good at their job. Which was very fortunate for us. You two did well against them. I am very proud of you. Not everyone defeats a couple of assassins on their first assassination attempt. Takes a special knack, some unique skill, or some unexpected help to defeat people such as that,” the Professor offered up.  He knew Connor’s Wolf had played a critical part in this encounter.

     Connor did not know what to say. He was dumbfounded. He looked at Isabella, and saw her trying to process the information. He reached over and took her soft hand and held it tight.  The two just stared at one another. It is not often you hear that the Devil has it in for you.

     “Connor there is more to this than you realize,” the Professor offered up once sufficient time had passed and he had eaten a slice of vanilla cake, freshly baked this morning by the Peculiar Corner Bakery.

    “Are you going to tell me I am a wizard next?”

     Professor Saint Graham roared again with laughter. He loved a good joke, pun, or anecdote.  He was always quick with the laughs, even in the most depressing of moments. He understood Connor’s reference all too well.

     “Connor, you came back from death. When you come back from an experience like that, sometimes, you bring back more than what you take over. It is like jumping into a swimming pool. You go in bone dry, but you come out soaking wet. Some of that pool water stays on you. Metaphorically speaking, you were dunked into the pool of the afterlife. And, I suspect some of the afterlife is still lingering on you. Has anything else unusual happened?” The Professor stared at Connor, his one eyebrow rising up suspiciously as he contemplated the answer he already suspected was coming.

     It was Isabella who spoke first this time.  She pulled her blouse down just enough so the Professor could see the knife scar on her breast over her heart. The wound had healed, but the scar would remain forever.

     “One of those thugs drove a black knife into my breast that night. I could feel the blade pierce my heart; it was burning me from the inside. As, I sat there, with the knife in my heart, I felt something dislodge from within me. It was my soul Professor, and the knife was feeding on my soul, like a hungry child sucks on a milkshake, I felt my very life being sucked into that horrid thing. I knew it. And Connor knew it too. Connor could see it in my eyes, my horror; we both knew I did not have long to live had the blade remained in me. If that thug had left the knife in place for just a moment more, I would not be here. But, he pulled it out. To taunt Connor,” Isabella was shivering, an unnatural coldness was settling over her as she spoke. It took a moment before she could continue. Wolf and Bandit then attacked them, and Connor rushed over to me, looked me in the eye and pressed his hand against my wound and suddenly I felt a flash of vitality coursing through my body. It felt like Connor was physically inside of me, moving through my muscle, my lungs my heart, patching things, healing the wounds, and, even saving my soul from damnation. Within moments, I could feel my body was healing; returning to normal.” Isabella then, looked up and looked the Professor straight into his eyes, “I lived because of Connor doing that. And, we can’t explain it. Can you help us?”

     The Professor’s eye brows scrunched together as he scratched his chin excitedly.  The goatee offered stiff resistance as thick as it was, but the Professor expertly navigated the gray hairs and scratched away. He often scratched at the goatee when in deep thought, even if it was not itchy.  He stared at the wound for several moments, then he spoke out loud to himself.

     “Well, well, well. We have us a Healer among us,” the Professor quietly mumbled as he stared at Isabella’s wound in his own personal shock and disbelief. Then he spoke excitedly, his blue eyes aglow, “This is indeed a horse of different color.”

     “Connor, people coming back from death is not that unusual. It happens every year.” The Professor lectured in his booming voice, leaning forward, a wild look was in his eyes. Connor and Isabella listened intently and were now students of the Professor.

     “But, Healers are something different all together. And they are not unknown to history by any means. Healers surface every few hundred years; and often to very unwelcoming crowds,” the Professor leaned forward and was speaking quietly now. His eyes were darting about looking to make sure no one else was listening. Connor and Isabella leaned into pay attention more intently.

     “People do not like what they do not understand Connor,” The Professor advised with cautiousness.  “People expect to get sick. People expect to die. And, while those who are sick and dying and their immediate families are often overjoyed and forever thankful for their personal intervention at the hands of a Healer; for those who are not the recipient of the intervention, well, they do not understand what is happening and Connor,” here the Professor paused for effect, “people fear that what they do not understand; dangerously fearful Connor.

     “You mean I am in danger?” Connor asked again.

     “Connor more so than you can ever begin to realize,” the Professor stressed. “Connor, you are an imbalance to the world order.  You have the power to change the life and death cycle that humans have come to expect. You have the ability to help those who need the most help at their most desperate moment.  But, every time you do that, every time you heal someone, as you did with the beautiful Isabella here, you rob the Devil and the underworld of their expected prize.”

     The Professor paused and sipped his tea. He took a bite of cake and washed it down with more steaming hot tea. Connor and Isabella simply looked at one another. It was the Professor who spoke first. Now, he had to lay out how serious this situation was.

      “I can assure you Connor that the Devil does not take this lightly. He will dispatch his dark forces for you again soon; very soon. And, if they happen to harm those who you love in the process, well they will consider that a bonus. Those two assassins that came for you were not just thugs or robbers. Connor, they were agents of the underworld. Mortal agents fortunately for you, but still they were servants of the underworld. And, there is plenty more where they come from.”

     “When you say underworld, do you mean…” Connor did not finish the sentence.

     “Yes,” the Professor said gravely. The Professor stood up and began pacing about the room.

     “Let me be clear, when you say ‘Underworld,’ you are speaking figuratively?” Connor asked optimistically. Hoping that the Professor was just exaggerating. Embellishing his story; making it more exciting.

     “Connor, there is a war going on,” the Professor continued, his voice softening as he talked of a subject that pained him greatly. “Good versus Evil, angels versus demons, the Devil and God are locked in a bitter battle Connor. It is the ultimate war and it has lasted thousands of years. And you humans here on Earth are caught in the middle. The Devil needs your human souls to feed his legions of demons. Human souls are their bread and butter; and I say that literally, not figuratively my boy.  Humans are nothing but fodder to the Devil’s masses; of which there are many. And he is always recruiting more to his side. He is building his army for the final battle.” 

     “You mean,” Connor again asked incredulously. He knew the answer, he just did not want to say it.

     “Connor, all those stories you heard growing up about Heaven and Hell, angels and demons, God and the Devil. They are all true Connor. All those stories are true,” the Professor said sadly. It pained him to speak of such evil, but it was a story that needed to be told.

     “And, the Devil is looking for me?” Connor asked quietly.

     “He is not looking for you Connor,” The Professor paused, staring at Connor forlornly, his brow furrowed with concern. “He has found you Connor. He knows where you live. And, he will have his minions return.”

     “But, I survived their attack. And, I came back from the dead. So, it is not all bad is it?” Connor offered up quietly. A response desperate for reassurance.

     “Yes, yes you did,” The Professor excitedly replied. His blue eyes aglow with a new hope. “Connor, sometimes Heaven throws the Devil a curveball. God plays a wildcard; disrupts the status quo a bit; he bends the rules and sends in a ringer. Someone to shake things up. To bring hope to the world; remind everyone that he has not forgotten you. And, you my boy, you are Heaven’s man of the millennia. And, if you ask me, I think they have chosen a fine young man for the job. But, Heaven does not expect you to go it alone.”

     The Professor was becoming more and more enthusiastic. He jumped to his feet and moved around the library excitedly. He waved his arms in excitement as he thought about the prospects. Then, he continued on, “This is really great news Connor. You have been sent back, juiced up a bit, infused you with an energy that comes from Heaven itself. And, now you have a gift that you can share with others.  Heal them, save them from a life of suffering, you can save people from eternal damnation. Connor my boy, you can rob the Devil of his due as the old saying goes.” The Professor moved closer to Connor and was staring Connor directly in his eyes as he revealed Connor’s new found fate. The Professor’s eyes were an intense, almost fiery blue now. A fire was raging inside him. A fire for hope and good.

     It was Isabella who spoke next, quietly. An almost inaudible whisper.

     “Professor, when the black knife was plunged into me, it felt as if my very soul was being sucked out of me. Was I imagining that? Or, was it really happening? Isabella asked whispering, the horror of that experience now being replayed in her mind.

     The Professor kneeled down before her, took her cold hand in his and nodded, “yes, my dear; yes, it was.”

      “I saw a blackness, a void. And, in the center of that blackness, was a great fire… and it was in the shape of a man. He was beckoning me to join me.” Isabella continued softly, she was whimpering as she spoke. Connor was not even aware of this and he looked at Isabella with grave concern and put his arm around her.

     “Isabella, it was the Devil himself,” The Professor quietly whispered as he held Isabella’s hands into his own. Isabella was shivering as she spoke. A horrible coldness was coming over her as she was telling the story.

     The Professor tightened his grip on Isabella’s hand and whispered a quiet prayer in Latin; Isabella barely heard the words spoken, so quiet was the Professor. Quickly, a reviving warmness overcame Isabella and provided a relieve from this unnatural cold that had suddenly overcome her. She looked up at him and smiled. She whispered the word, “thank you,” to him not fully understanding what has happening or his actions in her defense.

     “You saw the Devil himself Isabella. And, he was calling out to you, welcoming you into his Hell. Isabella, Connor stepped in and saved you from that eternal damnation. He brought you back with his gift.” The Professor spoke gently, counseling Isabella, reassuring her. She would be okay. For now.

     Connor tightened his arm around Isabella and she leaned against him, sobbing quietly. Neither knew what to say. They were trying to process this flood of information. To decipher it all. Understand what was happening. To Connor, this explained a lot. It explained coming back from death. It explained his ability to bring the Bandit back to life. And, it explained the thugs attack and his ability to heal Isabella’s wound. Connor was not sure what to believe. But, he had witnessed those things he could not understand through normal rationalization. He was quiet for several minutes.  No one said anything.  The Professor though, helped himself to more tea. And of course, more cake. Cake is such a good comfort food.  

     “What do we do?” Connor and Isabella asked in an unexpected unison.

     “I would start by finishing those cookies and having some cake,” the Professor offered while he laughed heartily. He moved about serving more tea. Getting more cookies and cake for his guests. He always strived to be a dutiful hosts. Even when delivering information of a less desired kind; of which, he had more of.  

     “Connor, I have more bad news,” he continued on, his voice lowering.

     “Really, first you tell us there really is a Hell and the Devil wants me as his guests of honor, and you tell me this actually is going to gets worse?” Connor asked dubiously.

     “Connor a Healer’s body is a great body of energy. While you have this incredible ability to heal others of their wounds, sickness, and their infirmities, every time you heal another person or even an animal like your little raccoon friend, your life force is being drained away from you and being passed into them. You are sharing your unique energy and a part of you is being imparted into them, like you did with the raccoon. You are sacrificing your life force for theirs. You will grow weaker as you share your gift and help others live longer. The more often you intervene, and the greater the need of the one who needs you, means the faster you will burn through this store of energy, and the end result will be that you become older and frailer, until you have nothing left and you pass from us,” the Professor somberly added.

     To demonstrate his point, the Professor unexpectedly leaned forward and plucked out several strands of long gray hair on Connor’s head and held them out to show his two visitors.

     “Your aging process has already begun Connor. Look here, you are aging, growing older and weaker as you share your gift. Have you not felt yourself lately? Have you been suffering ailments that you cannot explain?”

     Connor nodded in the affirmative, there were aches and pains that he could not explain. He thought they were perhaps just from a restless night’s sleep.  Isabella tightened her grip on Connor’s hand.  The influx of warmth had driven out the cold and she suddenly felt herself renewed. No one said anything as they tried to understand what had been said. It was Isabella who spoke next.

     “What if he doesn’t help anyone? What if we hide this power?” Isabella asked.

     “Well, then we won’t be writing about you in the history books Connor. I have no doubt many other healers are alive and well to this day. They are simply in hiding conserving their gift for themselves. And certainly not drawing attention to themselves by healing others,” the Professor continued and as if to emphasis his next point, he picked up a dusty book off the table. “You see these books Connor?” And then to underscore his point, he stood up and walked around the hall.

     “These books, scrolls and parchments are the histories of the known and the unknown healers. In fact, this book I am translating currently is about a healer named Ivan and he lived in 13^th century in Russia.  He discovered his ability like you did, quite by accident, and once he understood his abilities, travelled around Russia sharing his gift, healing the sick and injured.  He avoided drawing too much attention to himself, stayed one step ahead of the Devil’s assassins and trying to live a long life. But, his luck ran out Connor. He was discovered, arrested, imprisoned and later tortured. A man who spent his life, simply helping others and doing no harm to anyone, was tortured till he expired, all alone amongst those who hated him just for helping others.”

The local priest was called in to record his story, and as this saint of a man was being tortured, for no reason other than helping others, the local authorities questioned him. As he lay there on the rack, the man was slowly pulled apart; his flesh pulled from the bone. Ivan told his story, how he helped so many like them and never asked for anything in return, except for maybe a bowl of soup or a loaf of bread to keep him going.

Once his story was written down, the book was sent to a local monastery where it sat ignored and forgotten, buried among thousands of other books, until I came across it by luck.”

     “What happened to Ivan? Connor asked, fearing the answer he knew was coming.

     The Professor looked down, hemmed and hawed, “well, if the priests is to be believed, and I am sure he is, once they were done with the rack, Ivan was taken outside, and burned alive at the stake. All while the town Villagers stood around and cheered.

     “I don’t fault the Villagers Connor. The Devil has his assassins and they were involved; they hunted the man down, they convinced the townsfolk the man was a warlock, they whipped the crowd into a frenzy and they threatened anyone who would come to Ivan’s aid. The peasants, simple people, fearful of what they did not understand, fell for it. The crowds always do Connor. A mob mentality is a fearful thing.”

     “Why did they make a spectacle of things? Why did the Devil’s assassins just not kill him where they found him?” Connor asked dismally.

     “The Devil is a showoff. He wants an audience to see his evil in action. And, each and every time he does, it draws more recruits to his cause. He thinks it is building his case that he has more to offer than God,” the Professor explained.

     “Where is God in all this?” Connor asked confused.

     “God takes a hands off approach Connor. He has given the world’s population everything it needs to make the right decisions. It is up to us, as people, to do that. But, he does throw in a surprise every now and then. And, you my boy, are the latest surprise.”

     The Professor looked down at the floor.  He did not look at Connor for the next few minutes.  Connor could see he was troubled by whatever the Professor was going to say next.

     “Connor, this is a hard road for the Healers to take. And, to be honest, many of them have been horribly murdered.  But, they died doing what they believed in. They died putting others needs first. The stories of the Healers are sad Connor, and I have spent my life trying to find these stories. And, helping those where I can. Sometimes I have succeeded. Sometimes, I have failed.” The Professor stopped and pulled out a red handkerchief to blow his nose.

     Connor could see the Professor was tearing up.  The stories he knew of the Healers and their treatment pained him.  But, it was the stories that the Professor did not share that truly brought forth the pain.  Connor thought it best not to pry. It took several minutes and a strong cup of tea before the Professor was ready to continue with his stories.

     “And Connor,” the Professor lowered his voice, just in case someone else was listening in, “I have searched out the few healers I know that are still alive. I have made contact with them. Just letting they know someone in the world still believes in them and that I am here for them, if they should ever need my help.”

     “There are others!” Connor exclaimed. Shocked to hear he was not the only one.

     “You are not alone Connor. There are others in this fight. Though, some choose not to fight. Instead they hide out, moving frequently, and being careful never to use their ability to help anyone. Imagine Connor, having this ability to help others and instead, hording it for yourself.  These Healers are hundreds of years old. Never growing old, never growing sick.”

     “Amazing,” Connor exclaimed, as he thought about those possibilities.   

     It was Isabela who chimed in now. She had simply been sitting there, quietly taking it all in, collecting herself, and in doing so processing this tremendous amount of information and learning that the world around her was now very much different.

     “Connor, it is not amazing. It is sad.” Isabella remarked.

     The Professor glanced at her and made eye contact. Isabella understood the true ramifications of such a life. He said nothing while Isabella spoke.

     “What do you mean?” Connor asked confused.

     “Connor, these people are living a life focused around themselves. They have outlived their families, if they ever had one. They choose not to grow old, so instead of living their life relishing every minute of being alive, they live their lives missing out on the highs and lows what it means being a human.  Connor, pain makes us value life. We become very different people. Think about it, would you want to live for hundreds of years, knowing I was not with you?”

     Connor was quiet, as he thought about what Isabella said. She was right. She was always right. She was his better half. Connor shook his head slowly as he took in what she was saying.

     It was the Professor who spoke next. A hot cup of tea and several lemon cookies seemed to have brought him around to his more jovial self.

     “Connor, you will have to choose how you want to live. How will you want history to remember you? And, to be honest, you don’t owe the world anything Connor. You can take this gift and simply disappear like so many other Healers have done before you. You and Isabella can run out this door and keep running. Settle down for a few months in a new city; start a life and hope for the best. Or, Connor you can work to make a difference, as many of the Healers have done before you. I am not here to judge your actions; I am here to help you my boy.”

     “This is a lot to take in,” Connor confessed.

     “I know it is my boy, I know it is. But, there is good news,” the Professor smiled, reinforcing his point as he put his hand on Connor’s shoulder.

     “I think we could both use a little good news at this moment,” Isabella responded.

     “Connor, I have emphasized the negative side of this. The Devil wanting you dead, your powers draining your life force, etc. But, the flip side of this is that the Heaven has chosen you to carry their banner. To make a difference in this world; at this time in history.”

     “What do you mean Heaven?” Connor exasperated by all this talk had reached his breaking point.

     “Yes Connor. You have heard of the evil side, but you must also hear about the good side; Heaven. God himself chosen you my boy for this journey. You died and you could have remained dead. But, out of the thousands of people across the world who had died at that very same moment as you did, God looked upon you and they saw something special in you. God sent you back full of life force, so full in fact they gave you enough to share with others and to be a special force within the world. A force of goodness that can change the very outcome of life and death. You have been chosen to bear this unique gift my boy. And, that my boy, is a very pleasing thought indeed.” The Professor smiled like a proud Father of a child who had just won his first award.

     “Those forces that represent all that is decent and good in this world, and I can assure you Connor, there are many. They will seek to defend you from the evil that is hunting you. They will help you as much as they can, if you let them. I promise you my boy, you will not be alone in this struggle. Though, it will often feel that you are.”

     I don’t understand; how can they help me?” Connor asked. “I have not seen anybody yet, no one has helped me yet. Nobody was there when Isabella and I were attacked by those thugs.”

     “No one was there,” the Professor asked rhetorically. He was using the Socratic method of teaching now; he knew the answer, and he knew Connor knew the answer. He just wanted to hear Connor say the answer.

     Connor reflected back to the attack. Had it not been for Wolf, this story would have long ago ended.

     “Connor, the forces of good and evil can and do take many forms. In fact, you could be talking to the very Devil himself and not even know it, if he is in disguise, which he often is. He is a tricky fella; and we must ever be vigilant and on guard for him. But, so can the forces of good, they will not always appear like you think they should Connor.  For example, your Wolf, did she not come to your aid in the fight?”

     Connor nodded.

     “And, that raccoon, don’t you think it odd, he appeared at just the right time?”

     Connor nodded again.

     “Your Wolf is special. I would bet she has been tasked with protecting you by the big guy himself; I would recommend keeping her very, very close at hand.”

     “What about the raccoon I saved? Bandit. Is he a protector to?” Connor quipped.

     “Bandit, no my boy, that is just feisty trash bandit that owes you its life and was willing to defend you in your time of need. Remember, part of you was passed on to him when you healed him. You two are now forever connected. Kind of like,” here the Professor paused, “blood brothers.” The Professor laughed at the thought of that. That was silly a boy and raccoon blood brothers. Maybe spirit brothers though. “But, raccoons are spirited creatures and well known for their temperament Connor, I think Bandit will play a role in your story for some time to come, if you give him a chance.”

     “Could I build an army of woodland creatures,” Connor joked. He was only half joking; being the commanding General of an army of furry creatures suddenly appealed to him greatly.

     “You could, but, I do not recommend it. It can be very difficult working with animals. St. Francis was famous for his multitudes of birds and animals that he kept close at hand, but nobody ever mentions how much trouble or how much cleaning up after the animals he had to do. But it is your life and your gift, share it with who you like,” chuckled the Professor.

      Connor glanced at the clock on the wall and realized the time. He had to get home otherwise his mother would be terribly worried.  Connor got up to leave and Isabella followed, as she stood up she took Connor’s hand and squeezed tight.

     “Connor, listen to me. Do not despair. This is an amazing gift that has been given to you. Think about how you will use it. And, do not fret about evil. Darkness has always been around you, you just never paid any attention to it. Now, you will always see it and think about it. But I assure you, you will not be alone in this struggle. Focus on this gift and what you can do with in this world and how you can help be part of the answer and not part of the problem.”

     Connor, smiled weakly and stuck out his hand to shake the Professors hand. The Professor just gave a hearty laugh, pulled Connor in close to him, and gave the boy the biggest bear hug he could. 

Chapter 21

The school cafeteria is the heart of the American school system. Kids of all ages are fed food of less than stellar quality, often picked and prodded over during their allotted thirty minute recess that was meant for nutrition and a quick respite from their studies. It has evolved into anything but a nutritious relaxing respite for students.

For the Peculiar High School, the cafeteria was a social event akin to a rock concert on Monday mornings. Crowds gathered and huddled by the score, talking loudly among themselves sharing their weekend stories; the parties they went too, the members of the opposite sex they met, highlights from the weekend’s sports games. And, the weekends often meant drama; Tommy broke up with Sally, and now Sally was standing amongst her girlfriends, crying uncontrollably; her excessively applied makeup now ruined. Brad did not like the way Matt had looked at him at the football game and the two had gotten into fisticuffs. Mondays were a day for recollection and reflection and often quite loudly.   

Connor was focused on being as low key as possible in the cafeteria this Monday. He wanted to avoid any more unwanted attention. At Peculiar High School Connor’s classmates had stopped rubbing his head for good luck. Fortunately for Connor, he was no longer the talk of the school; now everyone was talking about the upcoming dance.

Isabella still had not decided on dress. It was becoming a serious issue with her as the dance was approaching quickly. Now, as the two sat in the cafeteria over a plate of Salisbury steak, mash potatoes, brown gravy and warm yeast rolls the size of saucer. Isabella’s impatience over the situation was getting the best of her. It was understandable.

“Connor, I want to go to the mall Friday night. I have got to pick out a dress for me, and we have got to get your tuxedo reserved.  If we wait any longer, everything will be gone,” Isabella had slightly raised her voice to emphasis the seriousness of the matter.

Connor knew she was right. He had not put any effort into finding a tuxedo, and had actually hoped the whole thing would be forgotten. But it had not. Isabella was so excited about the upcoming dance and she wanted to make a good impression with the other ladies. It seems young women can be competitive like that.

With his mouth full of mash potatoes, Connor mumbled something as to the affirmative.  Connor would go anywhere at this point with Isabella. It did not matter to him. He was falling deeply in love with her and he stared at her, watching her mouth move, as he juggled a fork heavily laden with previously flash frozen foods.    

Their happy moment was interrupted by a loud thud. It sounded like someone had just dropped a bowling ball dropping from a great height. Yet, it was no bowling ball; nobody brings bowling balls to the cafeteria. The whole cafeteria went quiet, for a brief moment.

“Mr. Mackenzie,” screamed Rebecca in a shrill voice that caused everyone to turn towards her. Rebecca was the first to react; but, certainly not the last. Soon the whole cafeteria erupted in shrieks and screams.

Mr. Gavin Mackenzie, the cantankerous Scottish janitor of Peculiar High, who was just as quick with a quip, a critique, and a witticism, as he was with his mops, brooms and toilet plungers was cleaning the salad bar, when he suddenly stood upright, grabbed his chest, gasped out loud, “not here, not now,” staggered several steps before falling backwards, his head striking the floor with a sickening thud that reverberated through the cafeteria.

