Labyrinth: The Keeper Chronicles, a prequel (9 page)

Rebekah's story continues in
Awakening

Keep reading for the first two chapters

Reprinted with permission from Geminid Press

Chapter One

The steady beam reflected by the Meceta Head Light’s Fresnel lens wavered. First lit in 1894, the light had been many things to many people: a warning to passing ships, a guide to local fisherman, a source of pride, a curiosity, a trap. For Rebekah, the light most often served as a locus of irritation and contention. No matter how much she begged him to stay inside, her father buttoned up his raincoat, grabbed his katana from the umbrella stand, and walked out into the storm.

“You're going to kill yourself with that thing!” she yelled after him, knuckles white where she gripped the open door.

He stopped—the first time he'd turned around in months—and looked back. “Secure the house; storm's gonna be nastier than usual. And princess…” Twenty-four years old and he still called her princess when something worried him. Shadows from the night and warm light streaming out from the house fought for dominance over his strong features, casting him one moment in darkness and the next in light. The rain dripped off his hood like a dozen tiny waterfalls speckling the coast. Weariness dragged his bony shoulders down. He wasn't as young as he'd once been, back when three consecutive nights of storms had put a dreadful sparkle in his eyes. Instead, he appeared deflated, like someone had popped the balloon holding him up and it slowly drained the air out of him. He started to reach out for her but stopped himself mid-motion. “Stay inside. No matter what you hear. Or see.”

She ran out from the shelter of the porch after him, rain be damned, but nature had other ideas. The wind shoved her back as it summersaulted across the ocean waves, up the sheer cliff walls, and through the stout evergreens bowed down from a lifetime of relentless storms like monks at prayer. A flash of light lit the yard in skeletal hues, blinding her, as thunder so loud she felt the pressure in her chest growled a warning. When her sight returned, her father had disappeared down the path toward the lighthouse.

“Crazy old loon!” she shouted and wished it'd make her feel better.

Flicking the cold water out of her eyes, she glanced over at the lighthouse, sighed, and then hustled back into the elegant, two-story Colonial keeper's house her parents had restored into a bed-n-breakfast. Some of their guests—an old couple from Ohio, the Mathewsons, and a younger couple with their five-year-old son—stared at her from where they huddled around the fireplace. They'd heard everything.

Rebekah blushed and smoothed out her blouse, her fingers from trembling. “Nothing to worry about. My father just takes his duties at the lighthouse very seriously,” she said in way of explanation. “I'll make everyone some hot cocoa, shall I?”

Before they could answer, she fled through the hall to her left and into the b-n-b's guest kitchen, slamming the door shut behind her a little louder than necessary. Grabbing a beer from the fridge, she popped the cap on the periwinkle countertop and sank down to the floor. Rebekah tossed back half the bottle before she came up for air, and then wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Although her father could be a little harsh at times or distant, he loved her. Not all daughters were lucky enough to know that. She shouldn't let her father's craziness bother her, should just treat it as a quirk like everyone else, but she didn't know how much longer she could watch him cling to his delusions.

He'd always spent stormy nights up in the drafty lighthouse in his days with the Parks Services. Although the automated light didn't require tending, and when it malfunctioned only a specialist could help, her mother said he liked to be there in case the power went out or something broke that he could fix. Fishermen depended on that light. Boats. It was just another of his duties. Yet he never stopped: not after Mom died, not after the candles had been blown out on his retirement cake, and not after he started rambling about monsters and gateways to another dimension. Normal people didn't believe they had to go out in storms and slay demons like some superhero in a cartoon. No, that special brand of crazy belonged to her father alone.

Maybe it was Alzheimer's. Or dementia. He was only fifty-four, however, and that was too early, right? Tomorrow she'd make him go to the doctor and get checked out. Even though he'd hate her for it.

She titled the bottle back and finished the beer.