Mr. Mackenzie was the cafeterias self-appointed guardian. His years of military service in her service of the Majesty had engrained in him a passion, bordering on obsession, for cleanliness, spotlessness, and an adherence to the sanitation codes as derived by the International Brotherhood of Janitors. An esteemed society of janitors and sanitation engineers I might add. During lunch, Mr. Mackenzie, stood guard ensuring the serving and dining tables were spotless for the students, cafeteria trays were removed and stacked with precision and the lunch lines moved with the order of a Scottish honor guard. Of which confidently, Mr. Mackenzie had been a proud member of during his time in Her Majesty’s service.

And, for those rare moments, when some young scalawag, troublemaker, or agitator should happen to decide to show himself in the cafeteria and cause a disruption, well, Mr. Mackenzie’s Scottish temper would flare up and he swoop in like a hawk, grab the trouble maker by the ear and escort him right out of the lunchroom, while admonishing his or her behavior in his native Scottish. These rare moments, would bring howls of laughter by those who witnessed such physical extractions. For the members of the football team, it was rumored that they had made such an action a secret initiation act and everyone had to be “Mackenized” at least once while they were on the team.  While the school may have been Principal Rucket’s domain, the lunchroom’s cleanliness, and the order of such, belonged to Mr. Mackenzie.

Now, Mr. Mackenzie laid on the cold terrazzo floor; his eyes rolled back up into his head so only the whites of his eyes could be seen, and his whole body began to quiver, shaking uncontrollably. Blood was leaching from his head, where the point of impact had split open the soft flesh that covered the skull. A crimson red pool was slowly spreading across the terrazzo floor in all directions.

Several more girls at nearby tables screamed at the sight. The boys at the tables all jumped up and encircled Mr. Mackenzie as if they were going to do something, but they did not. No one knew what to do. Yet, Mr. Mackenzie continued to thrash about violently, with only the whites of his eyes showing. A wet spot oozed out from underneath him; the distinct smell of urine filling the air. Just as suddenly as it had begun, Mr. Mackenzie stopped moving and lay motionless. He stopped breathing.

“Call 911,” yelled one student who was the first to come to his senses. Then another yelled the same. And, then a whole chorus of students yelled, “Call 911!”

Those students who had phones, against the school rule of “no cell phone use”, pulled them out and were frantically calling 911. Several teachers, who had hoped for an uneventful lunch, came running over and began to administer CPR.  Another teacher yelled for all the students to clear out. Of course, none of the students did. They were too fixated on the drama before them.

Isabella grabbed Connor’s arm. He looked over her and saw the look in her eye and nodded. He understood what she was thinking, “Connor don’t get involved.”

 Isabella wasted no time and began pushing Connor towards the exit. Connor kept looking back, wanting to help, but fearful of what may happened to what was left of his life force. Word was spreading throughout the school and students who were meandering on the courtyard were drawn to the cafeteria crises like moths to a flame, they had to see what was happening. Connor and Isabella were pushing hard against all the bodies who were trying to come into the cafeteria too see what was going on, while they in turn, were trying to get out.

Connor and Isabella were just about to exit the cafeteria, when another round of screaming began. Connor stopped to listen to the crises behind him.

“He’s dead!” yelled one student.

“Mr. Mackenzie’s dead,” screamed a girl, echoing the first person.

The teachers tried to restore order but it was impossible. The students could not resist what was happening. For many of the students, a morbid curiosity of the tragedy was drawing them in. They wanted to get as close to the scene as possible, pushing the students in front of them to get themselves even closer. The incident was developing its own gravitational pull, and everyone was being drawn closer. Even those who did not want to see what was happening, looked on in horror.

     Connor and Isabella forced their way outside of the cafeteria when Connor stopped, turned and looked at Isabella. He looked her in the eye. Connor did not have to say anything. Isabella knew what he was going to say, but he did it anyways.

“I can help him,” he yelled to her over the din of the other student’s excitement.

 “I know you can,” Isabella replied, “But, the Professor warned you.”

“I can’t run Isabella, I just can’t. I have to do something.” Connor replied. A sense of responsibility was overtaking him. It was almost as if he had a moral obligation.

A grin overtook Isabella. “Follow me!” She bellowed, pulling Connor back into the throng they had just gotten out of.

“Out of our way!” Isabella roared powerfully to the mob in her way. For those poor students who stood gawking at the scene, ignoring Isabella, she quickly latched onto them and pulled or pushed the dawdlers out of Connor’s way. She was not polite about it by any means. There was no time to lose.

Once the two got to Mr. Mackenzie they could see the teachers standing over him.  They had been trying CPR, but it was not working. There was no pulse. No sign of life. A great pool of blood had spread across the floor from the gash in his head. One teacher was crying as she knelt down beside Mr. Mackenzie, begging him not to give up.

“I can help,” Connor quietly said as he looked down on the crises before him. He was not so sure now. Doubt had suddenly crept in to his mindset as he stared at Mr. Mackenzie.

No one paid Connor any attention.  Connor continued to stand there as the moments ticked away. Connor was questioning himself. Could he really do this he wondered?

Connor looked on at the cafeteria clock, he could hear the ticking of the clock as each second passed by. The clamor of the crowd had reached a crescendo, but he managed to block it out. He took several deep breaths. He could see Isabella yelling at the teachers. But, whatever she said, he did not hear it at the moment. He glanced at the crowd and could see the many emotions being expressed; fear, grief, sorrow, curiosity and even morbid fascination and excitement

From deep within Connor a surge of energy was building. He could feel it welling up within him as he stood there. It was as if something was awakening inside him. Something else entirely was taking over him and with it came a great wave of sureness and confidence. Now was his time to act.

“Everyone stand back!” he thundered with such ferociousness and such resolve that even he was amazed.

The teachers looked up at Connor in amazement. A hush overcame the crowd. In the far distance, the sounds of sirens could be heard. They were growing louder, but it was still too late for Mr. Mackenzie. He was dead. No one could help him now.

Connor kneeled down and took Mr. Mackenzie’s limp hand in his. He closed his eyes and focused. Nothing happened. Connor knew something was wrong. He opened one eye and looked down at Mr. Mackenzie. Nothing had happened. No surge of power had been unleashed within him. Nothing. Connor closed his eyes and focused again. Again nothing happened.

Connor did not know what to do. He began to sweat and breathe hard. He squeezed Mackenzie’s hand harder and focused ever harder. By his sheer force of will he was trying to get him to live again. Only, it was not working. In the back of the crowd several students started laughing at Connor’s efforts. Connor looked up at Isabella. He did not need to say anything. The confusion in his eyes said enough.

Isabella was as flummoxed as Connor was. Isabella thought back to when she was stabbed and inadvertently began to rub the wound. She thought back to that moment, when Connor had placed his hand on her breast, over the wound. The energy Isabella felt, had poured into the gaping knife wound and then flowed through her. Perhaps that was it!

“Connor, the wound! Connor place your hand over his wound,” Isabella screamed.

Connor did as he was told. With one hand he gently lifted Mr. Mackenzie’s head. It was soaked with his own blood. He felt the warm sticky blood as he sought to find the right spot. Connor could feel the tear in his scalp and held his palm over it. The blood was soaked into the hair as if it was a sponge, and now, as he held his hand over the wound, he could feel the liquid life force oozing through his fingers. Connor could smell the distinct smell of metal. It was the iron in Mr. Mackenzie’s blood.  He closed his eyes and focused ever harder as he leaned down next to his ear.

“Mr. Mackenzie, I want you to live,” he murmured quietly. Connor could feel the electrical power begin moving within him. He had made a connection; he could feel Mr. Mackenzie’s life force trying to leave his body. He kept whispering the words “live, live, live,” over and over as the electrical surge built up within him. By the fifth time he said, “live,” he could feel the electricity surge through his body, down his arm and into Mr. Mackenzie’s body. It was electrifying and his eyes went wide as it happened. He began to shake as the energy dispersed throughout Mr. Mackenzie.

It may have been only a micro-second for the transfer to happen, though it seemed so much longer. When it had ended, and the last of the charge had left him, Connor fell over, shaking on the terrazzo floor next to Mr. Mackenzie. He was too weak to move at the moment. His body was limp and even if he wanted to, he could not move.

Connor looked up at Isabella smiled and quipped, “I hate Monday’s.”

As Connor slipped into unconsciousness, that last thing he remembered was Mr. Mackenzie, looking down on him saying excitedly in his own Scottish accent, “ you brought me back my boy; bless you my boy. Bless you.”

Connor then slipped into unconsciousness.

Chapter 22

Connor awoke to find that he was in his bed.  In his bedroom. In his house.  A great weight lay across him and he could not move.  When he lifted his head, he looked down and could see his precious Wolf was lying across him using her body heat to keep him warm. He moved his arm down and scratched behind her ear. She wagged her tail and crawled closer to Connor till she was close enough to lick his face. Wolf was a great snuggling companion.

“Hello Wolf,” he whispered.

Wolf continue licking Connor in the face till Connor started laughing. He pulled the old girl in closer and hugged her ever more. In doing so, he could still smell the distinct odor of blood on his hands. They had been cleaned while he slept, but he could still smell that distinct smell. It is a smell that is hard to forget once sniffed.

Connor glanced outside and saw it was dark.  He did not know what time it was and had no idea how long he had been here.  He pushed himself up and motioned Wolf out of bed.  Wolf jumped ahead of him and ran down the stairs. Coming down the stairs, he could hear his parents talking to Isabella. Isabella’s parents were here also. Connor could tell the topic of conversation was him.

“Hello all,” Connor cheerfully greeted them. No one moved. Connor looked around the kitchen table at the three faces staring at him. “Good evening everyone or is it good morning. I seem to really have lost track of time.”

No one said anything. No one moved.  The three just stared at Connor. It was as if Connor was in a dream. Only he wasn’t. Connor broke the silence first.

“I am going to step into the bathroom, do my business, and then when I step out, how about we start over?”

Connor stepped into the kitchen bathroom and did his business. When he turned around to wash his hands he looked into the mirror and screamed.  Everyone could hear the scream. Connor was known to have a high pitched scream that was normally reserved for concerts, Christmas, and winning the occasional scratch off lottery ticket. But, now Connor looking into the mirror and screamed again out loud. The person staring back at Connor, his reflection, also screamed out loud.

Connor stepped back into the kitchen and sat down with the others.  A shank of pure white hair now ran down the middle of his scalp. His face had aged considerably. Connor had wrinkles and age spots. Or, “wisdom spots,” as some would offer.

“Well, good morning,” Connor calmly offered up to those who were gathered at the kitchen table awaiting him. They all stared in shock at Connor.

Mrs. Delacamp moved first and came around the table to hug her son. Isabella soon joined in.  Mr. Delacamp, not to be outdone, also joined in.

“Isabella has told us everything Connor; you don’t have to explain anything. Just know we love you,” Mrs. Delacamp offered up with tears in her eyes. She then broke down and cried hysterically.

Chapter 23

     “Isabella, you are buying that costume tonight,” Connor commented with a distinct firmness in his tone. Isabella wanted her costume and Connor was making sure she got it. In fact he was going to make sure she got the very best costume that their meager budget could afford.

Connor was committed to the two of them being the best dressed couple at the ball. Isabella deserved the best. It’s not every day that one’s girlfriend gets stabbed on behalf of their boyfriend. The two wandered through the Peculiar Mall once again looking at the variety of costumes that were the current wave in fashion.

“I don’t know Connor,” Isabella whispered to Connor so the sales people could not hear. “I don’t know if I can spend this kind of money.”

“Relax, I am chipping in. It is okay. You pick out whatever you want,” Connor whispered back. Of course, he was low on money himself and he hopped that Isabella could find something inexpensive.  And, when we say inexpensive, Connor was mentally counting his money in his head and he knew he could not help out as much as he wanted.

The two wandered into the largest of the department stores and found the year’s best costumes.  The attendants offered Isabella only the slightest of help’ perhaps without her parents being with her, they did not take Isabella too seriously.

But, Isabella was not deterred by their lack of enthusiasm. She had plenty of her own. She pulled costume after costume from the racks and held each one up to her. She “ooed” and “aahed” as she imagined what it would be like dancing the night away in this costume or that costume. After considerable time, Isabella narrowed her choices down to three costumes.  Each was just within their budget, if they stretched themselves and cut back on a few other expenses.

“I am going to try these three on, wait here,” Isabella laughingly commanded.

Connor sat on the couch outside of the dressing rooms quietly while Isabella tried on her different costumes. Each time she came out of the dressing room, he swooned over, complimented her, and said this is the perfect one.  Each time, Isabella spun about in front of the mirrors, curtsied and then spun about the opposite direction.

“I don’t know,” she lamented, “let me try another.”

“Honey, I am getting hungry. Can we take a break?” Connor pleaded. This had been going on for hours.

“Can we still afford lunch?” Isabella asked, no sure herself.

“We got enough,” Connor reassured her; they were a team now.   While Isabella was trying on the costumes, Connor cracked open his wallet and recounted his crumbled up one dollar bills. Tucked in between the dollars was a five dollar bill that had stuck to the other bills. He smiled at his good luck. They were eating well today.

“We are fine,” he chuckled.

The two agreed on pizza. Pizza was Connor’s favorite food and it was the cheapest food they could get. Connor could buy two slices of pepperoni, they could share a fountain drink and as Connor had planned, they would have just enough money for the two of them to share an ice cream Sunday. It was a perfect plan.

“I love pizza,” Connor said to Isabella as he brought the tray of dinner over to where Isabella was sitting. “I mean it is the perfect food. There is so much you can do with it. You can top it with meats, vegetables, you can go with cheese, extra cheese, no cheese. It’s just an endless source of combinations.”

Isabella laughed as she pulled a pepperoni off one of the slices and popped it into her mouth. Her smile radiated between Connor’s dissertation on pizza and the hot pie slice, she was about to dig into. Connor just smiled back.

Connor and Isabella were having a blissful moment together, complete unaware of the unexpected storm clouds circling overhead of the mall.

Chapter 24 

Outside of the mall, five black motorcycles were speeding along New Haven Ave, zipping in and out of traffic, running through traffic lights and accelerating ever faster. Ira’s assassins were on the loose in Peculiar and they were hunting their prey and tipped off by one of Ira’s lookouts, they now knew where Connor was.

Three of the motorcycle riders were men. Two were woman. Rejected by society long ago, they were veterans in Ira’s service. They had no need to prove themselves to anyone. That had been accomplished long ago. Now, dangerous and out of control, they were embracing the exhilaration of the hunt; the quartet had already wetted their appetites on earlier unsuspecting victims. Now, they were on their way to their main course; they were closing in on a blissfully unaware Connor.  

A Friday night at a mall is always busy and Peculiar Mall was no different. For the families who had cashed their paychecks and were enjoying their night out, the sight of the five motorcyclists, dressed in their black leather outfits driving into the mall must have been indeed a very frightening scene.

As if an explosive device had been set off, the glass doors of the mall shattered as the motorcyclist propelled their bikes through the glass doors and into the very mall itself. The glass shattered into millions of fragments. The sound echoed through the mall, as the bikers revved up their engines it sounded as if swarms of bees were now inside of the mall. 

This act of civil disobedience was as tumultuous as you would expect. Men pushed their frightened families to the sides of the mall to escape being struck by these mounted motorcycle hooligans. Women dropped their shopping bags and began running and screaming. Small children commenced to wailing in fear of the chaos that now surrounded them. Those who could flee did so; many just stood still, fear holding them in place.

A security guard who was fast asleep in his booth, awoke, and realizing the chaos that was descending onto his watch, reached for his portable radio yelling, “Back up! Send back up!” He was too afraid to do anything himself.

Connor was only half listening to Isabella telling him the latest school gossip, when he heard the glass shatter, then the first scream. He cocked his head and began scanning the food court crowd around him. His heart was beating faster as his senses heightened. He could feel the presence of Evil closing in. Evil had indeed found him, just as the Professor had warned.  

When Connor heard the second scream he knew it was time to go. He was not going to wait for any more confirmation. Trouble was upon him once again. He grabbed Isabella by the arm and pulled her up.

“What you doing,” she cried out unknowingly.

“We got to go,” he hastily told her.

“We are not done with dinner,”

“Trust me, we are done!” Connor yelled as a sense of urgency befell him.

The roar of the motorcycle engines was very distinct. The screams of the crowd were plentiful. Alarms were beginning to sound as the security guard, who had foolishly fallen asleep during his shift, now set in motion safety protocols and called for more backup. Isabella made sense of the commotion now and she immediately understood the danger that was upon them.

“Run Connor, run!” She screamed.

Connor and Isabell were running towards a large department store when the motorcycle hunters spotted them leaving the food court. The hunters were upon him now.

“They’re on motorcycles!” Isabella screamed at Connor.

“Keep running Isabella!” Connor pleaded with Isabella as he entered into the department store first.

“We can’t outrun motorcycles!” She yelled back almost out of breath.

Isabella was already breathing hard. Connor could see that.   Unlike Connor, Isabella was not a runner at heart. She was more of a, “I will sit on the bleachers and watch you run,” kind of girl. Connor knew he was in a desperate situation, and then an idea hit him, “Obstacles.”  He needed obstacles.

Connor began knocking over displays of fashions, luggage, and fragrances.  If it was not bolted down, and would cause the mounted hunters to have to pause and maneuver their bikes around the debris in their paths, it was fair game.  Shopping carts, end caps, electronics everything became a tool to impede the motorcycles.

The store manager ran through the store begging everyone to “take it outside!” Customers dropped their bags, grabbed their children and hid in the changing rooms. An older security guard foolishly tried to make a stand against the hunters; he was quickly felled by one of them as they rode past him.

“Down the escalators!” Connor yelled at Isabella.

Running through kitchenware, it was Isabella who pulled back on Connor’s arm.  Connor, spun around and he could see Isabella trying to catch her breath.

“Connor I can’t run like you,” she panted, “just go on, I’ll hide.”

Connor grabbed Isabella by the arms so that she was looking right at him.

“Listen, go hide. I will stay here,” he implored her. They were after him. If they caught him, she might be able to get away.

Isabella hesitated. She looked up at the motorcycles riders who were dismounting their rides and making their way down the escalator; she looked back at Connor. Her face full of fear.

“Hide now,” Connor implored her again.

Isabella did as she was told and darted off.

The first motorcycle rider came down the escalator and saw Connor. Connor saw the rider and knew there would be no more running. Connor grabbed a pack of knives and tried to arm himself with one. The blister pack packaging was too efficient; he could not open the package without a knife or scissors. Oh, the irony.

The other four motorcycles riders quickly followed the first down the escalator and encircled Connor. He was now surrounded.

Chapter 25

“You’re the Healer aren’t you?” The lead motorcyclist asked removing his helmet.  He already knew the answer. As one of Ira’s best hunters, he had a special sense for his prey. He just wanted to hear Connor admit it. He wanted to see the fear in Connor’s eyes. Hear it in his voice. He relished that moment of the hunt when his prey knew death was upon them. The fear that the victims exuded when they knew death was upon them.

“No, I am the Running Man,” Connor smirked. It was an honest attempt at humor, in an otherwise humorless situation.

Connor looked the man over. He noticed he had ‘Ira’ tattooed on his arm.

“Well, Running Man, we here you got a little gift. Apparently you come back from the dead with a little extra juice in you. And, the Boss can’t have that.” The man sneered as he pulled out a black blade from behind his back.

The blade began to speak as it saw Connor, “Stick him, you fools. No time to waist.”

Connor looked about and realized the hopelessness of the situation. There was no way he could fight these five.

“Let my friend go, and you can have me,” Connor offered. He was desperately seeking to save Isabella’s life.

“No Connor!” Isabella screamed as she emerged from hiding.

Connor closed his eyes, frustrated that Isabella had not kept going. There was nothing he could do about it now.

“Healer Boy, there is no deal you can make. You are going to die. Then, when you are dead, we are going to take your girl, and she will wish she was dead like you.” The attacker smirked as he leaned into Connor. His face was but inches away. Connor could smell his musk, his odors, and his uncleanliness.

The other four hunters stepped in and grabbed hold of Connor and Isabella. Connor did not resist. Isabella could not resist even if she had wanted to.

The lead thug grabbed Connor by his hair and jerked his head back. Still Connor did not resist. He stared directly at the assassin, showing no fear.

“The Boss says I got to bring back your head. Just to prove that I got you.” The assassin sniggered. This had been too easy. He had hoped for more resistance.

Connor looked into the eyes of the man, or what was left of him. He could see the evil now. The eyes were black, heartless, and uncaring. This man, if any was left, was now just a machine of killing. The eyes reminded Connor of shark’s eyes; this man was just an animal. There was no reasoning with this creature. Connor would have had better luck reasoning with a shark.

The assassin placed the demonic blade against Connor’s throat and began to exert pressure.

“Push me in you fool! Push me in! Let me suck his soul,” the blade screamed at the minion.

The thug paused for a moment. He liked the torment that he put his prey through. The razor sharpness of the blade drew tiny droplets of blood as he exerted more pressure. He wanted Connor to scream. Instead, it was Isabella who screamed. But the moment was halted when a voice interrupted the assassin.

“Excuse me, do any of you work here?” a voice boomed out loud from behind. 

Intent on the killing about to take place, no one seemed to have noticed that a large man, dressed in white, wearing a white fedora had sauntered up behind them. A rather jovial looking fellow, he seemed to not have been put off by all the chaos and commotion that was occurring. If he had noticed the attempted murder that was taking place, he failed to acknowledge it.

“Piss off,” the cretin yelled over his shoulder at the unseen figure.  He did not bother to look back at who he was talking to.

“I have an upcoming special engagement and I am really in need of some gift giving guidance,” the voice asked loudly. He was walking towards the group. He was not put off in the slightest by their rude demeanor. The figure was not yelling loudly, he was just simply speaking loudly.

“Mister, I said piss off, or your next,” the assassin roared back as he looked over his shoulder.

“Gift giving is not my forte,” laughed the man in the white fedora. “But it is such an important ritual in a civilized society that I feel I must always consult the ‘experts’ before doing so.  Once, I gave a 10^th century tome on nomadic tribes of the eastern Mongolian high plains to a fellow scholar for his birthday. And would you believe he had a very copy of such? Talk about my embarrassment once I realized my faux pau,” he laughed heartily at his story.

The assassins were momentarily distracted.

“But I digress with my story telling. So, a lovely couple I know has recently purchased a home. I am invited to the housewarming party and they are short cooking utensils. I am thinking of something from the housewares department, something useful in the kitchen. Take this iron skillet for instance.” The man was holding an iron skillet he had picked up, the latest in a celebrity chef’s line of cookware. It was a very large and heavy skillet. Yet, the man spun it in his hand as if he had great experience with such utensils.

“Don’t go anywhere,” the assassin snorted as he looked Connor in the eyes.

“You can never go wrong with a good cast iron skillet,” the stranger said to no one, as no one was really paying him any attention to him. “I mean if you are going to do something, you must always have the right tools at hand. So many people do not understand that simple premise. Wouldn’t you agree?”

The shopper in white was standing directly behind the assassin. Connor still had not seen him. He was too focused on the assassin who held the sharpened blade at his throat.

“Watch me gut this fool Healer Boy, because you’re next,” the assassin crowed with cocksure abandonment to Connor.

With a speed that would amaze any who saw it, the assassin spun on his heels and with an expert precision honed with years of practicing mayhem and murder, raised his knife towards our boisterous shopper who was questioning the merits of Teflon coated skillets when compared to cast iron skillets. The assassin would remember nothing else. 

The shopper in white stepped aside the incoming knife and in response swung the frying pan with practiced precision at the assassin’s head. A very distinct ‘gong’ sound echoed from the pan as it struck his head. It is such a distinct sound, that of a head meeting a frying pan, that if you should ever hear it once, you will never forget the sound of it for the rest of your days.

The assassin however, would remember none of it. Once struck with the frying pan, his eyes fluttered several times, the black knife dropped from his hand squealing as it fell to the ground, and his body crumpled like a wet towel to the ground.

“Connor and Isabella! What a surprise finding you two delightful kids here,” bellowed a smiling Professor Saint Graham, “We must have tea upstairs.”

Connor’s eyes went wide open with astonishment. The Professor smiled and winked as he pushed his fedora high atop of his head. He carefully sized up the other four assassins. His element of surprise was now lost. Brawling with these skilled cutthroats would be a handful for even the most skilled of pugilist. Any further action would be one of skill and luck, of which he had plenty.

“I give you cretins a choice, you can unhand my two friends, and you can take your friend here who has now soiled himself and return to your master emptyhanded. Or we can continue this discussion man versus man. Or man versus woman, just to be inclusive. The choice is yours,” the Professor smiled, his blue eyes blazed brightly, his confidence was exuding from his every pore.   

The attackers shot each other contemplative glances.

“Screw you old man,” the woman retorted as she released Isabella and drew her own blade. The blade was longer than Fury’s knife, more like that of a short sword, and she swung it with determined skill at the Professor’s head.

The thug’s choice had been made. The game was now afoot.

 “Connor, I would suggest you two run for it,” the Professor stressed as he used the skillet to deflect the incoming blade. The Professor stepped closer to the woman, and delivered a short, closed fist hit to her face.  The vixen was knocked back by the unexpected force of the blow.

Professor Saint Graham, a portly bear of a man who felt desserts should be served before dinner, and often in multiples, moved with a surprising speed and agility. The other slayers descended onto him like jackals, if they were to kill Connor, they needed to remove this bear of a man that now fought with an unearthly passion.

Connor grabbed Isabella and pushed her out of the way of the brawlers. The Professor was good; but was he good enough? The frying pan connected several more times with the attackers, but none of the blows was like the first. No other ‘gongs’ were heard as iron met bone.

As for the attackers, they had adjusted and were now fighting as a unit. One would step in front of the Professor, drawing his counterattack, the others would strike and stab from the side and rear.  This altercation would only last for another minute or two. The Professor was good, but even the best warriors can be beaten down against superior odds.

“Run!” Connor yelled to Isabella. He wanted her safe. And being away from here was the safest place for her. He pulled on her arm, trying to get her to follow.

“We have to help him,” Isabella yelled back. She had seen enough school yard brawls to know the Professor might lose this fight.

Connor looked at the Professor. Isabella was right. He was good. But he needed help.

“They’re going to kill him, if we don’t help!” She screamed back with tears in her eyes.

For a moment, just a moment, a wave of shame overtook Connor. The Professor had come to help him. Now, he had to help the Professor. A surge of something that he did not know he had upwelled from deep within him. It imbued Connor with a new purpose, a new strength and a new motivation.

Connor had never been in a fight in his life. It did not come naturally to him. He was not designed for it, did not work out like the other kids in his class, he had no bravado about him.  

Connor armed himself with a red automatic mixing bowl. It was currently on sale for twenty percent off. He hoisted it over his head, took aim at the closest attacker and charged. Connor let out a war cry that he did not know he had in him and brought the weighty red machine down onto the killers back.

The force of the blow knocked the attacker off balance and sent him stumbling forward closer to the Professor. The Professor saw his opening and swung his skillet at the disadvantaged attacker with precision. A ‘gong’ echoed once again through the store. The attacker fell, flopping like a fish out of water onto a floor.

The Professor winked at Connor with thanks and admiration. Connor smiled back, his new-found bravery overflowing. Isabella clapped her hands with excitement.

The other attackers stopped and stepped back. Connor and the Professor took a step back. The gladiators, in what would later be called by the Florida Yesterday as the “Brawl in the Mall,” were sizing each other up. The attackers had their knives. The Professor had his skillet. Connor had his mixing bowl.

“Connor, I am not so sure that mixer is what you want to use in our current predicament.” The Professor sagaciously offered to Connor.

Connor glanced down at the mixer he held with two hands. The device was heavy; much too heavy to be an effective fighting weapon, although, if you have to hit someone in the back who has a knife and is attacking your friend, I would rate it highly within the ‘Common Kitchen Items Used for Weapons Category.’

Connor nodded in agreement and heaved the heavy device at the woman assassin. She stepped to the side as the device sailed harmlessly, passed her through the area and landed with a crash into a display of fine crystal stemware. Expensive glass shattered and the shards flew through the air. Thousands of dollars were destroyed in that one moment.

“You’re going to die Healer, we know who you are, and we are coming for you,” the woman assassin offered. She was attractive and deadly; a potent combination for a young man to resist. “But you don’t have to die, no one has to die, no one has to suffer. We can work together.”

Connor stood there. For a moment, he was confused, even bewildered. It was as if suddenly a synapse within his brain stopped firing. He stood there blinking his eyes. He said nothing. But, even as his brain tried to say words, he could tell his mouth was not moving. It was as if he was under a spell, which he was. The striking woman had other weapons at her disposal besides her shadow knife.

Isabella was yelling for Connor, trying to get his attention. The Professor was shouting for Connor to, “Snap out of it.” But all Connor could hear were the mumbles of his friends around him and the calmness of the woman’s voice.  She was seducing him. Convincing him to surrender and not resist. Connor thought to himself how attractive she was, her raven black hair, her coal black eyes. The woman was indeed a thing of beauty.

Fortunately, Isabella was not one to be so easily seduced by a pretty assassin’s speech. She grabbed the nearest travel juicer and hurled the device with an overhand throw that would make any baseball coach proud. The device flew through the air and clipped the woman on the head, knocking her back a foot and causing her to lose her focus.

Connor snapped free of the spell he was under and charged forward. Without a weapon it was rather reckless. In fact, it was foolhardy. You never assault someone when they have a knife and all you have is your wits.

The Professor gasped as he realized the danger Connor had put himself in. He had no choice but to charge also. The fight was back on.

Connor charged forward and put his best foot forward. Or, more correctly, his best fist forward. It was not a good show. Connor was not really what you would call a fighter. Despite years of watching action movies with his uncle, he quickly deduced he had no experience in fighting, fisticuffs or pugilism.

The female assassin happily pummeled him numerous times about the head and face. She enjoyed the beating she gave Connor, but try as she might, she simply could not seem to catch Connor with her knife. She would punch several times with her left fist, and then stab with her right hand that held the knife. Yet, each time that she stabbed at him, Connor seemed to move just at the last minute, causing her to stab only air.

In response, Connor would hit back with a left and a right fist to her head.  But these meant nothing to the succubus, she had killed many before Connor, and many victims had fought back much harder than Connor could ever hope to.

The Professor had his own dilemma.  His attacker, the strongest of the quartet, had managed to pick the Professor up and hurl him like a rag doll into a display of the cookbooks. The Professor’s hat came off his head, and he found himself winded from the impact. He was slowing down. His age was betraying him. He could not take much more of this attacker himself.

Isabella did her best. She armed herself with painted pottery, electronic juicers, and cast-iron pots and skillets, anything that was currently for sale in kitchen wares, became her weapon of choice. Isabella’s years of playing softball had prepared her well. Each object lifted from a store counter was measured and careful aim was taken. From her advantage point, she continued her onslaught of kitchenware upon their assassins and with a bit of luck and whole lot of skill, a kitchen item would strike one of the thugs, causing them to wince in pain from the heavy inbound projectiles. But hurled kitchenware was not enough of a defense against these jackals dressed in black.

In all the debris of shattered glass, knocked over kitchenware displays, and hurled objects, Connor noticed the frying pan the Professor had dropped. He reached down and picked it up. The cast iron skillet was heavy. But, in his hands it felt right. He struggled to catch his breath as he stared down his attacker. This was it; he had decided. He had to end this. He could see the Professor was struggling, even losing his fight as the two male attackers had focused on him.

Connor looked the assassin in the eye and for a moment, he felt a connection to her; even sympathy for her and her evil ways. He pitied her that she had turned to evil. She smiled back; she was planning to end this game they were planning. She had no empathy for Connor; he was simply who she was supposed to kill.

Connor stepped forward and swung the pan back to deliver one final blow.  Yet, as Connor swung back, he slipped on a shattered jar of pickled vegetables. He stumbled forward and fell to the ground landing on his back awkwardly.

The succubus screamed in delight and lunged at Connor. She climbed atop him and brought her black knife down to Connor’s heart. Connor raised his hands up and caught the women’s arms. The two were fighting over the knife.

Isabella screamed and scrambled to get to Connor to help him. As she came around the display that she had been behind, she was knocked to the ground by a brute of an assassin. Now, Isabella was next. He placed his left foot on her chest and yelled to the succubus, “Do it! Kill the boy!”

Connor and the assassin continued their scuffle. The knife continued to inch closer to Connor’s heart. Connor could see the blade moving closer and closer to his chest. He could feel the prick of the knife as it began to penetrate his skin. Try as he might, he did not have the strength to push the assassin off of him and stop her blade. He was just delaying the inevitable. The blade was squealing in excited anticipation.

The blade tip entered Connor’s chest ever slightly. He could feel the blade pulsing as it entered his body, trying to suck out his soul. Coldness like he had never had felt before penetrated his body from the point of the blade. He pushed back as hard as he could, but it was useless. There was nothing he could do; he was weak and fading.

Connor closed his eyes so that he did not have to see the assassin’s face as his last remaining memory. He thought of Isabella, and when he had a good enough mental picture of a happy moment of the two together. He let go of the Succubus arms. He surrendered and let himself go.

“Finish him,” yelled the fourth assassin. “Say the words, make the sacrifice and finish this!”

The Succubus pulled the blade out of Connor and raised it over her head.  She paused for a moment, relishing her victory; she uttered an invocation in a strange language. She was offering Connor as a sacrifice to Ira. The blade, held above Connor screamed in excitement, “hurry, hurry! No time to lose.”

The Succubus attention was suddenly diverted, she screamed out, “No!”

The distinct crack of a pistol being fired reverberated in the department store. It was then followed by another crack. And, yet another. And still another. Four shots were fired in all.

Connor opened his eyes. He could not see who had fired the shots. But he could see the Succubus body reverberate as all four bullets found their mark. Pieces of her flesh and leather vest exploded outward as each bullet entered her person, ripping apart her internal organs. Fragments of hot flesh and blood rained down on Connor.

“Stop or I will shoot!” a forceful voice ordered. Although the mechanics were slightly out of order, no one would complain.

The third and fourth assassins stood there in horror as they watched the bullets pierce the female’s body, entering her life. She fell over, dead, and in the process fell atop of Connor. The third assassin turned and charged towards this new enemy slashing and stabbing at the air with his blade.

The crack of the 9mm was heard again and again echoing through the mall. For those who were still in the mall, hiding from the chaos, they could not know from where the gunshots came from, they just knew someone was firing a gun and their fear increased evermore. There were fifteen bullets in all, four in the first exchange and eleven in the second exchange. Fifteen being the exact number of bullets found in a 9mm clip of a police officer’s pistol.

The third assassin’s eye’s glazed over, her knife fell from his hands and his body fell at Connor’s feet.

Chapter 26

Connor climbed out from underneath the succubus. The shots had come from Chief Hugs who had arrived just in time. Now, he was frantically barking out orders for other officers. The fourth assassin fled in the end. He was now on the loose. Connor looked around and found Isabella standing in the fine glassware sections. He walked over to her and carefully took a very expensive Tiffany etched vase from her hand and set in down on a display table. The table was already damaged, and upon setting the vase down, it simply tipped over, shattering the vase into thousands of fragments.

“I think we have done enough damage for the day,” Connor quipped.

Isabella looked up and into his eyes. Tears welled in the corners of her eyes. Connor took hold of her and held her close. She began shaking as the reality of the moment took hold.

“Everything’s fine Isabella, everything’s fine. We made it, we are okay.”

But it wasn’t fine. All around the mall were scattered wounded people. The assassins had left a trail of carnage everywhere they went as they fed their hunger for more chaos.

Connor stared around him. Kitchenware was in shambles. Evidence of the melee had left it wrecked. Tens of thousands of dollars of damage had been done. Upstairs wounded people were scattered about.  An assassin was still on the loose. Chief Hugs was scrambling to save lives while simultaneously parking out orders for a manhunt.  Connor looked about for Professor Saint Graham.

“Where is the Professor?” he suddenly screamed as he realized his white knight was missing.

Connor pulled away from Isabella and began a frantic search among the knocked over kitchenware displays, shattered cabinets of glass, and the tipped over boxes of mechanical kitchen appliances.

“Professor!” Connor yelled frantically.

“Professor Saint Graham,” Isabella yelled as she rushed around the cabinets and curios.

It was Chief Hugs who found the Professor. The Professor had been thrown several aisles over and was now lying on the floor of the bathroom accessories.

“Connor, come here,” Chief Hugs yelled out and as he bend down to the man.  “Stay still mister, stay still.” He cautioned the wounded man.  As he surveyed the wounded man, he realized, there was nothing that could be done. The assassin had stuck him multiple times with his blade. The Professor despite all his wisdom and insight, even he could not defeat a steel blade to the chest.

Connor came rushing over and gasped at what he saw. The Professor lay on the floor holding his chest. His lungs were punctured and with each breath of air, crimson bubbles formed in the wounds. The Professor had tried to stop the bleeding and was covering one of the wounds with one hand. But, there was just too many. His white suit was soaked with blood. The pool of liquid crimson was slowly spreading out and away from the Professor. The Professor looked up from the floor and at the sight of Connor, a slight smile formed at the corner of his lips. 

“You did it,” he whispered.

Connor bend down to cradle his new found friend. What do you say to the man who just sacrificed his life for yours?  

“We did it,” Connor sniffled, recognizing that had it not been for the Professor, the result would have been very different. Connor’s tears were beginning to flow freely now. “I am so sorry for all of this. Please forgive me,” he quietly begged. This death was on him, and he knew it all too well.

Isabella, standing over Connor, was crying hysterically as she looked down on the scene.

“Forgive you for what my boy? The Professor whispered. “Dear boy, this has been a delightful day. You, me and the lovely Isabella, we gave those ruffians a good drubbing.” The Professor chuckled slightly as blood spilled freely from his mouth. He took Connor’s hand, looked him again in the eye and squeezed hard.

“Please my dear Connor; save your gift; don’t bring me back,” the Professor whispered.

At that moment, the twinkle in the Professor’s eye flared more brightly than ever before, and then it went dark.

Chapter 27

The grief of the moment overtook Connor for only a moment before he shook it off and regained his composure.

“Not today old man, not today!” Connor yelled out loud as he placed his hands over the Professor’s chest. The Professor’s blood was warm to the touch. The blood oozed between his fingers as he pushed down. Connor rose up over the Professor as if he was going to give CPR.  But he wasn’t going to do CPR.

He focused hard on the Professor lying before him. He imagined what all the damage inside of his friend’s body looked like. He could see the carnage that each knife wound inflicted, the severing of the arteries, veins, and the tearing of the skin, muscle, and organs.  Connor imagined he was within the Professor’s very body, like a plumber on an emergency call rushing around and repairing all the damaged veins and organs. Connor was a repairman on a mission; a stitch here, a stich there, a little glue to hold things together, a little putty to plug a leak there.

Connor could feel the spark from deep within him ignite. It was starting.  Connor focused harder and harder. A repair here, a restoration there, no one was going to die on Connor’s watch today.

“Heal,” he yelled out without realizing the words he just said were spoken out loud.

 The spark erupted within Connor and within a moment, he could feel his whole body come alive with electricity. It had to escape him. It had to leave his body. Connor pressed down harder on the Professor’s torso to ensure the connection was made. Blood oozed up and squirted onto Connor without him realizing it had happened. Then the exchange started.

Connor could feel the energy flow through both his arms, through his hands and out his fingers. His body burned as the massive amount of energy poured through him and into the Professor.

Yet, Connor felt something different about the Professor. Another energy force was moving through the Professor. Connor could feel the energy flowing back into him. Like to two batteries when they connect, a spark was ignited between the two energy sources. Something else was happening here.

Connor held his connection longer than he had with Bandit or Isabella. The damage to the Professor was far graver and more extensive than the previous two, and it required Connor to sacrifice far more than he had previously.  Yet, the longer he held the connection, the more the energy source from the Professor flowed back into Connor. Suddenly, a flash of golden light erupted within Connor’s mind, and he was knocked back by the energy from within the Professor. He looked down at his hands and could see the Professors blood on them. He felt like he had just touched a live electrical wire.

Staring at the Professor, Connor could see the minutia of the repairs taking place. Millions of cells were mobilized and repairing the damage.  Blood was beginning to move ever so slightly through the veins. Alveoli were pulsing and taking in oxygen empowering the body’s cells to become more active and alive. It was working.

Isabella put her hand on Connor’s shoulder as she too could see what was happening. Chief Hugs stood spellbound; he had never seen such a thing in all his life.  

The Professor’s chest moved ever so slightly at first. Then his eyes fluttered. Then his little finger moved. His brain was going to work, testing the connections, reconnecting the nerves to the muscles, checking for damage. Then the Professor’s gray matter was organizing the repairs in the sequences of necessity. Most critical of course was first, less critical later on. Connor had jumped started the process, now, his own wounded body was taking over. Finishing what needed to be done.  

It was several minutes before the Professor opened an eye. It was just one eye at first. He glanced around and could see Connor smiling down at him. He moved his left hand and could feel the wetness of the blood, his blood, as it was congealing about him.

He moved his hand slowly to his chest.  There had been holes here minutes ago. Now, he could feel tender spots where the holes had been. But he felt no holes. They were gone. The Professor tried to move but could not. He wanted to sit up. But he was still too weak. He moved his lips, but Connor could not hear the words. Connor leaned in and took the Professor’s hand and held it tightly. Placing his ear over the mouth of the Professor, he could hear the words that made his eyes go wide.

“I told you not to bring me back.”

Chapter 28

“Connor how did you do that?” Chief Hugs implored as he helped Connor back to his feet.

Connor was weak, the healing had tired him, and he needed to rest.

“I don’t understand how it happens, I just know it does happen,” Connor whispered.

“Can you help the others upstairs,” Chief Hugs asked cautiously.

Connor nodded that he could. He turned to Isabella and asked her to stay with the Professor.

Isabella leaned in and kissed Connor, “go do what you can, I got him.”

Chief Hugs helped Connor up to the second floor of the mall where it all began. It was deserted, or so it seemed. Then Connor noticed the movement.  He heard the cries for help. He could see that people were hiding under tables, in corners of the mall, and behind anything that offered the slightest of cover.  Connor gasped at the numbers of people still in the mall. For the hundreds of men, women and children, a day of fun and shopping turned into a day of horror.

In the distance, Connor could hear the wail of sirens descending on the mall. Chief Hugs, who had been working a security detail off-duty, clamored into his radio issuing a “Be on the look out,” for the fourth assassin who was nowhere to be seen, but still a threat wherever he was. Chief Hugs organized his officers as they entered the mall and continued the manhunt.

Connor could hear the wailing and screams of people throughout the mall. Some of the mall shoppers were just scared. Others were yelling for help, yelling for “someone to call 911,” or “someone go get help.”  These are the people he rushed to; those who were unable to get clear of the cutthroats as they rode their motorcycles through the mall cutting and slashing at the innocent shoppers around them, inflicting pain, and injury wherever they could.

Not all the injuries were life-threatening. But enough were that Connor had to rush to each person he could find and then do what he could. Each time, it was the same. Connor would introduce himself, say he could help, and then he would say, “Trust me,” as he placed his hands onto the victim’s wounds, and he focused on their healing.

Each person he helped save drained a little more from him. Each wound healed was another piece of him he could not get back. Each healing left him more exhausted than the last.  Soon he was staggering about the mall. For the first responders who poured into the mall, they suspected that Connor himself was wounded.  They went to him, and he had to tell them, he was fine; he was trying to help the wounded also. They thought he was delirious, maybe even drunk. But, since he had no injuries himself, they left him alone to tend to the others who desperately needed help.

Connor staggered over to a bench that was next to the central fountain and sat down.  Someone had left half a soda on the table next to the chair and a slice of pizza. He leaned over and shoved the pizza into his mouth. It was cold but delicious and he was famished. Next, he helped himself to the soda, drinking it all in one gulp.  Connor was thirsty beyond belief. The energy that had poured through his body had left him drained and parched. His mouth was so dry that he could hardly speak. He looked about and when he was sure no one was watching him, he began scooping water out of the fountain and drinking it as fast as possible.  Melbourne water may not be the best water, but, in a pinch, it will do.

When his thirst was quenched, he sat back down on the bench and watched the medics and the police moving about the mall rushing to help anyone that needed help. Connor smiled as he thought to himself, “not that bad of a day. Definitely could have been worse.”

It was not long before Connor’s head began to spin. His body broke out in a cold sweat. He held his hand out and could see it shaking violently. He could not control it.

“Oh no,” he thought to himself. He frantically looked around for someone to help him, he tried to wave at anyone, tried to yell, but he could not. He simply mumbled the words.

Connor tried to grip the bench to steady himself, but it was of no use. He was losing control.  He fell onto the floor and lay there quivering; the seizure was upon him and there was nothing he could do.

It would be almost an hour before anyone noticed him. 

Chapter 29

Connor did not know how long he had been asleep; he just knew he wanted to be awake, to escape the dream world that had held him hostage for too long. His dreams had become worse. More nightmarish and he often awoke, happy to have escaped the chaos within his own mind.

Glancing about the room, Connor was relieved to see he was in his own room, in his own bed, and under his own covers.  He breathed a deep sigh of relief. There really is nothing like being in your own home when you are feeling under the weather, have a case of the sniffles, or just missing being in your own bed, because well, it’s your bed.

Wolf was asleep on one end of the bed, curled up and snoring ever so slightly. Bandit was curled up alongside of his new best friend, enjoying her body heat.

“What are we having a sleep over?” he mumbled out loud to the duo who felt they were entitled to his bed as much as he was. They slept through his comments.

Connor struggled to sit himself up in the bed; make himself a little more comfortable without disturbing his companions, but it was of no use. Wolf, sensing the movement, opened her eyes first and upon seeing Connor’s smiling face, began to belly crawl her way closer to him, her tail wagging furiously.

Wolf’s movement awoke Bandit, who upon seeing Connor, let out a squeal of delight and rushed Connor ahead of Wolf to shower him with his own brand of affection, which consisted of him rubbing his body against Connor’s face like a big cat.

Connor laughed out loud at the affection the duo showered on him and he hardly scratched behind their ears, one for hand for each furry head.  

“Well, hello there sleepy,” Isabella quietly commented, sticking her head into the room.

“How long have I been asleep,” Connor inquired.  He was still scratching his furry dynamic duo, who seemed over eager to see him. More so than usual.

Isabella entered the room, leaned over and kissed Connor on the lips. It was an unexpected gesture. And, the gesture warmed Connor’s heart immensely.

“How are you feeling Connor?” Isabella asked as she sat on the edge of the bed. Bandit, seeing a new source of attention, broke off from Connor, and climbed atop of Isabella and settled in.  Bandit had learned that by sitting onto of people’s shoulders, he could reduce his walking immensely. Not to mention, he enjoyed the view from high above.

“I feel okay.  In fact, I feel great.  Let me get up and let’s go get something to eat. I am famished. How long have I been a sleep?”

“Connor you have been sleeping for a whole day.”

Connor’s mouth dropped open. No wonder he was so hungry.

“A whole day!” he exclaimed, “A whole day? Are you serious?”

Isabella nodded.  She took Connor’s hand and held it tightly.

“Connor, we found you by the fountain. And you were rushed to the hospital. But the doctors said there was nothing wrong with you, and so your family brought you here. Wolf and Bandit have been here the whole time watching over you. Your parents and I have been taking turns sitting here waiting. They went out to get us dinner, I expect them back shortly.”

“A whole day; this is crazy,” Connor replied. How does one sleep for a whole day?

Isabella reached over for a mirror and held it close. She did not know what to say next. She just stared at Connor till he got impatient.

“What’s wrong?” he asked. He could see the look in her eyes, the concern on her face.

Isabella turned the mirror around so Connor could see for himself. He just stared and touched his face. He poked, prodded, and squeezed his face like it was fresh clay ready to be molded.