The bed-n-breakfast had no television and no phone, so when nature put on a display, it was in full stereo. The lights flickered. Thunder constricted her chest and the jars of preserves in the refrigerator rattled at her back like a beggar's cup. The next bolt of lightning struck so hard it threw her forward. The beer bottle in her hand shattered against the cabinet as she tried to catch her balance, and sharp pain shot up her arm as glass embedded in her palm.
Shit.
Wincing, she yanked out the biggest piece with her good hand and set it on the countertop.

Two more blasts of lightning struck, this time a little further away toward Cape Creek Bridge, or so it sounded, and someone screamed as the electricity died. Getting to her feet, Rebekah yanked a clean dish cloth from the drawer by the sink and wrapped it around her injured hand with a wince. She had guests. With her father out chasing faeries and catching his death of cold, running the bed-n-breakfast was her responsibility. Her hand would wait.

“Is everyone okay?” Rebekah asked as she opened the kitchen door and hurried to the small parlor where she'd left the others.

“I think so. What happened?”

A pair of lanterns was tucked in one of the sideboards in the event of such an emergency, and she groped her way over to them. The fireplace cast a small pool of light around the others, but it didn't extend across the hall. “Just the storm. One strike hit pretty close, probably knocked out the power. Don't worry, I'm getting some light. If I can just reach…there. Got it.” Using her good hand, she set the lanterns on the table and grabbed one of the long matches from the box near the fireplace. Clenching the matchbox beneath her chin, it took a few tries, but she managed to strike a light in both lanterns. She opened the wicks, flooding the room in golden hues.

“What happened to your hand?” the younger woman asked, circling the small, round table. They had just arrived that morning, and for the life of her, Rebekah couldn't remember the woman's name. Jessica something. Or Jennifer.

Rebekah hid her hand behind her back. “Just some glass. No big deal. Is anyone hurt? I heard a scream.”

“The lightning surprised me is all.” Mrs. Mathewson wrapped her grey shawl tighter around her shoulders.

The young woman, her curly chestnut hair cut short to her shoulders, pointed at Rebekah's hidden hand. “Let me see. I'm a nurse.”

Rebekah hesitated. It was her job to look after guests, not the other way around.

The nurse, however, wouldn't take no for an answer, stepping around to take Rebekah's hand and unwrap the towel. She bit her lip. “This isn't good. Come on. I need to wash it. Do you have any thread or a needle?”

“In my room downstairs.” She gritted her teeth to keep from crying out in pain. Seeing it made everything hurt worse. “And there's a first aid kit on the wall.”

The young woman grabbed a lantern and took off running toward the back of the house as her husband directed Rebekah to sit in one of the upholstered antique chairs. Blood saturated the towel.

“I think that's all the excitement these old bones can handle,” Mr. Mathewson stood and walked to the stairs, stopping to pat Rebekah on the shoulder as he grabbed one of the lanterns. “We’re going to bed.”

“Goodnight Mr. and Mrs. Mathewson.” Rebekah smiled at them. “See you at breakfast.”

He grunted. “If the power comes back on before then.”

“I'm sure it will.”

Jessica or Jennifer returned as a flash lit the house, followed by the echoing peel of thunder a second later. The storm was moving away. Good. At least her father'd had enough time to reach the lighthouse before the worst started.

“Come on, son,” the other man said to his red-haired child, gesturing back toward the fire as his wife settled next to Rebekah, “let's finish our game of Connect Four. Let your mom work in peace. Wha'd'ya say?”

“Okay!”

Rebekah smiled as the boy bounced over to the pile of games he had spread across the rug and began separating pieces. She loved when they had children staying at the b-n-b. Loved the energy they brought to the old home, waking up the century-old wood. One day, maybe a child of her own would do the same.

“Here. Drink this.”

Rebekah took a swig of the whisky her savior had brought up from the basement and prepared herself for what was about to happen. Normally, the harsh stuff wasn't for her, but tonight was proving to be an unusual night in many respects. “Where'd you find this?”

“Medicine cabinet.” The nurse moved Rebekah's hand above the basin of water. “Go on, don't be shy. Drink up. This is gonna sting a bit.”