“Oh, this is so not good,” he cried out, his voice filled with dismay. He looked up at Isabella, his face was filled with anguish from what he was looking at.

In the mirror, staring back at Connor was a Connor much older than what Connor could ever be expecting. Wrinkles and age spots covered his face where flesh was once tight and smooth. His hair had thinned tremendously and was now mostly gray.  Connor had the looks of a senior citizen.

Chapter 30

“Why, why, why are you here?” Ira angrily demanded of the young man, the fourth assassin who had escaped the mall fight with Connor. Ira had clasped his vice-like hand around the man’s neck and was slowly squeezing it shut, the assassin’s feet dangling free from the ground, kicked and fluttered as Ira was slowly crushing the life out of him.

“To tell you we failed; that there was an intervention by the enemy; to beg your forgiveness,” the man wheezed. “Please don’t kill me.”

The rest of the bar crowd was cowering behind overturned tables. When the fourth assassin had returned, everyone knew the mission had failed. And, before they could escape the bar, the gangling, awkwardly moving bartender locked the door, trapping them all within the bar. They knew the rage Ira was capable of and now they all feared for their mortal safety. They hoped Ira’s anger would be placated when he crushed this man’s life from him, but with Ira, there was no guarantee of it. They could all easily be next.

“I sent four of you,” Ira roared, “and you turned and left the others behind who had least died in battle!”

“Mercy, I beg you,” the assassin gasped weakly, his voice faltering as the specter of death was overtaking him.

Ira disgusted with the man before him, turned and with his claw arm hurled him across the room and into the wall where his body struck with such force that several pictures fell off the wall. The man lay where he was tossed coughing and trying to catch his breath. He could not kill everyone who failed him. He found it was a terrible recruiting tool.

Ira turned and sat down at the bar. He stared straight ahead for a moment, and when the bartender, who had kept himself busy cleaning glasses, did not respond, he turned and roared at him, “drink you fool, drink!”

The bartender just looked at Ira with contempt but said nothing. He knew better to antagonize Ira at this moment. It was better to just let the situation play itself out. To keep out of Ira’s way if that was at all possible, which unfortunately, it was not.

The bartender turned to the wall behind him and poured Ira a glass of his favorite beverage, a dark brown beverage that Ira used to help sustain himself in this miserable placed he was forced to be. When the Bartender turned around, he was shocked to see an astonishingly beautiful woman sitting at the bar, several seats away from Ira.

“I will have the same,” the woman asked as the bartender set the drink down in front of Ira.

“No one but Ira drinks this missy,” the bartender sneered. Who was this woman he wondered?

Ira, deep in thought, almost a trance, was slow to realize that someone else was sitting at the bar with him. No one sat at the bar. No one ever. He was staring straight ahead, deep in his own thoughts, when he noticed the first whiff of an aromatic fragrance he did not recognize.

Ira sniffed the air hungrily; he could detect the woman’s scent mixed among the sweat, filth, cigar and cigarette smoke of the bar and its lowly patrons. This scent was unique, it was almost intoxicating. For a moment, he thought to himself, that perhaps he had smelled it before. Long ago. It was not totally unknown to him. He could just not place it now. And, for a moment, he was curious. His primal instincts had suddenly been awakened. It had been a long time since he had touched a woman in a way that was, how should we say, non-violent.

Aroused from his trance, and sniffing the air hungrily like some animal, Ira wondered who could smell this way? He turned and saw the woman over for the first time sitting at the bar. He had never seen anyone so attractive before. She was perfect in every aspect; perhaps she was too perfect.

A full-figured woman, she had a darker complexion than most others. This evening, she was wearing a scarlet red evening dress that accented her abundance of natural features. Her coal black hair was neatly combed and hung down around her shoulders.  She had not been seen by Ira earlier and must have been loitering in the crowd long before the doors were locked. Unlike the other humans that were still cowering and hoping for deliverance. This woman lacked all fear.

The bartender leaned in closer to the woman in red. He was immune to her beauty and saw nothing more than another lowly human. It was a terrible mistake.    

The bartender grabbed the woman’s wrist. He would be the first to teach her a lesson in insolence. Yet, as he tried to twist it, to wrench it back and to demonstrate that insolence would not be tolerated in this place, he found he could not move it. What strength he had drained from him, and he found himself suddenly feeling very weak and frail, like a grasshopper. The woman turned to him and simply stared at the bartender.  The bartender meant nothing to her. As if he were a simple fly who had just landed on her arm; the bartender was a slight distraction. Nothing more. The look of surprise on the bartender was lost on Ira at the moment.

The woman turned to the bartender and stared directly into his eyes.

The bartender’s eyes widened as he made eye contact with the woman. Instantly, he felt an extreme cold pierce his black heart. As if he had been stabbed with a great knife. He gulped for air as he felt his heart stop beating. But he could not turn away from the woman in red. He was drawn to those eyes. Large black eyes, that now seemed to open into a void of nothingness. And as he stared straight into the eyes, he could see a burning figure staring back at him. And, then he understood who the woman was. It was his Master in the disguise of a woman. The Dark Prince, the very Devil himself, was now here.

“Forgive me, your Unholiness. I did not realize it was you.” He quietly murmured. “Please, I beg you, I am a fool, and an idiot, I do not deserve to live.”

The woman blinked and the bartender felt his heartbeat return, the cold dissipate, and the sweet life-giving air return to his lungs. He stumbled back into the bottles along the bar causing them to shake, as he tried to balance himself; to gather himself in the presence of his Master, the very Devil himself.

“I said, I wanted a drink,” the Master, in the disguise of a woman, quietly repeated.

The bartender turned and quickly filled a glass with the dark brown liquor. When he turned, he gasped out loud. Ira was standing alongside the woman, towering over her. He was sniffing the air about her. He was in beast mode; his primal instincts had taken over. He was looking for a mate this evening.

The bartender gently set the drink down in front of the woman. But kept his eyes low. He did not need to make eye contact a second time.

“Come here often,” Ira asked the woman. His repertoire of pick-up lines for members of the opposite sex was extremely limited.

The woman said nothing. She did not need too. Silence was her weapon of choice.

“Ira, can I speak with you,” the bartender asked, hoping to prevent what he feared was coming. Ira ignored him.

“So, what is a nice girl like you doing, in a place like this,” he asked as he reached up and touched the woman’s black hair and ran it through his fingers. As the woman’s scent filled his nostrils, he found he was becoming more and more excited. His animal desires were increasing. His desire for violence being replaced with another desire.

The Bartender again asked if could speak with Ira, “Just a moment. Just a word or two.”

Ira again ignored the Bartender and waved him off.

Ira had watched the encounter between the woman and bartender, but, slow and dim witted as he was, he did not realize the significance of the situation as it was unfolding. It would be to his dismay.

The woman reached for the drink and held it up to her nose, sniffing the aromatic liquid like one would sniff a fine wine or brandy, then after a long pause, swallowed it all in one gulp.

“Bourbon, my favorite drink among the mortals,” she muttered to herself after swallowing the king of the liquors. “How can you go wrong with a liquor that requires fire to be made.”

“Another,” she instructed the bartender seductively. 

“Who are you?’” Ira asked, in the kindest voice he could muster.

The woman ignored him.

The bartender filled her drink a second time. Again, he did not look the woman in the eyes. But kept them staring downward, submissively, obediently in every way possible.

The woman reached for the bartender’s arm and touched it gently; it was a simple reward, a gesture of rare kindness to a faithful servant. The bartender looked up, but did not make eye contact, and smiled. The woman winked at him and released her touch. The Master could be kind and encouraging when he desired. He could not rule by fear alone. A lesson he had never been able to impart to Ira, his chosen child.

Ira, the brute of a man, the slow and dimwitted beast that he was saw the woman reach out and touch the Bartenders arm, and he felt a pang of rare jealousy course through him. He of course was misunderstanding every que at this moment, and a jealous rage erupted unexpectedly.

“Who are you,” Ira roared. He was losing control. No one ignored him. And no one was allowed to touch the Bartender. He was the Lord of this domain. And he ruled with udder surety.

The Bartender turned and tried to wave off what was coming. He had seen Ira lose his cool far too many times. He saw it coming. Like a storm across the ocean, it was building and coming for them. It had to be released. The Bartender understood who the woman was. But not Ira. It was too late. His dim-witted mind had set his body into motion. He grasped the woman by the arm and tried to pull her towards him.

The woman’s drink spilled onto her. The precious bourbon liquid poured down her front, staining her dress and getting her bosom wet. She looked up at the Bartender. The Bartender stared back and with his eyes, pleading for mercy. He was not Ira, and he did not want to be punished for the fool’s mistakes.

  “You stupid, stupid, buffoon,” the woman retorted looking up at the hulking Ira standing over her.

The bartender tried to signal to Ira to stop what he was doing. He knew Ira’s anger was getting the best of him. And Ira, when angered, was indeed a beast of limited intelligence, more limited than his normal state. The bartender frantically waved his arms trying to get Ira’s attention, and for a moment Ira looked over, and when he saw the bartender drawing his hand across his throat trying to signal to Ira to “knock it off.” Ira mistook it as something altogether something else. No one would tell Ira what to do.

Ira brought his claw hand up and grabbed the woman by the throat. He tried to hoist her off the ground, but suddenly found himself unable to. His great strength was suddenly waning. The woman was unperturbed. She took her left hand, reached up, and grabbed Ira’s claw and slowly began to squeeze. She had a vice-like grip, and Ira the ever-present bully having never been challenged before, did not know what to make of it. He used his left hand and tried to strike the woman. She simply responded by grabbing that hand in her free hand and squeezed tightly. Now, Ira found himself bound by two vices. He could not do anything; he could not hit this woman, nor could he flee this woman if he wanted.

“Are you really this stupid?” The woman asked, seeking clarification to a question that had been troubling her this moment.

Ira did not respond to the question. A look of great pain had filled his face as he struggled to free himself from the situation, he now found himself in. The woman squeezed ever tighter, and Ira let out a shriek of pain.

“What is to become of you? What should I do?” the woman asked out loud. It was more of a rhetorical question.  She knew the answer.

“Go screw yourself,” Ira muttered, his machismo overtaking what was left of his limited intellect.

The bartender’s eyes went wide. He slunk down behind the bar, and crawled up into a special nook, a nook that he had reinforced for those days that Ira took to throwing things about. It was his safe space. He crawled into a tight ball in his nook and sat there quivering and whimpering.

The woman smiled up at Ira. He was simply a child who was acting up. He was the Devil’s first born, his first offspring, his first child. Ira was a simpleton. A demon of lessor intelligence. Good for brute work, but not so good at doing things smartly. It was not his fault. No, the fault belongs with him. He had never given him the attention a son needs from his parents.

The woman took pity, sighed and with one hand clasped around Ira’s neck she hoisted him up and threw him across the room towards the fireplace. The adornments on the wall fell to the ground with a loud clutter. The ensemble of patrons still in the bar took to hiding behind tables and trying with best efforts to stay out of this conflict. To the Devil at the moment, Ira was nothing more than a rag doll, a simple plaything that she had tired of.  

The bartender, far smarter than Ira ever hoped to be, understood the gravity of the situation, tried to diffuse it before it got even worse. And, when I say worse, I mean that strictly for the bartender; he did not care about anyone else. But he knew his life was endangered if this escalated much further. He scrawled across the room to where Ira was lying, “you idiot, it is your Father in disguise.”

Ira, disorientated from striking the wall, and still in a state of confusion, did not comprehend what the bartender just said.

“Ira, it is the Master you imbecile! It is the Master! Your Father, he is in disguise,” The bartender whispered.

 A moment of comprehension, followed by an understanding of the situation, suddenly went off in Ira’s head. A lightbulb flickered, for a moment, and then turned on. Somebody was indeed home.

“My Father?” Ira asked incredulously. His Father had never come here before.

“Yes, you idiot, it is your father. He is in disguise!” The Bartender screeched.

“Oh no,” Ira blubbered out. His bravado had evaporated away.

Chapter 31

The Devil walked over to where Ira lay crumpled on the floor and stared frustratingly at his first son. The Devil was not angry with Ira. But there must be order. Rules must be obeyed.

“Please Father, mercy, I beg of you,” Ira was lying on the floor trying to catch his breath. He held up his good hand in an act of submission.

The Devil placed his heeled foot onto Ira’s neck and slowly pressed down, crushing the life out of the great demon.  Ira, the hulking demon of immense size and strength, could do nothing against the strength of his Father. The Devil’s foot was pushing down on him like a great anvil. Ira tried to push himself up, but he could not.  He was at his Father’s mercy now.

“Mercy Father. Mercy. I beg of you,” he murmured again humbly, his life on the edge of extinction as his air source dwindled to a trickle.

The Devil sighed, removed his foot, and bent down and grabbed the demon by the collar and hoisted him up again in one swift move. Ira took in a deep breath and flooded his lungs with the sweet, fresh air. Perhaps his life was spared for the moment.

“Ira, I can’t kill you, no matter how angry I get with you, you are family. And what are we without family?” The Devil soothingly reassured Ira as he brushed off the floor dust and lint that had attached itself to him.  

“Thank you, Father, thank you,” Ira sniffled. The great demon’s life had been spared for now and he knew it.

The Devil escorted Ira to a table and sat him down; she then turned and waved at the bartender for two more bourbons.

When the bartender brought the drinks over, she turned and told him to release the assembled rabble still hiding in the bar; the dozen or so aspiring minions that had watched the whole episode take place.

“I want some quiet. Ira and I need to have a long talk,” she calmly and coolly instructed the bartender. “You can stay also. And keep these drinks filled.”

The bartender rushed to unlock the door and the hangers-on scrambled hurriedly for the door, thankful that they still lived.

When the crowd was gone, the Devil turned to Ira and reached over and took his hand. She had no intention of hurting him now. No, now she needed him. Ira could do things that she could not do. There were rules in the war between Heaven and Hell and certain rules should not, could not, and must not be violated. That is why they are called rules.

“What do you think of this disguise?” She asked inquisitively of Ira as she modeled her female figure. The Devil’s voice was now soft and inviting, almost hypnotic.

“I had no idea it was you Father, it is an excellent impression of the human form, the disguise is perfect,” Ira admitted.

“I like it myself, and I think it will suit me from time to time. I had never thought of using the female form as particularly useful disguise, but now that I am in this form, I have seen how it can be quite disarming to the male members of the human species.” Here she paused as she looked down and admired her body. After several moments, she continued, “Ira, I think we are too dependent on these humans to do our bidding for us. I want you to get out more often.”

The Devil reached down and took a sip of her bourbon, and she encouraged Ira to do the same.

Ira nodded in agreement and sipped his drink. He had not been out of his rat hole in decades. He had almost forgotten what the surface world looked like. If his father would allow him to wander out, then he would happily do so.

“Ira, I am troubled by this Healer we have now among us. We should have dispatched him sooner, and yet he still lives. How many of your servants have you lost trying to kill him?

“Too many father,” Ira offered quietly, hoping to not antagonize his Father. “The humans of this generation are indeed weak Father, very difficult to find those that can persevere even under the slightest duress.”

“Ira, this is not your fault. It is the generation that we have before us. I have heard this generation described as ‘snowflakes,’ perhaps for their delicate nature” The Master chuckled at some internal thoughts of what he said as he sipped his well-aged bourbon.  “Remember Attila the Hun, now he was a great provider of souls.”

Ira chortled at the thought of Attila the Hun. Attila had indeed been a great provider of souls as he campaigned across Europe striking fear before all in his path. “Personally, I am still partial to Vlad the Impaler, I loved his style of barbarism. Impaling living people onto stakes. Genius. Who else thinks like that?”

The Devil nodded his concurrence, Vlad was indeed a ruthless leader. Kept everyone in check. The Devil then sighed as remembered his favorite, “But Hitler he is still my most beloved human. We need more people like Hitler, Ira; sadly, I just don’t think this snowflake generation has it in them.” The Devil leaned back and sipped his bourbon. “This bourbon is excellent, my boy. My compliments to your taste in the finer things here on earth.”

Ira nodded in agreement, “We may be demons, but we are civilized demons.”

 “Ira, I understand that one of God’s guardians has gotten to this Healer.” The Devil paused as he tried to remember what Connor’s name was. “I don’t think I have heard his name yet, Ira, what do they call this generation’s Healer?”

“The healer boy is called Connor, Father; they call him, Connor,” Ira hissed with disdain.

“Not a very inspiring name, this Connor, but these healers often start out insignificant. It is what they do that becomes noteworthy, inspiring hope and optimism. Look at the Jesus fellow, he was a just a carpenter, look what that fellow managed to accomplish before we shut him down. No, this will be a particularly difficult matter now that Connor is alerted and aware of our intentions,” the Devil contemplated out loud. He had a plan, and now he had to put that plan into action.

“Ira, I want you to get involved personally with this situation. No more of these human associates of yours mucking things up and botching our plans.  No Ira, I need a true professional. I need you. I want you to assure me that you will handle this Connor situation personally. I want this Healer dead, and I want it done very publicly. Lots of suffering, with lots of witnesses. Like we used to do. I want us to send a message to God himself, wherever he might be, that we will not be trifled with and that we are ready to go to war with him. And at the same time, I want all the other Healers who are in hiding to know that if they dare to become involved in our matters, ever again, that they too will meet the same fate as this Connor. Can you do this for me Ira?”

Ira looked up at his father but dared not look him directly into the coal black eyes of her human disguise.

 “What of God? Should we not be worried about him? What of the truce?” Ira asked cautiously, lowering his voice again as he spoke of the Almighty himself, as if he could hear Ira speaking.

“The Almighty God?” The Devil laughed out loud mockingly. “Ira, I have it on very good word from one of my most trusted spies in Heaven that the old windbag High Almighty himself has not been seen for centuries. Not a word. Not a miracle. Nothing.  No, something is going on with the old pontificating chatterbox. Not like him to just wander off and just leave. Not for this long at least. Which makes me think that perhaps he has lost interest in this world, or, even possibly, maybe something has happened to him. And, if so Ira, maybe this is our time to take over this Earthly world. Think of it Ira, we can finally come out of the shadows, live the lives we were meant to be; walk freely and just do what we want. Ira, I want to really test Heaven’s meddle this time Ira, let’s very publicly kill this Connor and in doing so we will poke those almighty do-gooders right in the eye and let’s see if God responds to this provocation.”

Ira’s mood brightened immediately. “And, if nothing happens?” he asked inquisitively.

“To war Ira!” The Devil exclaimed excitedly.  “Your brothers and sisters armies are ready to launch. I just left meeting with them.”

Ira was ecstatic. He desperately wanted to lead his Father’s armies back into battle against what was left of Heaven’s army. Ira loved causing wars. He loved waging war even more.

“And, Ira,” here the Devil paused for a moment, “I understand that your old friend Saint Graham has resurfaced and has taken a personal interest in this healer Connor. Saint Graham has even gone as far as taken this Connor under his personal wing,” here the Devil paused and chuckled at his next words, “if he still had them.”

Ira smiled at hearing the name of Saint Graham. This was indeed unanticipated news.

“Ira, I want Saint Graham dead this time. No more toying and taunting him like you used to do. I want him dead this time. We have not killed an angel since the truce.” the Devil exclaimed furiously, “I think it is time to tear up that worthless treaty we have with them and prove to those winged zealots that this mortal world is ours.”

Hearing of Saint Graham was very exciting news to Ira. He stood and clapped his hands as if he was a child given a much-wanted Christmas gift. Saint Graham and Ira had a long history together; a very adversarial and confrontational history if we were to describe it. A history worthy of many books and long nights curled up reading these books. But, for now, let us stick with our present story, that of our friends Connor and Isabella, and let us not go down the Saint Graham and Ira rabbit hole story; maybe someday, together we will go into more detail about those two. But, not now, for now, let us stay focused.

Ira, his simple mind swirling with all of this exciting news, smiled from ear to ear as he stood and danced a little jig, happily repeating the words, “Thank you Father, thank you.”

Chapter 32

The Professor has been very busy researching and looking for answers to questions he did not yet know. In a scroll dated over a thousand years ago, he found a Healer who had successfully used bed rest to reverse the rapid aging process, and with this glimmer of hope, he prescribed as much bed rest as Connor could endure.

Connor, a great fan of the horizontal rest position, enthusiastically jumped at this idea, and found he could easily sleep for hours upon hours, much to the disdain of his parents who suspected Connor may be taking advantage of his unique condition to sleep more than usual. Of course, all this extra sleeping meant Connor was not the normal useful son around the house that the Delacamp’s depended on.

It was here that Isabella jumped up and took charge. She stopped by every day to bring Connor his homework and messages from his classmates. While Connor tackled the day’s History before the Civil War, Algebra, and American Literature, Isabella cheerfully helped Mrs. Delacamp with cleaning house, folding laundry, and keeping the gardens free of weeds. Even if it meant she had to break a sweat and get a little dirty.

For this, Connor was forever indebted to Isabella. And he found himself truly falling in love with her.  He saw Isabella for the woman who she was; a take charge, vibrant woman who showered him with love and caring. Connor has not yet said he loved her yet, but he would.  They still had plans to go to the Halloween party which was fast approaching, and nothing was going to spoil their special night.

Connor was in bed, slogging through his homework when he heard the doorbell ring. It had not been uncommon for the members of the news media to come to the Delacamp’s house for interviews with Connor. Connor and Isabella had decided it was best to avoid these interviews as much as possible. Connor did not want to attract any more attention to himself if he could at all help it.

Wolf, the ever-watchful guardian, stirred from her spot at the end of Connor’s bed, looked out the window and realizing that no threat was present, curled herself back up on the bed and went back to sleep. But it would not last.

Isabella answered the front door and Connor could just hear the sound of the voices but paid them no attention. More media attention, another reporter looking for an interview he was sure of. He went back to his Algebra and struggled to understand why he would ever need to know the values of X or Y.

It was Wolf’s ears that first picked up on the odd sound. The hair on her back rose when she was unsure of what was happening. Connor watched Wolf lift her head, turned, and listened with great intent. Something was indeed wrong. Connor listened and soon he could hear the noise also. It was muffled crying.

Connor leaped out of bed, thinking something had happened to Isabella and ran down the staircase. Bandit and Wolf, alarmed by Connor’s rapid movements, gave chase, they would not be left out of the action if there was too be any.

At the front door Connor found Isabella holding a sobbing woman; a stranger who had in her company a small child, maybe ten years of age. The woman had read the news accounts of Connor, and by asking a lot of questions, and with a lot of begging, had discovered where he lived.  Now she had brought her daughter, sick with terminal cancer, to Connor for help. The doctors had given up on her daughter and given her only a few more months to live. The woman was desperate and refused to give up hope. Now, Connor was her last hope for a miracle.

When she saw Connor standing inside the doorway, she cried out, “Connor, please help us. My daughter will die without your help.”

Isabella turned to Connor with a look of worry and concern. She did not have to say anything.

If Connor helped the child, he could be sacrificing his life for hers. Yet, if he did nothing, the child would die, and it would forever haunt him

Connor and Isabella had talked about this in private. Together, they agreed Connor would stop healing people. It was cold and it was deliberate. Connor had his own life, and he did not need to keep sharing his precious gift with perfect strangers.

But, now as Connor stood looking at the little girl, whose frail and lifeless body was racked with disease, her eyes staring at him, as she held her ragged baby doll, Connor realized that such a selfish agreement made in haste, was much harder to accept when the ramifications of such decisions are seen in person.

“I can’t,” Connor mumbled to the woman, almost inaudibly. Connor struggled to say those few words. The pain of his decision was shaking him to his core. He wanted to help, but he could not. He steadied himself against the staircase banner. He had to remain strong. He promised Isabella. He had promised his parents.

“Please Connor,” the woman shrieked.

“I can’t help you, I am truly sorry,” he muttered again, almost incoherently.

“Connor, she will die. I know you can help her. Please, I will give you anything,” the mother begged.

In desperation the woman, pushed her daughter forward and into the Delacamp’s foyer. The little girl looked up at Connor, and for the first time showed some emotion, she smiled at Connor. Connor stared down at the little girl, whose childhood innocence had been lost by no fault of her own, and without knowing Connor from anyone else, took it upon herself to offer him a friendly smile. It was a moment of pure unadulterated kindness shown.  

Connor teared up at the thoughts of her suffering. The pain of his inaction hurt him more than anything else he had experienced to date. He struggled to hold himself upright as he stared at the mother and daughter duo. The struggle within him was very real. Was he to help others? Or help himself?

“I can’t, I am so sorry,” Connor then turned and struggled to walk back up the stairs.

The woman sobbed out loud. Her wailing cut through Connor as he took each step up the stairs.  He could hear Isabella gently pushing the mother daughter duo out the front door. Isabella was openly crying now as she too felt the anguish of their decision. A decision that had been made in private was now much harder to accept, when the outcome was so close and personal. Isabella felt physically sick at what she had to do.    

Connor struggled to his room where he fell into his bed. Wolf and Bandit followed, sat nearby and watched Connor cry like he had not cried in years.

Chapter 33

Connor had been lying on his bed for at least an hour before Isabella walked in to check on him. She could see the redness of his eyes. She knew when someone had been crying, And Connor had been crying like a baby.

“Do you want to talk about it?” She asked quietly, referring to what had just happened with the little girl.

Connor lay there motionless for several moments.  He heard the question; he just did not know how to say what he needed to say.

“Connor, do you want to talk?” Isabella inquired a second time. She knew Connor liked his quiet. Maybe he needed it now.

Connor sat up, turned around and faced Isabella. He had a look of sadness that warned Isabella of something serious was about to go down.

“I have to leave,” Connor mumbled, not looking directly at Isabella.

Isabella paused to make sure she heard the words right.

“What do you mean, leave?”

“Everyone around me is in danger. I have been thinking about it since the mall attack. And, now with what just happened, how many more people are going to come to me looking for help. How many more strangers are going to want me to heal them? I can’t keep saying no. It is just too painful. I can barely live with myself for what just happened with that little girl. I want to leave. Go hide somewhere.”

Isabella sat next to Connor and put her arm around him.

“Please, you can’t be serious.”

“Don’t you see, the Professor said all the Healers before me had gone into hiding? The same thing happened to them that is happening to me. They were hunted down and killed, or they went underground to avoid being found and not being killed or having to deal with situations like what I just went through. I get it now. I understand they did what they had to do. And now, I have to leave too. I want to leave.”

Isabella said nothing for the several minutes she just held Connor close. There was nothing to say. She understood that sometimes not speaking was just as powerful as speaking.

“If you leave, then I am coming with you,” Isabella said.

It was Connor’s turn to react. He pushed Isabella away from him so he could look at her. This next part was even more painful than he had imagined.

“No, you’re staying here,” he sternly offered.

“Why? I love you and I want to be with you,” she uttered as anger tinged her voice.

“I love you too, but your life is in as much danger as mine as long as you stay with me, near me or associate with me.”

“Are you saying that we are through?” Isabella asked.

“I am not saying it’s over; I am just saying, you can’t come with me. This is for your safety as well as it is mine.”

“Look Connor, I am not giving up on us. Every relationship has its issues. We just happened to have underworld assassins coming after us. We have done okay so far. And now that we know what we are up against we can prepare ourselves.”

“How do you prepare against these assassins?” Connor asked, confused.

“We start training. We learn how to defend ourselves. Certainly, the Professor must have some ideas.”

Wolf, who had been listening intently to the conversation, barked one time as if to signify she too was in agreement with that logic.

Isabella reached out and scratched Wolf around the ears and leaned into her for a beloved Wolf kiss, which the old girl eagerly offered up.

“You see Connor, Wolf agrees with me, we learn to fight,” Isabella laughed.

What about what happened, what about the people coming to the door looking for me, asking for my help, what happens when others start coming?”

Isabella paused about that one. How do you tell a person that their last hope for help was not going to help them?

“I don’t know Connor; I don’t have all the answers. I just don’t want you to leave.”

“Isabella, I don’t want to leave either. But I don’t want to die, but if anything happened to you or my parents, I would never forgive myself.”

“Connor let’s have some faith. We understand what is happening now. We understand you are being hunted. And, so far, it seems like we are doing pretty good with those assassins. We have Wolf here, we know she is good for a fight, and we have Bandit, and he seems to be pretty protective, and you got me. So, it seems like you got your own posse to back you up now.  

“I don’t know about this,” Connor stammered.

Connor was right to be nervous; a boy, a girl, a dog, and a raccoon taking on the Devil and the underworld? It sounded like a bad joke.

Chapter 34

Professor Saint Graham was fast asleep in his chair deep within the Ancient Manuscripts section of the Peculiar Public Library. He had fallen asleep reading the early writings of Pliny the Younger, entitled Mt. Vesuvius; Life along the Volcano, with his feet propped up on a desk, the ancient tome was perfectly resting his chest, and his hands crossed on his lap for good measure. It was a position of comfort the Professor had mastered many years ago.

What had become obvious when Connor and Isabella entered the library was how loud the Professor could be, even when he was fast asleep. The Professor was a very loud snorer. With every breath in, his chest heaved upwards and with every exhale his beard fluttered in his exhalation.

“Should we wake him up?” Isabella asked loudly as she held her hands over her ears to muffle the roaring snore of the Professor.

“What?” Connor asked.

Should we wake him up?” Isabella repeated loudly.

“I can’t hear you,” Connor yelled back.

“I said should we wake him!” Isabella yelled back.

“I heard you the first time,” Connor snickered at his simple joke. Of course they were going to wake him; the Professor had asked them to be here.

Connor reached over and shook the Professor. He did not move.  Connor shook him again. He again did not move. He was quite a professional sleeper. Wolf jumped up and placed her two paws on the Professor’s chest and barked several times in his ear.

The Professor, startled, opened one eye and looked about, smiled showing his aging teeth, and roused himself up. He was not the least bit surprised.

“Well, hello there my young friends,” he exclaimed as he patted the sides of Wolf and pushed her off him. “Would you care for some tea? It is Earl Grey, a find blend that I have imported from the cutest tea shop in London, me and the proprietor, Ms. Oakwood, have become very dear friends over the years. 

Connor and Isabella politely declined.

“Connor, I have been working on our dilemma,” the Professor started.

“Our dilemma?” Connor interrupted.

“Yes, Connor, our dilemma. You see my boy; we are in this together. There is no turning back now. “We have stirred quite a hornet’s nest,” the Professor continued.

“Excuse me Professor; I do not see how you are involved?” Connor retorted.

“Connor my boy of course you don’t understand.  Completely understandable at this point, as many things are happening here and of course they are happening rather quickly. Please let me carry on uninterrupted and then we can discuss the minutia.”

The Professor paused long enough to take his whistling tea kettle off the stove, and to pour his hot water into the tea pot. He added two bags of his precious Earl Gray and then he opened a cupboard and removed several lemon cookies and placed them on a plate. He offered Connor and Isabella some, but they again declined. The Professor then offered both Wolf and Bandit a cookie and the two familiars jumped at the opportunity. The Professor understood the way to an animal’s heart is always though their stomach.

“Since your accident, you have been chosen to be a Healer, a very noble undertaking.  This only happens every few hundred years are so, and now it is your responsibility to carry on this tradition. Now, there are many things in this world we, and when I say we, I really mean Isabella and yourself, do not understand Connor. Would you agree?”

Connor was confused but nodded. Isabella reached over and took Connor’s hand into hers and held it tight.

The Professor used the interlude to pour his tea, and to take a sip. His eyes gleamed as the hot liquid raced down his throat providing him with his afternoon caffeine boost.  He followed it with a lemon cookie which he popped into his mouth whole.

“Delicious. These lemon cookies are homemade by a cherished friend of mine, are you sure you two don’t want one?” he asked again, the ever-gracious host that he was.

Connor and Isabella shook their heads again in unison.

“Very well,” he replied as he sat the plate back down. “Now Connor, twice you have been attacked. Those attacks were not random as we have discussed. The forces of the Underworld see the Healers as a threat to the chaos that is the world we live in. Connor, The Underworld, and those foul demons and their ilk need chaos to thrive. With chaos comes fighting, insurrections, wars, and all sorts of mayhem.  The forces of evil feed off that anarchy, it fuels their very survival.”

“So, what does this have to do with me?” Connor asked.

“Connor my boy, you have the ability to disrupt evil, put an end to their chaos, and to restore goodness to our world. You are inspiring hope. And, the Devil and his foul ilk, cannot have that.  Now, the Devil and his ilk are now hunting you. They will not people having hope.” The Professor clarified his voice rising as he spoke.

“That is why I am leaving. I am going to get away from here, go underground and avoid everyone.” Connor countered.

“And, I am going with him,” Isabella, piped in. She now understood the gravity of the situation.

“Of course you are, a very common response of the Healers. Run away, hide, and hope you are not discovered. I completely understand it.” The Professor stood up and walked along his bookshelves.

“Connor, do you see these books, these tomes, these scrolls?” As if to dramatize his point, he picked up a stack of books and then set them down again. The books came down hard and made a loud noise as dust floated off them from the impact. The Professor coughed as he inhaled the dust.

“Connor, everything you see here is about the Healers. For thousands of years, as long as people could tell the story of how their loved one was saved by a miraculous stranger, these stories have been jotted down on clay tablets, papayas, cloth and paper, on any surface that could be written on, and before we were writing, they were simply oral stories told around the campfire and passed from one generation to another.  And now, I am also a recipient of that Goodness. You saved my life in the mall. Connor, I am now forever indebted to you.”

“I don’t want anybody indebted to me. I just want to leave. Those people in that mall were hurt because of me. They were innocent victims.  They were attacked to get at me,” Connor replied angrily. He was not angry at the Professor; no, he was just angry at the situation he now found himself in.

“Yes, they were. Connor and it is going to happen again. Evil is trying to get you to use up what ability you have.  You’re like a battery Connor, right now you’re charged up with life saving energy, able to heal people from whatever malady that they are inflicted with.”

“But more harm will come to those around me if I stay?” Connor asked.

“Yes, Connor and many Healers before you have done the same thing. They too fled and disappeared. No one knows if they are alive are dead, they could still be walking among us, conserving what energy they have to live a life of solitude. Never sharing their gifts for fear of their discovery, but outliving all they know and love.  Connor, you are welcome to run and hide, but you will always be hunted, the Underworld will never give up looking for you, and at some point, you will live far beyond the lovely Isabella here. She will die, and you will live on. And, then Connor, you be haunted by the worst thing possible,” here the Professor paused for effect. He sipped his tea while Connor and Isabella pondered what was next. It was several moments before he continued.

“Connor, if you never heal anyone, then you could live for hundreds of years, but Isabella can’t, I mean she could live a very long life, but not as long as you. And every time you use your gift to heal Isabella of s disease or to prolong her life, the Underworld will be alerted to you and the hunt begins again, and then you two start running again. And the cycle repeats itself; run, hide, heal, then run, hide, heal.”

Connor, Isabella loves you, I can see it how she looks at you and how she holds your hand, she will beg you not to bring her back to life as she is lying on her deathbed, she will want to sacrifice her life for yours as you have sacrificed your life for hers. Then what do you do? Do you honor your beloved Isabella, or do you selfishly bring her back, hoping for another year of love?” The Professor stopped speaking. A lot had been said.

Connor looked at Isabella and she returned the look. Neither knew what to do. Neither knew what to say. Connor knew the Professor was right. Isabella knew the Professor was right.

“What do I do?” Connor asked humbly. He was confused and bewildered.

“Connor, there is no right answer for a Healer. In all of these written words,” here the Professor paused to walk around and showcase the thousands of documents he had, “there is no answer. The answer lies not in what you do, but what you become.”

“What I become?” Connor asked puzzled.

“Connor, you can become a beacon of hope for the masses, an inspiration to others. An example of what to do when faced with adversity.” The Professor encouraged, sounding more like a coach than a college professor.

“I am a nobody,” Connor refuted.

“Connor, it is the nobody in this world that become somebody. Then everybody wants to be like that somebody who use to be a nobody.” The Professor cheered with a hearty grin.

Chapter 35

“What about the next attack? When will they come for me again?” Connor queried worriedly.

“When will they come for us,” Isabella forcibly interjected. Connor had not yet accepted that they were a team in this, and Isabella meant to change that mindset.

“Connor and my dear Isabella,” the Professor paused to smile a great toothy grin at the young lady for her show of courage, “there is no way of knowing when that will happen, but there are things we can do and there are clues that we can watch for.” The Professor offered what little in the way of reassurances that he had.

“First thing is first, Connor, I have taken the liberty of contacting some professional acquaintances of mine, and here you will find all the needed paperwork making Wolf and Bandit here are now declared special “service animals” for both Isabella and yourself,” The Professor handed Connor a manila envelope with all the accreditations signed and dated by the appropriate authorities attesting that Connor always needed to have the two furry guardians nearby for his and Isabella’s special “condition”.

“I now have a condition?” Isabella quipped.

“I even had these made,” where upon the Professor reached into his drawer and pulled out two canvas animal vests. Both Wolf and Bandit, keenly aware the conversation had shifted to them, immediately, raised their hairs on their back at the site of their special vests.

“Aw, they will look so cute in those vests,” Isabella cooed.

“I would recommend keeping these two faithful companions near you at all times.  Animals have a keen sense of the Underworld and I have no doubt keeping these two at hand will seriously add to your offensive and defensive capabilities,” the Professor continued.

“Professor, would you have anything that I could use? I have no intention of not getting in on the next fight,” Isabella added.

The Professor paused, pondered what the young lady said and then beamed another toothy grin at the young lady.  Here was someone who had already shown great courage in two attacks by the enemy, and with her knowledge of the situation that Connor and she faced, was not willing to shirk from the fight, but instead wanted to get in on the fight that was coming. He was honored to be in her presence, and he could only think of one thing to give her.

“As a matter of fact, young lady, I do have something for you.” 

The Professor wandered over to a very large safe and after several moments of tapping his skull in an attempt to remember a combination, he remembered the correct combination and opened it. He retrieved a small box. A very plain wooden box, painted with a shiny black paint. So shiny was the paint that it reflected whenever someone looked onto it. 

“I think the lady this was intended for would be very pleased it was going to you,” the Professor said has he handed Isabella the box.

Isabella opened the box and let out a gasp. “I can’t,” she mumbled.

“You can, and you should,” the Professor continued, a small smile escaping his lips.

Connor looked on; not knowing yet what was in the box, his eyes widened as he tried to see what the object of discussion was.

Isabella reached in and took out the object, it was a ring; she took it out of the box and placed it on her ring finger. The ring flashed as it caught the light of the lamps and reflected the light into various prisms around the room. She stared down at the setting. It was a very large red stone, surrounded by a cluster of white stones set onto a gold band.

“Why would you give this to me?” She asked confused by the gesture of generosity.

“I have been carrying that little trinket around for a very long time. Honestly, I think it is time it goes to a good-hearted person like yourself. I think you can make more use of it than me, and there is more to it than meets the eye.” the Professor offered up with a smirk.

“I can’t accept this,” Isabella countered. She felt humbled by the offer, but she could not in good consciousness take it.

“But you can my dear; I just keep it locked in a safe, and the ring was never meant to be locked in a dark box.” The Professor reached out and took Isabella’s hand so that he could highlight the ring. He stared at it for the longest time.

 “Professor whose ring was this?” Isabella inquired cautiously, already suspecting she knew the answer.

“This was a gift for my wife,” the Professor replied as he wiped a tear from his eye. “Only, I was never able to give it too her.”

“Connor, be aware that the forces of Heaven will be mobilizing, and now that they are aware of you, help will be on the way. Just do not despair my boy. Despair is the tool of the Devil himself. You may not see Heaven coming to your aid, but, they will come.” The Professor glanced a large sword mounted on a nearby wall.

“And, Heaven, can come with a vengeance, when provoked, I assure you my boy.”

Chapter 36

For the next several days Connor kept a very low profile. Or, as low of a profile that one could keep with a snow-white dog and raccoon as your guardian animals. In school Connor was the talk of the school. Everyone wanted to pet Wolf and Bandit, hold them, and even have their pictures taken with them. Wolf, the nobler of the duo, was less inclined to reducing herself to a circus animal. Bandit, however, loved every minute of the attention and was more than happy to perform for the crowds.  He learned several tricks and learned he could perform for treats that Connor’s classmates were all too happy to sneak to him, despite Connor asking that no one feed the little fellow.

The second most talked about topic was the Halloween party, which was scheduled for the coming weekend. Isabella, as chairwoman of the committee was a nervous wreck. She had been running around making sure the decorations committee was decorating, the snack committee was getting the snacks in order, and the entertainment committee had lined up the band.

It was a full-time job making sure all the pieces for were coming together and it was a duty that Isabella took quite seriously. Entertainment was in her blood. Her parents loved to host monthly gatherings at their house, and as a Peculiar Debutante, Isabella had been well rehearsed in the art of entertaining, making small talk and ensuring one’s guests had a very good time, even if she was a nervous wreck in the process.

Connor kept himself busy in the Peculiar Library working with the Professor cataloging, deciphering, and learning the known histories of the Healers.  Connor found the work to be intriguing as the Professor showed Connor how to decipher the various languages of the ancient Egyptians, the renowned Greeks, the dead language of Latin and many other languages, some forgotten this present day.

At least once a week, a box would arrive from somewhere in the world with another collection of letters, scrolls, documents, or a long out of date book.  Each of these held clues.  Some of these parchments held actual accounts of the Healers going out and using their abilities; others contained records of the Healers being hunted.

During the Dark Ages, many Healers had been burned at the stake when the local town’s people feared, mistakenly, their healing abilities came directly from the devil. Others had been caught up in the Spanish Inquisition and tortured to death. Many more were stoned to death. For the Healers, it was a strange paradox.

The Healers had the ability and the desire to heal others; complete strangers to them, and yet, the very people they wanted to help, would later fear them and turn on them. As Connor learned more of the Healers history, he was horrified but what he found.

“Why would they turn on us like this?” Connor asked mortified after reading an account of how Mary Longfellow had been burned at the stake in Salem, Massachusetts in 1620. The town’s folk feared Mary was possessed by the devil.  Her crime, she healed a woman of her blindness. She was never able to help anyone else. News of the healing spread like wildfire in the town, and the village elders, fearing what they did not know, did not wait for an explanation. They had a mock trial, and the same day set Mary to the stake to be burned.

“Connor, people fear what they do not understand,” The Professor explained slowly as he looked up from an original Guttenberg Bible; an extremely rare book worth a considerable sum in today’s market, and one of the few not known in existence. The Professor kept it secret, as he did many other things.

“But we are only trying to help others,” he replied sadly.

“That is why you must keep this ability a secret Connor; at least as secret as you can,” the Professor cautioned.

Chapter 37

A late October cool front had moved in during the afternoon and by sunset, the air had a noticeable chill in it. Which is a very uncommon experience for Florida residents who are used to only two seasons in Florida: hot and not so hot.  For the Halloween party attendees, the sweet cool air was a welcome delight.  No one wants to sweat in their costumes.

Connor, lacking the funds to rent a limousine, borrowed his Father’s Volkswagen. Not the sharpest of cars to drive one’s beloved Isabella in, but, when funds are low, one does what one has to do. Isabella was more than understanding and got a laugh at being driven around in Volkswagen while in her costume. 

For their dinner, Connor and Isabella had elected to go with their favorite restaurant, the Wagon Wheel Pizza, which you will remember is how our adventure started. Connor had planned ahead and asked the owners for a little extra special attention. But he never expected the royal treatment that was to come their way. In fact, the owners were honored that the heroes of Melbourne would come to his restaurant for their special dinner.

The two-party goers got quite a laugh when the staff ran out to greet them. One waiter played valet and took the keys to the Volkswagen for them while another escorted the lovely couple to the Wagon Wheel’s finest table: a table in the corner out of sight of the normal crowd. The staff had thought of everything to include putting white linens on the table, lighting two candles and serving dinner on Wagon Wheel’s finest China, which he brought from home for this special night. The staff even set out special pizza treats for Wolf and Bandit, who sat quietly sniffing the pizzeria aromas and kept to themselves while dinner commenced.

“What are you thinking for dinner Connor?” Isabella asked gleefully on her special night.

“Well, I was thinking…”

“How about pizza?” Isabella asked laughing. Connor had never seen her more excited than she was now.

“I was thinking pizza too,” Connor replied laughing. Actually, he was thinking spaghetti, but pizza is a wonderful choice when in fact, in a pizzeria.

“Let’s do it!’ Isabella elatedly answered. 

The waitress took their order and for the next hour the two chatted about the night ahead. Would the band be okay? Would there be enough food? Would everyone like the decorations? Isabella, who had been a nervous wreck up until tonight planning, researching, and coordinating the, was surprisingly calm.

“You know Isabella for the last couple of weeks, you have been a wreck while you have been working on this,” Connor commented over his third slice of pizza. A slice that was heavy on pepperoni and mushrooms, and still piping hot, as steam rolled off it as Connor lifted the heavy slice to his plate.

“Connor, it is like a heavy weight has been lifted off me. And I woke up feeling like today was going to be a special day.  I think we are going to have the time of our lives tonight.”

“We deserve a great night!” Connor exclaimed. The two had been through a lot. Connor lifted up his glass of diet soda to toast their great evening.

“To us,” Isabella merrily toasted as she raised her glass.

“Isabella, I think tonight will be a night we remember for the rest of our lives,” Connor happily replied as he clinked Isabella’s glass of cherry soda.

Chapter 38

Peculiar High School was ablaze with activity for the night.  The Halloween party was scheduled for 7:00 PM, but the crowds began arriving early. Eager to begin their night, the students arrive at school dressed in their costumes; some were science fiction characters, some of the girls wore nurses’ outfits. Others were dressed as comic book characters. One was even dressed as a gorilla.

Chief Hugs was on duty this evening and checked everyone’s over as they came in. He gave each person a good looking over just in case anyone tried to spike the punch or pull off any pranks. The good Chief knew that safety was paramount.

The students lined up for the photographer who happily flashed his camera as he asked the party goers and the couples to assume various poses and stances. But these were fun photographs of young people having fun; funny looks and crazy expressions appeared on film.  

Isabella, the architect of the evening, was in her glory as she mingled with friends, chaperones and teachers who had graciously volunteered their time to make sure the night was an unforgettable event for all. Isabella was most gracious, personally thanking everyone for their time and energy as she showered everyone with copious amounts of praise, thanks, and gratitude. And she meant every word of it such was her gracious nature.

Connor, looking much older and more sophisticated than the others, mingled, and made small talk with his friends. Who after the initial shock of his aging wore off, treated him no different than any they ever did. He was not quite the party going type, but he knew he had to put on a good show for Isabella. This was her party.

Connor did not have to try too hard at mingling, having Wolf and Bandit as his ever-present sidekick made Connor quite the party attraction. Connor’s classmates never seemed to get enough of the furry duo, and everyone took the time to stop by and pay the two some attention. Wolf wanted no part of all the attention, and she was quick to curl her lips as an early warning for anyone who got too close. Something was troubling her. Even Connor had noticed her fidgetiness.

Bandit, unlike his Canis lupus counterpart who considered herself more noble than him, relished in all the attention he was receiving. Bandit was more than happy to climb atop the party goer’s shoulders, jump from one set of shoulders to another, and pose for various pictures and without any regrets and certainly no shame, stood on his hind legs asking for handouts for his efforts. Bandit excelled in soliciting offerings and many crackers, fresh fruit, and cookies came his way, of which he never seemed to tire of, nor did he ever seem to get full of.

The crowds danced to a wide variety of music. The band, a group of students from Peculiar High school were eager to show off their musical abilities and entertained all with a wide variety of music that appealed to all.  However, the real party began once the band began accepting requests.  The young ladies tended to request the most current songs, while the young men went for the slow dance songs.  These were easier for the boys to dance to, and of course, everyone that night wanted to hold a pretty girl close.