Rebekah did and then set the bottle back on the table. Drops of her blood exploded on the surface of the water like miniature atomic bombs, mimicking the pounding thunder outside. She winced as a shard was yanked out near her index finger. “I can't thank you enough, Je…”

“It's Lacey.”

Twice that day she'd embarrassed herself in front of guests. “I'm sorry. I should have known that.”

Lacey shrugged her shoulders, her blonde highlights dancing in the lamplight. “You seem to have more important things occupying your thoughts than my name.”

The comment had been an invitation to unload, Rebekah knew, but she'd broken enough of her rules for one day. Letting a guest stitch her hand after the power had gone out…okay, that she could justify. Venting about her father or asking the woman's medical advice, however, was inexcusable. Lacey was a guest and needed to be treated as one. Staying at a bed-n-breakfast should be relaxing. An escape. The rain holding everyone hostage indoors was bad enough; Rebekah didn't need to add to it.

“You're sweet to say so. Tell me your favorite dish, and I'll make sure to prepare it tomorrow for breakfast. Gourmet food is the best way I know to say thanks.” Biting her lip as another shard came out of her hand and was dropped in the water, Rebekah forced a crooked smile.

“Well, I don't know how gourmet it is, but I love pecan waffles.” Lacey looked up from where she was working. “Won't the milk be spoiled by then if the power doesn't come back?”

“No. The refrigerator in the prep kitchen is on a generator and the ovens are gas, so everything should be fine. No need to worry.”

Lacey wiped her forehead with the back of her wrist and looked up. “I need to stitch that gash along the base of your palm. Three should be enough. Stay strong and hold still; I'll do this as quickly as I can.”

Rebekah never feared pain. Her childhood rolled by on mountain bikes and skateboards and 4-wheeling at the dunes; such activities came with a certain amount of risk and a half dozen broken bones. Her mother had been the one to take her repelling the first time and skiing. Rebekah would swear that her parents had bought and refurbished the dilapidated keeper's house from the state more for the nearby hiking and climbing and kayaking than for the profit from the b-n-b. So when the needle pierced the soft pad of flesh under her thumb, she did what her mother taught her: looked out the window and counted backwards from ten.

A fresh swell of wind slammed into the house with renewed anger, and a flash of lightning lit up the yard.

She yelped and jerked up, the needle dangling from her hand as she ran to the pair of windows overlooking the front porch. “Who was that?”

“Who was who?”

“There. Standing outside the window. I swear I saw someone. I think…I think he was naked.” Now she sounded as crazy as her father. Great. Next she was going to start seeing demons and want to go buy herself a sword. She started toward the door. “I'll go-”

By this time, Lacey's husband, a barrel-chested man who looked like he'd been a defensive end in highschool, had abandoned his game and blocked Bekah's path. “You stay here. I'll go check the porch.”

She shook her head. “I can't let you do that. This is my house, not yours. I'll go.”

“Nonsense. If there really is someone out there, he might be dangerous or hurt. You'll both be safer inside.”

She started to object, but he stopped her with a gesture.

“You'd better listen to him,” Lacey said as her son ran up to her side. She hugged him, kissed the top of his ginger hair, and then shooed him back to his games. “Now get your hand back over here.”

Although it went against everything she knew and felt, Rebekah sat and gave her hand back to the ministrations of her guest, and she watched as the woman's husband put on his coat, grabbed a flashlight, and went outside. A chill wind crept in through the open door. Danger lurked in every shadow, crept in with every strange creak and groan of the house as the dim lantern light, like a candle at the bottom of a well, flickered fainter and fainter against the onslaught of the storm.

He'd be fine.

The porch was empty.

She'd just seen a light ghost, an illusion triggered by the blinding lightning. The Park Services had cleared the area out when the storm warning first sounded, and her father would have reached the lighthouse long ago. No one else would have a reason to be out in this weather. She'd been spending too much time alone with her father; his ravings were starting to affect her judgment and make her hallucinate. As if she needed more problems.