Bruce, enigmatic band leader knew how to get the crowd going and after several slow songs for the couple’s dance, introduced the crowd to a popular 1990’s song.  The students erupted in cheers as they recognized a popular 1990’s song that sent a wave of renewed energy through the crowd.

Everyone jumped to their feet, including the chaperones, teachers, even Chief Hugs, who was normally quite stoic when working, joined into the chorus line, and shouted out the chorus line. The crowd cheered, clapped and exalted in the perfect evening and at the thoughts that the world was their oyster, and they were just beginning to show it who was boss.

Yes, what could go wrong?

Connor and Isabella were not to be left out and for an evening, they set aside all their cares. They sang with the crowd, and they also shouted out the chorus lines along with the everyone else, knowing that their life was indeed special and that their future was looking extraordinary. Despite all that had happened so far, they felt good about the moment. Connor suddenly overwhelmed with the emotion of it all, stopped clapping, singing, and turned to Isabella. “I just want you to know how much I love you, and to thank you for everything you have done for me,” he yelled out.

Isabella stopped and with the crowd yelling and dancing all about her, she stopped to take the moment all in. She too was moved by everything, and with Connor saying that he loved her, the emotion that had long been bottled within her welled up and came forth in the form of happy tears, “I love you to!”

The two embraced and for the first time they kissed like a couple in love.

Professor Saint Graham for his part this evening was at the local coffee shop, enjoying a rousing discussion with his book group about a recent bestselling text that concerned mathematical equations hidden within the early writings of the Knights Templar. The Professor, using his research, had contributed to the author’s premises that hidden mathematical messages were coded in earlier transcripts as a means of hiding one’s true message and the location of hidden treasure. This practice was carried on through the ages as secret societies, governments, and those who sought to overthrow governments communicated back and forth in open sight of the uninformed.  

The Professor was in his element and loudly and excitedly expressed his opinions to the gathered; so loud was the Professor that the manager had to ask him to settle down several times. These admonishments from the young Megan, the proprietor of the shop, drew raucous laughter from the book group as she scolded the professor more than once; these admonishments were half-hearted of course, the Professor was still her number one customer for tea, cinnamon scones and snickerdoodle cookies.

The Professor settled down and continued his talk in a more subdued voice. He was holding court and the faithful had gathered to hear his insights and thoughts.  More tea was brought out, and many more pastries were scarfed down. The Professor saw Megan coming over once again, and laughed out loud, “Oops, I’m in trouble again.”

“Hey fellows, there is a wicked storm coming, we can see it in the distance, purple lighting and all, headed this way fast. You better make sure your car windows are all rolled up,” Megan suggested as she patted the Professor lovingly on the back.

The Professor’s face gave way from joyfulness to concern. The weatherman had portended, ‘clear skies, no chance of rain,’ it was supposed to be a perfect evening. “Megan are you sure,” he asked suddenly distressed.

Megan laughed out loud not realizing what the Professor was referring to. “This is Florida Professor, I would think of all people, you would be used to these unexpected storms.”

The Professor stood up and rushed over to the window.  To the north he could see the storm clouds coming. With what little ambient light there was he could this storm did not span the horizon. It did not have the specifications of a normal storm. It was too tightly packed and did not have the look of a normal thunderstorm. Purple lightning was ferociously arcing out from the center; each purple arc lighting up the sky in a wicked formation as it raced across the sky. This was a violent storm, and it was moving fast. Too fast.

“Come on Professor, come back and sit down. Nothing to do but, wait out the storm,” yelled one fellow book club member.

“Oh no,” he muttered to only himself.  The Professor had seen this storm before. “He is coming; the battle has come to us.” he mumbled to himself quietly.

“Professor what is wrong?” asked Megan, seeing the worried look on the Professor’s face and completely misreading his facial ques. “I got plenty of scones for you, don’t worry,” she reassured him with a laugh.

“Megan, I need your moped,” he turned to her and commanded the young lady with all the force that a tenured professor of forgotten languages could muster.

Chapter 39

Chief Hugs and Ms. Rucket had both stepped outside for some fresh air, when the Chief noticed the storm clouds circling overhead and the purple lightening streaking across the sky. “Odd, no mention of storms tonight,” he thought to himself. The ground was beginning to show evidence of raindrops falling. Cracks of loud thunder were exploding around them.

“Chief, I am going to go check on the catering company. They should have been here by now. I will be right back,” Mrs. Rucket announced as she walked towards the cafeteria trying to avoid the newly formed and completely unexpected puddles of water.  

Chief Hugs took a deep breath and noticed the scent of something burning. It smelled acidic, almost sulfur in nature.  “Somebody is out here smoking,” he whispered to himself. The Chief walked the parking lot, checking the cars and looking for his suspected smokers hiding out, but he found no one.  Nothing seemed to be amiss here. He could hear the cheers of the crowd as the band started another rousing song. Perhaps it was ‘just someone having a cookout in the neighborhood, and something was left on the grill far too long,’ he thought to himself as he turned to walk back into the gymnasium.  

Just as Chief Hugs stepped into the foyer of the gymnasium, he was startled by the hulking figure standing in its corner alcove. “Oh, I did not see you there,” he spoke startled. The gigantic figure did not move. He was wearing a large black overcoat with a hood to ward off the rain that had accompanied him. Next to him was an enormously large black dog who also was staring into the gymnasium. The figure was staring into the dancing, jubilant crowd watching them. Studying them.

“Can I help you?” Chief Hugs suggested.

“They taste better when young,” the hulking man muttered to himself.

“What did you say?” The Chief asked, alarmed.

 “Connor. I am here for the one they call, Connor,” he hissed. He still had not turned to face Chief Hugs, he merely stared straight ahead, scanning the crowd trying to find Connor.

Chief Hugs’ eyebrows went up. His heartbeat sped up. The man reeked of smoke. But not just any smoke. The Chief had smelled it before. It was the left-over scent of fire, not a wood fire, but of sulfur. Chief Hugs’ eyes went wide as he understood the danger he and the students were now in, and his hand raced for the duty pistol at his side.

“I need to see some identification from you mister,” he demanded sternly, his hand resting on his pistol, ready to draw the weapon if this should go bad.

“Where is the one they call, Connor,” the hulk hissed as he stepped into the gymnasium ignoring Chief Hugs.

Chief Hugs reached out and grabbed the huge man’s left arm and tried to jerk him backwards. If there was going to be a struggle, the Chief did not want the party goers to see it. The man stopped and turned and stared down the Chief with impunity. There was nothing this human could do to him. He was no more a threat to him than a fly is to you, an annoyance, a bother, an irritation. Nothing more, nothing less.

With lightning speed and with unbelievable strength Ira reached down and picked up the Chief with his left hand and hoisted him off the ground by his neck. The Chief Hugs struggled to free himself and kicked Ira several times in the midsection.  It was of no use. Ira had him in his vice like grip and drew him in close so he could sniff him; he wanted to smell the Chief’s fear.

Ira continued crushing the Chief’s neck, preventing the Chief Hugs from breathing, or speaking. Ira loved that smell that humans give off when they realized their lives were in danger. He relished it. He craved it. He fed off it.

The Chief looked under the cowl and could see the man staring out at him. It was not so much a man staring at him, as it was something wearing a man’s skin.  The skin was peeling back, in some spots it had fallen off, exposing a second reddish black skin.  This man’s breath smelled of sulfur and ash.  This was no man, it was a creature disguised as a man, and its disguise was wearing off.

Chief Hugs was now in mortal fear of his life, he knew he had only seconds to live, and he did what any one of us would do. He reached down, pulled out his 9mm pistol and fired all 15 rounds at point blank range into Ira’s chest. Ira laughed as the bullets pricked his skin, but the hollow point rounds did no damage. Mere irritants. Ira turned his bulk forward and threw the Chief all the way across the gymnasium slamming our hero against the far wall. Chief Hug’s body shuddered from the impact as he struck the wall with a sickening thud.  Knocked unconscious from the violent impact, he remembered nothing else and fell to the ground in a heap, his body quivering uncontrollably.

The band stopped playing in mid song. The whole crowd turned at the shots being fired.  There was confusion at first. Had some prankster brought fireworks? But, as the crowd watched Ira throw the good Chief into the wall, the realization of what was happening struck them. Several young ladies screamed in fright. Ira stepped into the gymnasium, and stood looking at the crowd, his hell hound at his side. The Hell hound let out a roar. 

“Connor, I am here for the Connor,” Ira bellowed as he scanned the crowd looking for his victim.  “Connor, come face me, and I give you my word, no one else has to suffer,” he hissed as he stepped towards the gathered. Of course he did not mean what he said. He intended to kill all of them. Long had it been since he had feasted on fresh young souls such as these.

Several of the students ran for the doors to make good their escape.  But Ira was a demon of the highest order, and he was well versed in the dark arts. Ira waved his arm and with a few words muttered quietly, he sealed all the doors and windows shut. A green smoky light emitted from all the doors and windows as the spell took hold.  It was demonic Spell of Containment, one of a demon’s many tricks. No one could escape the gymnasium. Worse, no one could come to save them. The students were now trapped like lambs before the slaughter.

Ira moved closer to the crowd, “Come Connor, do not be afraid. Everyone, please continue with your party, do not let me intrude,” he instructed kindly. He was now using his powers of demonic persuasion, trying to keep Connor and the crowd calm before the slaughter. He found humans tasted better if they did not panic too soon. The crowd stood still. An eerie quiet had overcome them. Their weaker human minds already falling victim to Ira’s powers of persuasion.

Ira moved through the crowd looking for Connor, sniffing for the Healer’s scent, hoping his unique scent would give him away. He did not know what Connor looked like. He could not distinguish Connor from any of the other mortals in front of him. Several times Ira stared right at Connor, but he did not realize who he was looking at. Connor if he stood still among the crowd was concealed. Connor held Isabella’s hand, and when she turned to look at him, he nodded at her to do nothing.

Connor glanced over at Wolf and Bandit and could see them standing along the edge of the gymnasium, next to the bleachers. They were hiding, waiting for Connor’s signal. Connor waved his hand slightly at the two to reassure them. And he wanted to make sure they did nothing without his command. Connor was not falling for the demon’s suggestions. His mind was clear and alert.

The crowd for the most part was silent as Ira and the hell hound walked among them. No one said anything, but several of the students started whimpering. One girl was openly crying. One fellow wet himself and was standing in a pool of urine of his making. Ira walked among them and on occasion would reach up with his left hand and touch the hair of one of the girls. “You are truly beautiful creatures, I will give you that,” he hissed.

Ira had found a young lady to his liking, and he stood beside her. He was sniffing her, running his left hand along her arm, enjoying the touch of her body. Ira towered over the young girl. He clasped his hand around her throat and lifted her up high; her feet dangling off the ground, the look of horror overcoming her. “I shall wear you next,” he hissed out loud as he drew his black demonic knife to stab her. He plunged it towards her heart, and the blade squealed with excitement at its coming victim. It was a ploy.

“Let her go,” Connor commanded, stepping away from the crowd so that Ira knew who it was that spoke.

Ira stopped the knife thrust as the blade as it pricked the girls skin. Her eyes were wide open with fear as she thought her time had come. But Ira was not interested in this girl. Not yet at least.

Ira dropped the girl like a doll and turned to face Connor. He wanted a closer look at this Healer who had caused him so much aggravation, who had caused him the loss of several of his minions. Who would just not die like he was supposed to. He lumbered forward closing in on Connor till he stood just a foot from him. He towered over Connor by at least a foot. “So, you are the Healer?” he demanded excitedly.

“I prefer Connor. My friends call me Con for short. You can call me what you want.” Connor snapped bravely looking up at the demon. Extraordinarily, he was not afraid of this servant of evil. Connor was not afraid. A calmness had come over him that he had never known before. Yet, he could feel his muscles aching to be used. A strength that he never knew he had was welling up from deep within him.

Wolf, not waiting for Connor, was silently moving behind the demon. Her eyes blazed with a blue heat such was her hatred for the foul creature that threatened her Connor. But she was a cunning creature, and she was waiting for the moment to strike. Bandit, much more excitable, kept urging her on with his excited squeaks and squeals. He wanted in on this fight. The Hell hound heard Bandit’s squeals and turned to face down Wolf. He let out yet another roar that caused many of the students to cover their ears. Wolf replied with a great howl that went on for almost a minute. Bandit, not to be outdone by the canines, let out his own high-pitched yell.

 “You need to leave here demon,” Connor commanded, “Or, I assure you, this will not go well for you.”

Ira roared with laughter. “Who are you to command me, Healer?” he demanded as he leaned in closer to Connor, inches from his face. Ira sniffed, but he could smell no fear about Connor. No dread. None of the anxiety that he had smelled thousands of times before he had his way with his other victims.

“I am the chosen Healer of this Age, and Demon, I command you to leave!” Connor roared back as he balled up his fist and prepared to strike.

“You are nothing Healer,” Ira crowed triumphantly, “I will feast on you in front of your friends. The darkness is coming, our time is beginning, and soon my people will not need to hide in the shadows of your precious world. The surface world will belong to us once again and a new Dark Ages will prevail,” he postulated to Connor. Ira leaned in closer, mocking Connor. It was his mistake.

Connor struck Ira with all that he had. It was a perfect punch, delivered with a ferocity that Connor never expected, nor knew he had. The Demon staggered backwards, stunned by the ferocity of the sucker punch that he never saw coming. The demon staggered about for a moment trying to adjust to the stars he saw, but he did not go down. Demons are far tougher than we know.

“Ow!” Connor exclaimed. It was his best shot and his hand ached from hitting Ira. It was like hitting a wall. Connor shook his hand trying to get the numbness out of it.

Ira shook his head and roared with laughter.  “That was good Healer, I will give you that. You got spunk,” he hissed. “But, it is time to end our game, your time has come, there is no one here that will come to your aid. You are alone Healer boy.” The Demon stepped closer to Connor, grabbed him with his claw and lifted him high above his head for all to see.

Chapter 40

Ms. Rucket hurled her body against the gymnasium door yet again.  She was trying desperately to break into the gymnasium. She had heard the shots being fired by Chief Hugs and when she came running, she found the doors to the gymnasium sealed shut.  It was the demonic Spell of Containment that Ira had cast, but Ms. Rucket did not know that yet. What she did know was she could hear the screams of the students inside. Her students. Something horrible was happening and she had to get to them. Other administrators might have run, called for help, summoned the police, and stood outside lamenting. But not Ms. Rucket. She ran into trouble.

She tried kicking the doors open, but that did not work. She tried throwing her body against the doors but that did not work. She then grabbed a student bench and began ramming the door trying to break in. Still, the Spell of Containment held strong. But she would not give up.

So, it was when Professor Saint Graham arrived to the gymnasium pulling up on Megan’s moped, with a great sword strapped across his back, that he found Ms. Rucket courageously trying to break into the gymnasium. 

“I am here to help!” he cried out hurriedly as he pulled up. He could hear the screams of the students from within the gymnasium and he knew he had to act quickly.

Ms. Rucket stopped for a moment to assess this person. She did not know the good professor and she was not sure if he was here to help or to harm. To be safe, she assumed her boxing stance and put her fist up. It was always better to be safe than sorry.

“Who are you?” she excitedly asked as she sized up this newcomer with a sword strapped across his back. 

 “Professor Saint Graham from the Peculiar Library, I am here to help you Principal Rucket!” he yelled excitedly. Ms. Rucket took a second look and then recognized the good professor. She had seen him once before during a library lecture.

“What are you going to do with that sword?” she asked prudently.

“Well, I intent to stick it into that foul beast that has those kids trapped inside.” The Professor countered.

“I like you’re thinking Professor,” she replied excitedly.

“I can’t get these door opens,” she exasperatedly yelled out as she threw her body against the doors yet again.

“It’s a demonic spell, no human can breach its boundaries once cast,” the Professor responded as he looked over the door seeing the glow of green light from the cracks of the door. The spell was holding fast. And would remain such until Ira removed it.

Ms. Rucket stopped in her tracks as she was about to slam into the door again.

“What do you mean, demonic?” she asked incredulous, not believing the words she just heard.

“I don’t have time to go into the full story, but a terrible demon is here, and he means to harm as many of these students as he can,” Professor Saint Graham responded as he struggled to recall what incantation he could use to break the spell.

“When you say demon, you mean to tell me a demon of the underworld? Like the Devil?” Ms. Rucket asked excitedly. 

The Professor looked over and replied “You got it. And I assure you, a very dangerous one at that.”

“A demon?” Ms. Rucket asked again, her face furrowed as she contemplated what she heard with disbelief.

The Professor simply turned and nodded. It was not every day that someone heard a demon was in their midst.  The Professor turned back to the door and tried to invoke several incantations that he had memorized, but nothing would unseal the demon spell. He was perplexed. He could hear the students screaming out in fear and pain and he could hear a great struggle erupting behind the doors. But he could not figure out a way to unseal the door.

“No human can breach this spell and I don’t have one that will negate it,” he said out loud exasperated to Ms. Rucket who was standing by watching the Professor. “We are going to need something more powerful than me.”

“Wait a minute. More powerful? I have an idea. I’ll be right back.” Ms. Rucket had a sliver of an idea that she thought would work.

The Professor tried several more angelic chants that he had had success with before, but nothing worked.

Moments later Ms. Rucket pulled up to the gymnasium door in a big yellow school bus. She opened the door and yelled at the Professor who stared back thoughtfully. “You said something powerful right? Something not human right? Well, this is all I got. What you think?”

Professor Saint Graham suddenly found himself being intrigued by this Principal. A fast thinking, take on all comers, woman who was just as eager to get into this fray as he was. He stepped onto the school bus.  

“What is your plan?” he yelled out to Ms. Rucket.

Ms. Rucket closed the school bus door and threw the bus into reverse backing up as far as possible. She wanted to get some distance between the bus and the gymnasium door.

“You might want to sit down and buckle up Professor,” She offered with attitude. “We are going to ram those doors at full speed.”

“Damn good thinking my dear, damn good thinking!” The Professor exalted.

“A demon here. At Peculiar High School! My school! Oh, I knew the day would come when I would be tested. But a demon. How is this going to look on my evaluation!” she excitedly told herself. She was talking out loud and the Professor could hear her.  

Mrs. Rucket pressed the accelerator down, threw the bus into gear and let off the brake. The bus tires squealed, and smoke billowed till the tires found their traction and hurled the bus forward. Ms. Rucket laughed at loud as she barreled forward towards the school doors, the bus gaining ramming speed, “Oh it’s on, it’s on!” She yelled to no one in particular.

Chapter 41

The gymnasium doors burst opened, shards of wood, concrete and metal flew across the gymnasium floor. Ira turned his head as he heard the bus crashing through the doors. He had not expected any interruptions. His eyes went wide, and he gasped as the big yellow bus closed in on him. Perhaps it was a rare moment of confusion and frustration, something he had rarely ever experienced. Ira did not have time to react; perhaps he was too flabbergasted at the audacity of the human at the wheel. But then Ira had never met Ms. Rucket.

Ms. Rucket eyed the beast of a man holding Connor high above his head and aimed her big yellow bus right for him. A bizarre look of excitement overcame her. A very toothy grin emerged from ear to ear.

“The wheels of the bus go round and round,” Mrs. Rucket crooned out loud to herself as she drove the bus with purposeful fury into Ira and the hellhound. Ira did not have a chance to move, both he and the hell hound were stuck by the bus and slammed into the grill and carried forward. In the sudden impact, Ira lost his grip on Connor, who fell to the ground as the bus passed perilously close to him. The wind from the bus whooshing across his face, undoing his perfectly combed hair for which he had worked so hard on for the evening. As Connor looked up into the bus windows, he could see Professor Saint Graham standing tall in the aisle smiling at him from ear to ear. Help was here at last.

Ms. Rucket did not stop the bus. No, she pressed harder on the accelerator, and with Ira hanging onto the front grill, she drove all the way across the gymnasium floor, smashing Ira and the hell hound against the far wall crushing their bodies between the concrete wall and the bus. Ira quivered for a few moments then ceased to move any more. His eyes went dark, and his body ceased to move any more.

“Boom goes the dynamite!” Ms. Rucket yelled with excitement as she saw Ira expire before her eyes. “That’s right, that’s right, no one comes to my school and messes with my students,” she continued excitedly talking to herself. “How are you doing Professor,” she yelled to the back of the bus. But there was no response from the Professor. Where was the Professor?

Ms. Rucket scampered to the back of the bus to find the poor Professor mangled against the back of the bus. In all the excitement, he had forgotten to sit down and buckle up. Even though Ms. Rucket had warned him. As the bus crashed into the wall and came to the sudden stop, the Professor became airborne and tossed forward into the back of the bus like a rag doll. Now he lay in the back of the bus unconscious, the great sword was not to be found.

Ms. Rucket leaned down to check on the professor. His body was twisted and bruised. He had a large laceration on his head, but otherwise he fared well.

“I told you to buckle up!” she bellowed to the professor who lay there quietly dreaming of his books and far off adventures.  “PHD my ass,” she fretted as she reached down, checked his pulse and made sure he was still breathing, “more like dumb ass.” Ms. Rucket straightened out the professor and placed an emergency blanket under his head.  “You just keep laying there Professor,” was her last remark to him as she climbed out of the bus. She had all but forgotten about the sword.

Chapter 42

Connor was knocked free of Ira and found himself on the gymnasium floor. He was shaken, but he was okay. His body quickly set to the task of repairing what little damage there was; his skin prickled as the energy surged through him. As he looked about, he could see the students cowering wherever they could. Some were huddled in corners. Others were hiding under tables or behind decorations. Many though simply stood where they were and had watched everything unfold. Connor eyed Isabella among the crowd and he breathed easily, she was unharmed. He smiled at her, and she smiled back. Everything would be okay.

The back door of the bus opened up and Ms. Rucket hopped out of the bus. As the students cautiously emerged from their hiding spots, and came to realize their attacker was dead, cheers and claps erupted from the crowd.

“Demon my ass!” Ms. Rucket yelled out to the students as loud as she could as she strode confidently towards them.  It was a day of victory. She had kept her faith, her cool, and had won the battle when it was most needed. Several students ran to her and hugged her in their exuberant jubilation.

Several members of the ROTC, dressed in their uniforms, ran over to Chief Hugs to help him any which way they could.

Ms. Rucket approached Connor and grasped him in bear hug.  “So good to see you again young man, I am sure that was quite a scare. By the way, I picked up a Professor along the way, but he is taking a little nappy time at the moment. You might need to check on him when you have a moment.”

“Yes, quite a scare,” Connor replied as he grasped at his heart. Something was wrong. A sharp pain had suddenly overcome him, and he staggered forward and fell into Ms. Rucket’s arm. Isabella screamed out and ran over to Connor.

“Quick, get everyone out of here he,” he whispered, “Get them all out of here.”

“Connor what’s wrong?” Isabella cried out. Confused more than ever.

“Ms. Rucket, please get everyone out of here and as far away as possible,” Connor asked in a voice that was barely a whisper.  The pain was overwhelming him.

Ms. Rucket yelled at Bobby to call for help on Chief Hugs’ radio. She picked Connor up and was prepared to carry him out of the gymnasium when she saw it happen.  The bus moved backwards several feet. Her eyes went wide. Then the bus moved backwards several more feet. Only, no one was driving the bus.  Something else was moving it. Something very strong.

“Oh damn,” Ms. Rucket said out loud.

The bus was then pushed back about twenty feet. The screeching of the tires across the pinewood gymnasium floor caught everyone’s attention. Everyone turned towards the bus. And everyone saw what emerged. Many screamed at the sight. It was Ira. In his full demonic form. His human skin had been torn loose from his body and now hung by shreds. Now, without his human disguise, everyone could see him for the malevolent evil creature that he truly was.

Ira took several steps towards the assembled crowd. He was huge, standing nearly nine feet in height. A huge hulking beast with eyes that blazed with fire as he surveyed the crowd before him.  With a roar, he unfurled his bat-like wings and flapped them several time sending gusts of wind into the faces of the gathered. The students could smell his putrid scent of ash and fire and many gagged at the smell. And, even the hell hound was still alive, albeit bruised and battered, it still retained all its fury as it walked along side of Ira.

“Oh, you filthy, nasty, little people. I will gnaw on your bones. I will chew on your flesh. I have tired of this game with you,” he hissed as he measured the crowd. “Now, come here Connor! I will feast on you first as the rest watch!” Ira demanded as he stared at Connor.

“Not so fast Mister whatever the Hell you are,” decried a voice in a deep Scottish accent. It was Mr. Mackenzie. Mr. McKenzie had been working overtime for the party and had been in his workshop fixing a broken mop when everything had gone terribly wrong. As this was a formal school event, he wore his traditional Scottish kilt, even if he was the school janitor this evening. Now, he stepped through the doors carrying his golf bag. “This is an official Peculiar School event and I believe you are trespassing here mister. Now, be gone, or their will be trouble.”

Ira laughed again at this Scotsman.

“I said be gone,” Mr. Makenzie commanded in his Scottish voice.

Ira turned towards Connor and started walking towards him, ignoring Mr. Mackenzie.

Mr. Mackenzie, who in today’s world of troubles, never left the house unprepared, reached into his golf bag, where he kept a shotgun concealed, just in case of trouble like this, and pulled it out chambering a shotgun round in the process. “I am warning you.” He yelled again.

Ira ignored him and continued walking faster towards Connor.

“Take another step closer to the boy, and they will be your last.”

Ira continued moving toward Connor.

Mr. Mackenzie hoisted the shotgun to his shoulder and fired round after round at Ira till the gun clicked empty. The shotgun pellets slammed into Ira but like the Chiefs pistol rounds, they were merely irritants. No real harm was done to the demonic beast. He simply turned and struck Mr. Mackenzie with a back hand sending the poor fellow flying across the gym.

Ms. Rucket looked down at Connor. “Do you have a plan?”

“Run like Hell,” Connor replied.

“That sounds like a good plan to me!” She replied. 

Connor looked up at Ms. Rucket, smiled, and nodded.

Ira laughed a hideous laugh and took several steps towards Connor. Connor breathed and with a quick glance looked at the opening of the gymnasium wall.  

“You got to catch me first!” Connor yelled. He turned and bolted for the opening in the wall. He wanted to lure Ira away from his fellow students. Give them time to flee. A chance to run away.

Ira was not so easily fooled. He saw Connor eye the opening and reached behind his back pulling out his favorite weapon, his long single tailed whip. With a flick of his wrist the whip arched through the air over his head several times and then he whipped it towards Connor who had almost made it the gymnasium opening. The whip wrapped Connor’s neck stopping him in his tracks. Connor struggled to free the whip which had tightened around his neck and was slowly choking him. Ira gave a huge pull backwards, pulling Connor through the air causing him to land with a thud on his back. He lay there gasping for breath as he struggled to free himself.

Isabella screamed out loud. As did many others.

Bandit, atop Wolf like a warrior riding his steed, could take it no more and he urged Wolf into battle and the great wolf lunged forward to attack the Hell Hound. The Hell hound hurled itself towards Wolf and the three creatures became entangled into a great ball of snarling, biting, gnashing, fur.

Ira laughed at Connor.  He pulled the whip closer dragging Connor across the gymnasium floor.  Connor kicked and tried to free himself, however, he could not. Soon, Ira was standing over him.  He had his black knife at the ready.

“So, you wanted to be hero, did you? You thought you could heal these people of their ills, did you?  You people are nothing. Just, a walking hot pockets of juicy goodness, and soon, I will feast on you all. You people are nothing more than cattle to us.” Ira taunted Connor with a sneer. “But, first let us have a little fun.”

Ira lifted Connor up off the ground and then threw him onto the gymnasium floor, where he landed with a thud. Connor grimaced but did not yell out. He went to work focusing on the wound from within his mind, rushing to repair any damage he could find. Ira then lifted Connor again and again repeatedly slamming him into the wooden floor.

“Stop it!” Isabella screamed out.

Ira looked up at Isabella and laughed a wicked malicious laugh. He was having fun; tormenting Connor, Isabella and the others who were watching was just more fun. Staring at Isabella, Ira withdrew his knife, licked his tongue across the black then plunged the black screaming knife into Connor. This time Connor screamed as the blade entered his body. He could feel his very soul being sucked into the blade as it tormented him with its torments of, “his soul is good, yes his soul is good.”

Ira looked down on Connor. He was enjoying watching Connor suffer so much he ripped the blade, chunks of flesh and muscle, being pulled away as it came out, that he drove it a second time into Connor’s gut, cutting open his stomach. Connor screamed again as this new agony ripped through him.

Connor tried to focus on healing. But his mind was overloaded. There was too much pain, too much hurt, flowing through him that he could keep up with the healing as fast as Ira was inflicting damage. There was just not enough time. Especially if Ira was going to keep sticking him like a pin cushion.

Isabella turned away and could not watch Ira continue stabbing Connor. She went to cover her face with her hand when she noticed the ring on her finger. The ring given to her by Professor Saint Graham was emitting a prism of red light, almost pulsing with energy. And, as she stared into the gems, she felt a calmness overcome her. She suddenly felt empowered, even heartened. As horrible as things were; the screams of the Connor, the threat of death, Ira the demon among them. Isabella suddenly felt a sense of courage and peace flow through her. A renewed sense of strength was flowing through here pushing out the fear, the terror, and the horror she had felt moments ago.

Isabella grabbed Tommy, the quarterback for the Peculiar High School Pelicans, and pulled him closer to her, “we just can’t stand here,” she whispered.

Tommy looked at Isabela and nodded, “No we can’t.”

Isabella looked back at Ira. Suddenly, he did not seem so large, so hulking, so dangerous. She began walking towards him.

Connor, could see Isabella coming closer and he gasped out, “run Isabella!”

“No, I will not run.” Isabella defiantly responded.

Ira laughed as his attention turned for the moment and he stared down this woman who was approaching him. He looked Isabella up and down, then in the blink of an eye, too fast for Isabella to react, he struck her with his clawed hand and knocked her back.

Connor watched in horror as Isabella flew backwards into her classmates knocking several over.  She fell to the ground wheezing and coughing. The wind was knocked out of her, but the fight within her was not. She struggled to get back to her feet helped by several classmates. The ring on her finger was glowing ever brighter, shards of light splashing onto the others who were cowering nearby.

 “Stay back,” Connor implored Isabella with what little strength he had left, “Please, just get away.”

Ira laughed at this distraction. He was amused by the girl’s effort. Her gallantry. But it meant nothing to him.  He pulled his blade from Connor and prepared to stab him yet again when he heard Tommy yelling at him.

“Hey ugly! I see you can hit a girl, how about you try hitting me?” Tommy had taken Isabella’s place now and stood defiantly where Isabella had a moment ago his fist raised.

Ira’s brows furrowed. This was unusual. Normally, humans cowered in fear.  Nonetheless, he looked Tommy over then he struck him sending him flying across the gymnasium where he landed with a thud against the boy’s locker room.

Ira looked down at Connor, “this one is going through your heart Healer. There is no coming back from this one,” and as Ira raised the blade above his head, two more voices cried out in unison.

“Why don’t you fight us?” Connor looked up and saw Bobby and Justin from the wrestling team now standing defiantly close to Ira. He paused stabbing Connor and looked at the two wrestlers and knocked them back with his claw.

Ira was becoming frustrated. He snorted at this interruption and then turned his attention back to Connor. “I will feast on their flesh Healer. And there is nothing you can do about it!” He roared as he raised his knife again.

Just as he was about to bring the knife down, a chair, thrown by somebody, flew into his face and struck him across the bridge of his nose. It was not much, but it smarted and Ira’s eye watered.  He had had enough, he stood up, forgetting about Connor for the moment and unwrapped his whip from Connor’s neck.  Connor sucked in the precious life-giving air, refilling his lungs to capacity.

Armed with his whip, Ira reared back and lashed his weapon in the direction of the students. The whip end struck three of them sending them backwards howling in pain; the whip ripping flesh from bone. He drew back the whip and let it flail against several other students who were to slow to take cover; they each howled in pain as the whip found its mark across their backs. Ira reared his arm back a third time, only this time Connor struggled to his feet and grabbed onto Ira’s whip arm, causing the weapon to miss its intended targets. Connor brought several students a moment of reprieve.

Ira began shaking his arm, trying to free himself of Connor who hung on like he would hang onto a tree trunk in a terrible storm. Connor was weak; he needed more time to heal himself, his classmates had bought some time, but he still needed more. Now he could return the favor.

“Run! All of you run!” Connor screamed out.

Ira struck at Connor several times with his claw trying to free himself from the boy. Connor just closed his eyes and took each blow, grunting as the impacts fell across him. Each blow was like being hit by a sledgehammer.

“I will not run!” A voice yelled out. It was Isabella’s.  Now she had jumped onto Ira’s back and was hitting him with a weight lifting bar. Connor opened his eyes and could see Isabella striking Ira in the side of the head multiple times. He then noticed her ring, the one given by the Professor had given; the ring Isabella was wearing shining brightly and each time she hit Ira with the pole, he could see sparks flying.

Ira felt these hits. With each hit he winced as the flesh on the side of his head was torn loose. Ira had never felt pain before, he only inflicted it, and the sensation was new to him. He let out several whelps of pain.  He tried to hit Isabella, but Connor continued to clench onto his whip hand and Ira could not get the momentum right to hit Isabella.    

It was Tommy, the Peculiar High School star football quarterback, who jumped onto Ira next. He latched onto his claw, and his added meaty football bulk, aided tremendously in slowing down Ira, who now found himself struggling desperately to free himself of his three attackers. He shook himself violently, spread his wings and desperately tried to knock the three of them off, but, each held on for dear life.

As Connor watched Isabella, he could see the ring was shining as if had a life of its own. Its red light pulsed under the glow of the overhead gymnasium lights.  Connor could see the prisms of light refracting off the gems showering his classmates with dancing flashes of red colors. Connor did not know what had happened, but something, something had inspired the students to find courage within them that none knew they had.

The students thundered. The students cheered. They encouraged each other. No longer were they sheep waiting for the slaughter, no, now they were taking the fight to Ira.  They were warriors fighting for their lives and the lives of their classmates. They shared a common foe. And, if they did not all stand together, they would all surely perish together.  This thought was not lost on anyone. And now everyone joined in to do their part.

The other football players charged forward and began pummeling Ira. Ira used his wings to push them back and swung wildly with his arm and claw where he could, but weighted down, he was moving ever slower, and his blows had less of an impact.

Bobby and Justin, the two wrestlers charged forward followed by the rest of the Peculiar High School wrestler team. They now followed the football players and with their skill in grappling and tackling they lunged forward grabbing legs, arms, and wings where they could adding to the menagerie of bodies holding on to Ira and weighing him down.

Jimmy, captain of the baseball team broke into the team’s locker and grabbed the team’s baseball bats and passed them out to the team members. Now armed, the team ran forward and surrounded Ira swinging and hitting the great beast. Unfortunately, a couple of the boys missed their mark and one or two hit Connor in the process.

Bruce, the band leader, turned up his band’s speakers to the highest setting: the setting that would in normal times, have parents complaining, ears aching, and the police being called. He leaned over his shoulders, and yelled, “Play like there is no tomorrow fella’s, because there may not be one!” Their hard-hitting, head banging music echoed through the gymnasium, raising everyone’s spirits.

The cheerleaders began cheering. The Junior Reserve Officers Training Corps members took their positions and whenever a football or wrestler was knocked loose, they charged in and took their place. Even the Peculiar High Role Players Guild, led by their brave, but rather impetuous leader, Randy, took up the assault and armed themselves with chairs and tables and charged forward with all the bravery they could muster at a moment’s notice, and piled onto the Ira battle.

But demons are hard to dispatch. Let alone kill. Their outer skin is toughened by centuries of abuse and exposure to the elements, especially fire.  Their bones are thick and unyielding. And their tolerance to pain knows no bounds.  No, demons are very hard to kill for the average person.  And the older the demon, the more impervious they are to pain and suffering.

And Ira was a very old demon.

The Peculiar High assault on Ira was a mere nuisance to him. A minor distraction. No different than if you were on a picnic by a nice lake when suddenly a swarm of flies began buzzing about you. You would be annoyed at the flies. Occasionally one might sting you. But a fly can do you little harm.

And for Ira, the assault he was undergoing by the brave students; the hits by the chairs and baseball bats, the wrestlers trying to choke him, the football players tackling into his body, these were but annoyances. A nuisance. A hindrance. Nothing more.

Ira swung with his claw. He stabbed with his knife. He flapped his wings wildly. Each of these measures struck someone. Each blow send a student flying backwards or knocked them to the ground. It was impossible not to. The crowd was assaulting from every angle, willing to fight for their lives, they would not cower any longer. But, in their enthusiasm, even they failed to realize their efforts were of little use.

Isabella had pulled Connor away from the fight. Connor lay on the gym floor gasping and wheezing. He was trying to focus on his wounds, trying to heal himself, he had to get into the fight.  Bandit and Wolf were still locked in their struggle with Hell Hound.  These were mere students fighting, not trained fighters. And, in the mayhem of their mob assault, they were as dangerous to one another as they were to Ira. Connor teared up at their effort. They were fighting for him as much as they were fighting for themselves. But it was painfully obvious to him what the outcome would be. The reality of the moment weighed on him like none other. They were going to lose this fight. Ira was going to win. It was now just a matter of time.

“Isabella, please run,” Connor pleaded with Isabella as he grabbed her by the arm and looked up at her.

“I am not leaving you!” Isabella screamed as tears streamed down her face.

Isabella would not leave. Connor knew that. And, if the situation was reversed, he would have done the same, he would not leave Isabella. But Connor’s love for Isabella would override her duty. He would not let her stay; to sacrifice herself for him.  

 “Please Isabella, there is not much time left. Please get out of here.” Connor implored. Connor glanced towards the fight taken and saw his fear coming true. Ira only had a few more students left before he had beaten them all back. The student ranks were decimated, students were scattered across the gym floor in various stages of injury. Moaning and crying out for help, for which no help was coming.

“Aha!” Ira exclaimed as he smashed the last of the student warriors across the head with his claw. He glanced about and was saddened there were no others left to fight. He had rather enjoyed the fray; it had been a long time since he had such an exercise. He felt good, unlike the fallen that were scattered about him, he had grown more empowered by their defeat. He fed off their fears. And soon he would feed off their flesh. But, for now, he had a task that had to be done for his Master. Ira eyed Connor on the gym floor.

“Come boy, let us embrace and end this,” he growled eyeing Connor. He took several paces closer and stood over the fragile Connor and stared down at his quarry. Connor could do nothing. He did not have the strength for a fight. He simply laid there and stared up at Ira.

“Screw you,” Connor whispered, “screw you.”

Ira laughed.  They were all gone. There was no one left to stand in his way now.  He raised his blade high above his head and aimed for Connor’s heart. This would be the finishing blow.

“For my Master, I offer this Healer sacrifice,” Ira crowed loudly as he swung the blade down towards Connor.

Connor closed his eyes, grimaced and took a deep breath and waited for the blade to strike. Only, he never felt it.

Instead, Connor heard a most unexpected sound, the sound of metal striking metal. It was a loud sound and it had occurred inches from his face. He opened his eyes and saw the gleam of lights off a sword blade above his chest. The sword was wielded by Professor Saint Graham. Who arrived in the nick of time and had deflected Ira’s blade with his sword, the sword of Saint Michael, the last dragon hunter. And, when Connor glanced up into the Professor’s face, he was met by a broad smile and a generous, reassuring wink.

“Welcome to the party,” he mockingly offered the Professor.

“I do apologize for my tardiness my boy. Very unacceptable. I shall put myself on report once we finish with this nasty business that we have found ourselves in.”

“You do that,” was all the Connor could muster now, his heart fluttering from the fright.

Ira took several steps backwards to survey his latest opponent. He sniffed the air as looked at the Professor over he thought he recognized the Professor’s scent. It was his old foe, Saint Graham. Back for round two.

Ira was not so worried about Saint Graham as he was about the sword that he carried. And he was keenly aware of the sword. The sword of Saint Michael had been used to kill the last of the dragons hundreds of years ago. That sword, bejeweled and gleaming in the light could easily slice through a demon’s skin, even skin as tough as Ira’s.

Ira paused and pondered his situation. He could smell no fear on Saint Graham; and a person who did not fear a demon, was a truly dangerous adversary. He was well armed, and he stood over Connor ready for battle. If Ira fled, his Master was as likely to dispatch him as would the man with the sword. And his master could be far crueler. He had no choice. Ira grunted and charged forward.

Professor Saint Graham held the blade close to his face. He wanted Ira to know what blade he was yielding. He knew Ira would know the history of the blade. And, armed with the Sword of Saint Michael, the two adversaries would be on very even terms. 

As Ira charged towards the Professor he stepped forward and closed with the hulking grunting beast, while at the same time swinging the blade. The blade came alive as it raced towards the demon; it hated demons as much as the Professor did; the air whistling as it flew across the blades cold metal.

Ira was too enraged and was not thinking clearly, he held up his claw to ward off the oncoming sword, however, the demon skin and bone were of no match to the blade. In one clean swipe the claw of Ira was cut off and fell to the ground, quivering.  Ira howled with pain and stepped back several feet, his black blood was gushing from the wound of his arm.  Fear was now evident in his eyes. He had been gravely wounded. It could get worse.

The Professor smiled at Ira as he again held the blade high in front of him. Ira’s black blood was now splattered on him from the cut. He stepped in closer to the demon, he wanted the demon to know he was not afraid of his malevolence.

“You killed my wife a thousand years ago,” the Professor commented, “I intent to repay you for that injustice today.”

Ira, squinted. A wounded demon is still a very dangerous demon. And he looked over Saint Graham with a caution. Ira chuckled at the Professor’s insolence, “you angel’s and your swords; you think you can rule the world,” he quietly mocked the Professor. Ira had seen this bravado in many times in the past. They liked to put on a brave front before the end was upon them.

Ira still had many weapons ready. His brute strength was not his most powerful weapon. He still could cast an incantation or use his powers of persuasion. These are the demons’ most dangerous weapons at their disposal. Many times, a demon has simply whispered in a lessor human’s ear and convinced them to do things they otherwise would not do.

“Your wife, I remember her well…She tasted like chicken,” Ira mocking added as he licked his lips. He was trying to unbalance the Professor, mocking him into making a mistake.

The Professor winced at the comment. He stepped closer while Ira stepped back, his arm dripping its black blood on the gym floor. The Professor tightened his grip on the sword.  He knew what Ira was going to try and do. He was going to try and mentally get him off balance. Get inside his head, or worse, cast a hex on him.

“You’re not going to make it through the night Ira. This is the sword of Saint Michael. It was used to kill the last dragon. Who I do believe was a relative of yours,” the Professor retorted smirking. He was trying his own game of words.

Ira shrugged his shoulders, “We can’t all live forever,” as he stepped back several feet. The Professor mirrored his movement and stepped several feet closer.

 Ira quietly whispered under his breath. He was invoking an old spell, a simple one, one that demons learn early on in their youth.  It was a Spell of Deception.

The Professor caught a sudden movement out of his left eye and glanced to the left. Ira was gone. But, another appeared in his place. Then it vanished. He saw it just for a moment. Was it another demon? Perhaps a servant of Ira’s coming to his aid.

He glanced back ahead at the Ira who now moved several feet to the left.  The Professor also stepped several feet to the right, mirroring the demon’s movement. Ira was simply testing the Professor.

The Professor saw another furtive movement out of his right eye and glanced in that direction.  To his horror, another lessor demon was bearing down, attacking from the shadows.  The Professor swung the sword of Saint Michael to the right and aimed for the demon’s head.  Only the demon was not there. It had dissipated at the moment the sword struck.  It was an illusion.     

Then other demons began appearing.  Soon the Professor was fighting dozens of imaginary demons. Some he killed, some fled, some, reappeared again and again, distracting him from his true task.

Connor saw the Professor swinging at the air and knew instantly something was wrong. The Professor was fighting air, swinging, and attacking nothing, simply stabbing at air. The Professor was even yelling at the imaginary figures, encouraging them to stand and fight him.

“Professor focus!” Connor yelled in desperation. He tried to lift himself up.  His wounds were healing far slower than he wanted. His body was drained. He was aging rapidly now. But, he knew he had to get up. He had to get into the fight. To help the Professor.

The Professor turned and looked at Connor. He had a quizzical look upon his face; dazed, confused, one could even say befuddled.  This was not the same Professor that Connor saw moments ago bravely coming to his aid.  This was someone else.

“Oh no,” Connor quietly said out loud.   

Ira laughed at the Professor’s struggle with his imagination.  He was quite amused with himself. He had not used a Spell of Deception in decades and had forgotten how much he enjoyed tormenting his victims with it.  He knew from experience, that the Professor would remain there for as long as he kept the spell intact. But, for now Ira had a certain task he needed to finish. The Professor was going nowhere as he battled his imaginary demons. Ira turned towards Connor and smiled.

“It is over Healer. You have no one left to help you now. Your friends are all beaten, now do be a good sport, and let’s end this,” Ira was gloating. He was simply stating a fact. One fighter to another.

Connor struggled to his feet but was too weak. He managed to get to his knees as Ira approached him. Ira bend down and put his face right up to Connor’s, he wanted to look directly into Connor’s eyes.

“You did good Kid, you really did. You fought a good fight. Your friends fought a good fight. You all did well. I am honestly impressed. But my Father wants you dead. And now, I need to finish this,” Ira raised the demonic dagger and prepared to plunge it into Connor. The dagger squealed in delight.

“I think your forgetting something Ira,” Connor stated pointedly.

This response caught Ira off guard. He paused just for a moment as he looked down on the puny human before him. He was used to pleading, crying, and even acceptance, but not a question.

“Ira has forgotten nothing human,” Ira replied as he paused just for a moment questioning even himself.

“Oh, I would disagree with that,” Connor replied coolly.

“Enough, death to you and life for my Father!” Ira bellowed one last time.

“But you have forgotten me,” the Professor’s voice boomed from behind Ira as he drove the sword of Saint Michael into the demon, piercing his body all the way through.  The blade emerging from Ira’s heart, covered in a black blood. Ira howled as the pain tore through his body. The sword of Saint Michael, blessed by the saints themselves, used to defeat the last known dragon, burned at the demon’s core.  

Connor stepped up to the demon for a closer look. He looked Ira into the eye and stared at the demon. The demon stared back with nothing but hatred.

Ira stepped forward and slashed at Connor wildly. The demon was not yet done for. Connor simply avoided the knife and dodged the blade as the demon swung with abandon. The demon’s strength was waning quickly. He was wheezing and trying to catch his breath to no avail. As the demon brought the knife down in an overhand stabbing motion, Connor stepped forward and caught the demon’s wrist and held it tight.  He wrestled the blade from the demon, and as he tossed it aside, the blade, a living blade, screamed for its demonic master.

Ira looked up at Connor. He was dying, the sword of Saint Michael had pierced his black heart, and his tainted blood was gushing from the wound with every effort he made. Lacking the strength to fight now, Ira simply dropped to his knees. Connor stepped forward and laid his hands on the demon and looked into his eyes. Connor could see thousands of human souls, fodder for the demon over the centuries, trapped within Ira crying out to Connor for their freedom, their very salvation.

“Pull the sword out Professor,” Connor commanded.

The Professor nodded and followed his instructions. Ira gasped as the sword was removed.  The gaping wound in his chest oozing his demonic blood freely now. 

“A storm is coming Connor,” Ira laughed, as his black blood oozed from his mouth. “My Father is coming, and he is bringing the storm. A storm I tell you.”  

Connor stared into Ira’s eyes, “I am the new storm. Let, him come.”

Connor then thrusted his right arm into Ira’s chest cavity, through the open wound caused by the sword of Saint Michael. Ira’s insides were scorching hot; Connor winced as his hand burned from the heat within Ira. He focused hard on his task, ignoring the burning of his hand. He reached around inside the chest cavity till he found the demon’s heart. It was still beating and the heat that radiated from it burned his hand even more.  It was as if Connor was grasping a boiling pot of tea just as it was whistling without any mittens.  Connor squeezed the pulsating heart more tightly and focused ever harder. He could feel the souls of the thousands, tens of thousands of victims, trapped within that black heart. He could hear their anguished cries for help.

Ira screamed in agony at Connor’s touch. He struggled to free himself from Connor, but the Professor held him down with both hands.  Ira was beaten, but not yet dead, and he was powerless to resist.  Connor concentrated on the trapped souls and soon found himself connecting with them. For a brief moment, he knew who they were, their memories, the lives they lived; all of these memories came flooding into his brain, crowding out his own thoughts.

Connor fought to focus and using his life force, the gift he know he had, he was able to empower Ira’s victims, the entrapped souls that fueled Ira, and he was able to release them from their bondage to Ira.

These free souls poured forth from Ira, filling the room with a golden light as they circled about the room; free from their pain and suffering they had endured for so long. The freed souls circled about, enveloping Connor in a golden hue. Connor stared in amazement at what he saw. He had not expected this. 

The Professor watched in astonishment at the souls being freed. His mouth agape at the sight his eyes wide with wonder. He could not speak if he had wanted. He had never expected anything like this to happen. And then he saw her; blinking over and over, he rubbed his eyes to make sure what he saw really was what he saw.  It was the Professor’s wife, floating before him. She looked the same as she did that terrible day a thousand years ago. He was exactly as he remembered her. She was now free of Ira like the other lost souls.

Emotions that the Professor had never expected to come forth, now flooded over him. He burst into tears at the sight of his wife once lost, now before him again. For her part, with no words mentioned, the Professor’s wife did what she could do, to console her husband who had never properly grieved for the loss of his soulmate.   

For the moment, the Professor had forgotten all about Connor. He was so absorbed at seeing his wife again and so absorbed with his own personal grief, pent up and contained for so long, that he could do nothing but sob.

 The spirt of the Professors wife turned to Connor and ran her hand along his face.  He reached up and held her ethereal hand for several moments as he looked a fellow Healer in the face. He could feel her love, her pains, her every emotion. No one needed to speak.

The two healers, one alive and one departed, shared a common bond. A mutual gift. Connor was just now learning the true extent of his gift to help others that he would carry with him.  The endless needs and wants of others. And yet, the limits of his ability to help others. He simply could not be there for everyone.

The Professor’s wife, glanced back at her husband who was regaining his composure, smiled, and then turned and drifted off with the other freed souls. They were enroute to their final resting place, far from where they had been freed.

When the last soul left Ira, Connor pulled his hand out of Ira’s chest and stepped back. Ira’s body was turning to ash as he stood before it. Its life force, the souls of the victims Ira had fed upon over the centuries, were now unbound. And like a great fire that was now spent; a body with no fuel left to fuel it, Ira simply crumbled away into a pile of ash, wisps of smoke rising from the remains. Connor stepped his foot into the ashes several times spreading Ira’s remains into the wind.

This battle was now over.

Chapter 43

Connor staggered and fell backwards. Connor’s life force was draining away. He did not have much left within him, and he knew it. His body was aging faster than ever before.  He looked down at his hands and could see them changing before his eyes; they were the hands of someone much older than him. He touched his face, and he could feel the wrinkles, the sags, the crevices of another person. Only Connor knew it was his face. The battle with Ira had drained too much of him, too fast.

“Connor my boy, you’re going to be okay,” the Professor exclaimed as he jumped to catch Connor before he hit the ground.

Connor looked up at the kind face looking down. His vision was blurry, but he knew that snow white beard, and the booming voice.  “How did you overcome the spell,” he mumbled.

The Professor fought back the tears, as he pulled out the cotton earplugs he had stuffed into his ears,” Sorry my boy, I can’t hear a thing with these in. You must be careful with demons and their spells. Make you all crazy inside of your head. Now, what did you say?”

Connor laughed meekly.  The Professor had come through in the end.

Connor looked across the gym floor and could see the bodies of his friends, classmates and others strewn across the floor. Many were lifeless.  Many were crying out for help. Anyone’s help.

“There are so many hurt. We must help them,” he quietly whispered to the Professor.

The Professor quietly nodded in agreement.  He could see the human carnage strewn about, the hurt, the dying, the walking wounded. They had all fought so bravely against a foe that they could not win against. He wiped away a tear. A great sense of failure pained him. He had failed them. He had not gotten into the fight sooner. They were but lambs against Ira.  

But the time for lamentation over one’s failures was not now. That would come later. Now was the time to undo the damage done by Ira. But he also understood the price that Connor would pay in doing so.

The Professor found his strength had not waned and lifted Connor up.  He struggled first to bring Connor over to Isabella who was lying on the gym floor writhing in pain. Wolf had gotten her to a safe corner. The Professor set Connor down next to her.  Connor could see Isabella’s body had been broken in many places, the lashes of Ira’s whip had torn at her flesh leaving it shredded in many places. Connor reached out and took hold of Isabella and held her close to him. 

“I am so sorry, my love,” he sobbed. Connor held her close as she screamed out in pain and focused on her body, he could see the damages and again he went to work, healing and repairing all that Ira had done. Isabella suddenly stopped screaming as she could feel Connor’s life-force within her body healing her of her many injuries. When he was done, he fell backwards, gasping for breath.

“Professor, have those that can, bring the wounded to me quick.” He mumbled to the Professor. The Professor limped his damaged body around and managed to round up the few who were unhurt.  He rallied them to help the other wounded and to bring them to Connor where he could lay his hands on them and heal them of their wounds.

One by one Connor healed the wounded. Restoring their bodies as they were before Ira had attacked with his malice and hatred of humans. As each person came back, they rushed to help the others. The Professor even brought over Wolf and Bandit who had also had their bodies broken in the battle with the Hell hound.  The two were almost dead from their traumas. Connor held them close and held them tight.  The two were family to him.  He would not let their lives pass in vain.

Isabella knelt next to Connor helping him as much as she could. She could see him aging before her eyes with each healing. Each person he restored drained another piece of him away.  Soon, he could not even hold his hand up to lay them on the wounded. Isabella had to do it for him. Gently Isabella lifted Connor’s hand and would place it on the person’s wounded or broken body, then she would simply lean in and tell Connor the name of the person, and say, “Connor here is” and then she would say the person’s name.

It seemed like an eternity, but Connor brought everyone back.  No one was left unaccounted for. All were made whole again. The crowd stood quietly around him.  As each person was healed the crowd would excitedly murmur, but no one cheered. This was not the time or the place for cheering. Many of his fellow students had tears in their eyes as they witnessed things they could not and would not be able to explain. Ms. Rucket quietly stood to the side of the crowd singing an old gospel song; one that she had treasured since her early years. They understood what he had done for them. And, they understood he did not have much time left among them.

“Isabella,” Connor whispered.

“Yes, love?” Isabella whispered back as she knelt ever closer to Connor so he could hear him.

Connor struggled to get the words out.  Isabella leaned in and placed her ear next to his mouth. Slowly, he whispered to her one last thing. Isabella nodded. She understood.

“Ms. Rucket, can you drive the bus?  We have to go now!” She screamed.

Chapter 44

There was a loud knocking at the door of the Ms. Smith’s house. She was not expecting anyone this Saturday night and was startled at the loudness of the knock. It was the sound of metal flashlights on the wooden door and the sound reverberated throughout the house. The banging was fast and furious. Whoever was knocking, was knocking with the utmost urgency. Ms. Smith rushed to her front window and looked out, she could see the red and blue lights of the patrol cars illuminating the neighborhood with their strobe lights. Officers from the Peculiar Police Department were standing in front of her house. There were several others with them. An older man dressed in white, was carrying another person, but he was wrapped in a blanket and she could not see his face. She opened the door with extreme caution.

“Ms. Smith, we don’t have much time,” the Professor declared loudly as he cradled the dying Connor in his arms. “Please, Connor wants to see your daughter.”

“I don’t understand,” Ms. Smith stammered, “he would not help us before.”

“No time for explanations Mrs. Smith,” the Professor, “were on a mission here; time is of the utmost importance.”  The Professor explained as he stepped into the house carrying Connor like a sleeping child in his arms, not waiting to be invited. The Professor could see Mary’s hospital bed in the television room. Mary’s family had gathered for her final hours, and they had come to say their goodbyes.

The Professor carried Connor over to Mary.  “Connor, we are here, we are with her now. Connor you can wake up now; we are with Mary,” the Professor whispered lovingly to Connor. The Professor for the first time ever using his inside voice.

Connor was exhausted. His strength was all but gone. Connor’s life force had continued to drain on the ride to Mary’s house and he only had minutes left before he would pass. But he had to fix a wrong that now haunted him.

Connor looked onto Mary with shame. His guilt at not helping earlier weighed on him like a great burden. He motioned the Professor to lower him as close to Mary as he could.

Mary’s life force was all but spent also. She struggled to breath. Her pulse was fading. Weakness had overtaken her body, but she still managed a small smile at the sight of Connor.

“I knew you would come. I knew you would,” she whispered softly, her eyes glimmering with a new hope.

“Please forgive me,” Connor whispered back, a tear in his eye. He had been selfish when he turned her away before and the thought of his behavior haunted him.

Mary raised her hand and clasped Connor’s hand. Connor could feel the coldness as he squeezed her hand.

“There was never nothing to forgive Connor,” she mumbled quietly while smiling at Connor, the light in her eyes fading as she spoke.

Connor mumbled some words back to Mary and squeezed her hand as tightly as his weak body could.

No one knew what Connor said.  His words were inaudible. Connor closed his eyes and suddenly felt very light.  His life force had drifted away. Mary also exhaled, and passed holding Connor’s hand.

“Connor, Connor,” the Professor cried out. He shook Connor gently, fearing the worst; but he knew it was too late. He looked at Isabella, but he could not say anything. He sat down in a large chair and just held Connor tightly.

Isabella also sat down on the couch and hid her face in her hands.  She began quietly sobbing, her cries muffled by her hands. Wolf and Bandit stood next to her and attempted to comfort her in their animal ways.

Mary’s mother began crying hysterically, as she rushed to her child’s side and held her child’s lifeless body close to her bosom. Her tears flowed unchecked at the loss of her only child. Her wails of anguish were so loud the neighbors could hear. They whispered among themselves and understood what had happened.

The Peculiar officers all began to fidget in place and looked about uncomfortably. They were accustomed to pain and suffering, but even this was uncomfortable for them. They slowly began stepping backwards and stepping towards their patrol cars. It was best to let the families grieve before they became officially involved.

The gathered family members quietly hugged one another, whispered among themselves, and quietly mourned for their families lost. And perhaps as they were so focused on the moment and one another that no one noticed what happened next.

It was Wolf who noticed it. Her ears pricked up. The hair on her back rose up. Something was happening. And she began to bark. It was just one bark then a pause. Then it was another. Then a third.  She soon began to bark hysterically. She was trying to alert everyone to what was happening.

“Wolf stop barking, stop it. Connor’s gone, he’s gone,” Isabella exclaimed angrily at Wolf. She could not handle all the noise. She needed quiet. She stood up to leave when she noticed it.

Wolf was not barking to bark. She was trying to alert everyone in the room. Mary’s hand was moving.

It was just a flicker. Just one finger. But she was moving.

“Professor look!” Isabella cried out.

The Professor looked up and saw what Isabella was pointing at. He then saw Mary’s hand move.

“Great day in the morning!” he cried out. “Mrs. Smith. Mrs. Smith.” He cried out excitedly.

Mrs. Smith looked up. Tears were pouring down her face, she angrily looked at the Professor, “what is it?” she angrily demanded.  

The Professor cuddled Connor closer then held out his hand and pointed at Mary. He did not need to say anything else. The look of shock in his face was enough. Mrs. Smith glanced down and could see Mary’s eyes open.  The color in her face was slowly returning. Mary’s eyes shone with a new light and sparkle. She stared up at her mother and blinked several times.

“He saved me momma, he really did save me,” Mary whispered ever so quietly. Her newfound strength returning as her new life flowed throughout her body.

 Mrs. Smith’s tears returned a second time; only now they were tears of joy.

The Professor looked back down at Connor hoping for the same miracle that he was seeing with Mary. Only, there was none.  Connor’s frail body was limp in his arm. There were no signs of life. Just a look of calmness on Connor’s face.

The Professor was unable to hold back his emotions any longer and a deluge of grief overflowed him. He broke down and cried uncontrollably, for the second time this evening, as he cradled Connor to his bosom.

For Connor, his story had now ended.

Chapter 45

     The funeral service was held at the First Baptist Church. The largest and one of the oldest churches on the outskirts of Peculiar. The Delacamp’s expected a few hundred. Instead, thousands showed up. The Peculiar Police frantically worked to set up a traffic control point and even had to call in numerous off duty police officers to help with the crowds. Ushers worked to help the thousands to find seating. And, when the seating ran out, the masses stood in the hallways, the atrium, and even outside of the church.

     The attendees consisted of Connor’s fellow classmates and their grateful parents.  The strangers he had helped in the mall attack came and told of their stories. Even those who had only heard of the rumors that Connor had a unique gift, came to pay their respects at someone who so selfishly helped others. News crews from all over Florida arrived unexpectedly, interviewing the attendees, making the event more of a media circus than a dignified funeral.

     The honorable Mayor of Peculiar presided over the funeral services. He gave a long and elegant speech about the model citizen Connor had been and how he had inspired people to give back.  The Mayor concluded that in honor of Connor and all he had done for the citizens, a special day would be established in his honor. That day would be ‘Connor’s Day,’ a day of sacrifice and giving back to your fellow man. Just as Connor had done.  Many in the crowd broke out in applause, which seemed odd as they were at a funeral.

     Many of Connor’s classmates came forward to tell their stories of how Connor had helped them in the attack.  They told of their injuries and how they thought they would die, only Connor had been there for them. And, how it was Connor’s sacrifice that saved them. As the students recounted the attack, many broke down into tears. Several had to be helped away from the podium.

     And, if there were any dry eyes left, it was when Mrs. Smith and Mary came to the podium. Mrs. Smith told of how Connor had turned them away at first, but in the end, in the final hours of Mary’s life, when all hope had been lost, it was Connor who appeared in the nick of time.

     As the service drew to a close, the Peculiar Police Department’s Bag Pipe section, dressed in their dress uniforms and led by Chief Hugs, played ‘Amazing Grace’ on their pipes. Emotions flowed freely throughout the crowd. No one could keep a dry eye as the bagpipes sweet sounds wafted over the gathered crowd.  The call of the pipes, the sacrifices of Connor, the hope of the message, was too much for many to bear.

     As the service drew to a close, Ms. Delacamp, helped by her husband and the Professor, stood to receive the emotionally laden crowd. Thousands came up to her and offered their condolences. Many just nodded as they wiped the tears away. Some spoke the just bare minimum, “I’m so sorry.” It was all that was needed.

    The Professor, who had gone out and bought a black suit for the occasion, stood by Mrs. Delacamp’s side for the whole duration. Anytime she needed something, like a glass of water, he would rush off and get it for her. If any person lingered to long, he would intercede with the interloper, and gently push them along. With the utmost politeness mind you, but, still he moved them along.

     It was an open service casket. Connor was laid out in an elegant black suit and looked at peace with the world. Connor’s classmates had expected to see the shriveled old man who was there for them in the end, instead they found Connor looking young and even rather full-bodied. His cheeks showed their color, and his skin was rather radiant. If they were not as the service, they would have thought Connor was simply asleep for an afternoon nap.

     Wolf and Bandit, ever loyal even to the end, remained next to Connor’s casket and watched with their ever-vigilant eyes those who came up to pay their last respects. Their guard duty was not yet over, they would not relax their obligations till the very end.

     Everyone came by and took a moment to look into the casket paying their last respects. Some even reached in and laid their hand on Connor, wanting to touch him as they thanked him for his service and his sacrifice. So many flowers were laid by the coffin that the sanctuary smelled of their sweetness.

     One woman, who oddly was dressed in a brilliantly red dress, lingered far longer than any of the others as she gazed slowly on Connor.  She then placed her hand on his breast feeling for any sign of life. She needed confirmation that Connor was dead, she was not yet willing to accept it, but after feeling no heartbeat, she accepted the terrible news like all the others. Wolf quietly growled her disapproval of the woman’s actions. The hair on her back rising as the anger within welled up. The woman turned and locked her cold black eyes with Wolf and Wolf said nothing more.

     The woman noticed the Professor watching her with intent. The Professor had a curious look on his face. Perhaps it was the red dress that exposed far too much cleavage that was so out of place for so such a dignified moment. Plausibly it was the woman’s striking beauty, which seemed almost artificial in nature.  Whatever it was about the woman, the Professor could not explain it, but he knew it troubled him greatly. The woman in red, turned smiled and then winked at the Professor. She then sauntered out of the church while too many men, unable to look away, stared longingly at her.

     Isabella was so heartbroken she simply sat in the front church pew and sobbed quietly for the whole duration of the service. Her family stood by her and supported her as best as they could. There was nothing they could say. Nothing they could do. Only time would heal this wound they hoped.

     When it came time for the graveside service. The crowd in attendance was very small. Only a handful of people were invited. The Peculiar Police Department kept the rest of the curious crowd at bay. Mrs. Delacamp, the Professor, Isabella, Wolf and Bandit were there of course. A few others. But not many. This was a private affair. A family affair. The Pastor said a few more short but eloquent words. It had been a long day, there was nothing more that needed to be said. But duty dictated a few last words were to be said and so they were. Chief Hugs, the lone representative of the police department, played ‘Amazing Grace’ for the second time and the assembled crowd watch as Connor’s coffin was slowly lowered to the ground.

     Wolf, so silent during her vigil, let out a long mournful howl. It was her way of saying goodbye. Peculiar residents from over a mile away reported hearing the wolf’s cry. For the gathered, the hearing of the bagpipe play, along with the howl of the great wolf and now watching the coffin laid low was too much for even the stoutest in attendance. All began sobbing uncontrollably again.

Epilogue 

     It had been several days since Connor’s burial. The sky was overcast, and the afternoon was bathed in a soft sepia light.  An October cool front was sweeping in from the north and it promised sweet relief for those who had endured the sweltering Florida summer that seems to get longer and hotter each year. But cold fronts also bring the threat of wicked storms as the hot summer air clashes with the cool fall air. And a storm was indeed approaching.

     For Mrs. Maria, who was visiting her mother’s grave side at the Peculiar Cemetery, she paid the approaching storm little attention. She had checked the weather before coming to visit her mother and she knew she had a few hours before the storm was upon her. She had not visited her mother’s graveside for some time as her new job demanded more and more of her time and her children demanded even more of this precious commodity. But she needed her mother now and the two had much to talk about this day.

     Maria had lost her mother last year to the dreaded cancer and the pain of losing her mother who was also her best friend, had left a void in her that refused to heal completely. Maria was a devoted daughter and had talked to her mother almost daily when her mother was alive. And, then on Sundays, after service at Our Lady of Lourdes, the mother and daughter duo would get together at Maria’s house and cook a large Sunday dinner for the family and any visiting friends or extended family that happened to be in the Melbourne area visiting. Sundays were a day of laughter, rejoicing and family bonding in the Maria home. Now, they were a time of reflection and gloom. It was not the same. No matter how hard she tried.

     Maria still needed her mother’s advice and wisdom. Even if this meant coming to the Peculiar Cemetery and dutifully sitting by her mother’s graveside for an hour or two and reflecting on past conversations and having new ones. During this time Maria would openly discuss current events, her children, and her husband, pretty much anything that came to mind. No topic was taboo or off limits.

     During these one-sided conversations, Maria would share her burdens and concerns to her mother in the hopes of doing such, in some way her sweet mother, who never had a critical word to say to her only daughter, could still share her wisdom with her daughter. Even if her mother could not answer directly, the opportunity for Maria to bare her soul with her deceased mother was a tremendous benefit to her. It was a therapy of the best kind.

    Unknown to Maria, Connor was buried in the plot adjacent to Maria’s mother. The copious flowers placed around the grave, the memento’s that had been placed on the headstone in Connor’s honor, and the fresh dirt recently packed down and seeded, told Mrs. Maria all she needed to know. Someone had just been interred; but, despite all that had happened to Connor and all the news coverage that Connor had garnered, she did not know that the gravesite adjacent to where her mother was buried, held the Connor of Peculiar, the hero and talk of the town.

      No, Maria did not know this bit of information about her mother’s new neighbor. What she did know, was that she had missed her mother terribly and they had much to catch up on, even this late in the afternoon. And, so she continued with her coffee talk as the wind whipped around her, the clouds swirled overhead and the crack of thunder of an approaching storm could be heard rumbling in the distance.

     Maria held a tissue to her nose and was crying softly. She had just shared with her mother that Pedro, her son, had been arrested for the third time and she feared that the judge would surely sentence him to several years in prison this time. The trouble her son had been going through broke her heart and she prayed every day for his safe keeping and now she shared this burden with her mother; hoping for some of her mother’s wisdom on how to deal with her son and the pain he inflicted.

     Maria had her head bend low and was quietly saying a prayer when she heard the first muffled noise.  She opened one eye and looked about. “Mama, what was that?” she whispered to her mother. Maria glanced around and saw nothing.  Then she heard several more muffled noises. As if someone was breaking something.  Maria earnestly looked around to see if perhaps some kids were vandalizing the cemetery headstones. But she saw no one. Perhaps it was just the wind knocking over something?

     Seeing nothing amiss, Maria bowed her head and went back to praying. She held her head low and continued to pray to God and to her mother to intercede on her son’s behalf. To help Pedro see the error of his ways and to please return him to his mother free of the drugs that were torturing his life. Maria was just about to close her prayers when she heard another noise. This time closer to her. In fact, it sounded like it was under her.

     It was a muffled grunt. Like someone was straining heartily against some difficult object trying to move something that did not want to be moved.  It was followed by several more muffled grunts and moans. Maria stood up and looked around about; she was now frightened. She heard those muffled sounds. It was no trick of the wind. Something was happening and it was happening very near to her.

     Maria heard the groans again as someone was obviously pushing against something. Maria looked about a second time and saw no one.  She tried to tell herself it was the wind. Surely it was the wind. Her imagination was playing tricks on her. It could not be anything else. Or could it?

     Then she noticed it happening. The freshly packed soil over Connor’s grave was no longer freshly packed. Cracks spread in many directions as the soil and grass were becoming disturbed. Only, nothing was disturbing the ground that Maria could see. The moaning and groaning continued and Maria leaned in closer to make sure she was hearing what she feared she was hearing. Her curiosity was pulling her in. She quietly hoped she was wrong.

     A large grunt from within the grave was all the confirmation she needed.

     Maria’s eyes went wide with fright. Someone who had been buried was struggling to free himself. She quickly made the sign of the cross upon her chest and prayed like she had never prayed before. She prayed out loud and called for all the holy saints to come and protect her. She cried out to her mother for guidance and protection. Then she started calling out the saints a second time just in case she missed any the first time.

     But Maria did not run away. She was spellbound by what was happening at the gravesite of Connor. She watched in amazement as the soil above the grave was shifting, the cracks in the ground were growing bigger and longer. The moans and the groans from underneath the ground were growing louder and more urgent. Then it happened.

     A hand broke through the surface of the soil.

     Not a nasty filthy zombie hand belonging to someone undead, but a healthy hand, attached to a healthy arm, and it was clear to Mrs. Maria that someone, someone who had just been recently interred, was now struggling to free himself from the grave that he was buried in.

     Maria screamed for all she was worth, made the sign of the Holy Cross a second time for good measure, then turned and ran away as fast as she could screaming all the way.

The End

Watch for Connor, Isabella and all the others in:

The Connor Effect: Pride and Envy

Now sit back, relax and let your imagination run free…

Tips Never Expected; But, Always Appreciated!