CHAPTER 6
Sampson
Nina looked shocked when I mentioned the incident from high school. She even reared back like I’d just slapped her across her high cheekbones. The Whore of Babylon blushed a bright red, as if embarrassed by her past. Or me.
Probably me.
Not fair, Sam. The old nickname for her is a remnant of the teenage you, and he was far too self-righteous. Lose the attitude and the insults. Fast.
Good advice. Wish I could take it. But rage at how she once singled me out as unworthy still runs like acid through my belly.
It’s been there since the awful moment when I realized that the innocent object of my devotion was in fact made of tar.
And that tar baby thought I was… repulsive.
She’d stick to anyone who would have her, except me.
I’ve always felt other because of my height, my double rows of teeth, the sixth digit I used to sport on each hand and foot that still requires extra-wide gloves and boots even though they were removed long ago, and my abandonment as a baby, but the thing that’s held me most apart was that moment when Nina let me know I disgusted her so badly, she’d fuck every guy in creation except me.
No, with me, she couldn’t even stand that I was breathing in the same room for a couple seconds.
And the kicker? I didn’t even want to fuck her back then.
The thought never even crossed my mind. She was the object of my courtly love, the girl I imagined I would one day marry, after college, after dating for a year, and after integrating our families into one long happily-ever-after fairytale.
I was happy to be a knight trailing in the fair maiden’s wake, battling dragons for her, and she was… she was…
A shudder passes over me as my stomach twists into a corkscrew with the memories I’ve tried so hard to set aside. Hard to believe a few unexpected moments in high school could affect my life so astronomically, but they did.
Best to admit it, put it to the side—again—and get over her. Again.
Yeah. Great advice, if only I could take it.
As Nurse Clemson putters around, I close my eyes, only to open them when the words she said earlier find their way back into my brain.
“Wait, did you say I had a visitor who looked like a relative?” I was so caught up in Nina, the point hit me hard, but then skedaddled harder.
“Close enough. Darker hair than yours, nearly brown but still red, you know? And tall, but maybe a little shorter than you? Close enough to your height, anyway. Older, though. Know the fellow?” she asks.
I shake my head before wincing at the shot of pain that attacks me from my nape. “No. I don’t know anything about any relatives. I was abandoned as a baby at the fire station.”
“Oh,” she says, stopping in her organizing of cabinets. “I heard about that. Didn’t put two and two together, though. You were brought up by Mr. and Mrs. Dean, right? Shame what happened to them. You have my sympathies.”
Instant heartache rockets through me, as it always does when people mention my adoptive parents.
They were great people who died too soon.
I owe them everything, and I never forget it.
Instead of letting me be raised in some uncaring orphanage, they brought me up in a loving home, made me part of a family and a community, and gave me everything I could ever need.
They owned a variety store at the outskirts of the town.
I spent a fantastic youth playing in the aisles with all the kids who’d come in for gum or candy, meaning I learned early how to make friends.
So long as I practiced kindness, my parents said, I could have the world.
A lot of people don’t get the sort of privileges I received, and I’m grateful. Completely.
Completely.
Except, I don’t lie to myself, not if I can help it.
The truth is that there’s a dark streak reeking of selfishness that trails after my gratitude, muddying up the light.
I hate that spot of blackness that holds all those questions to which I might never find an answer, but they haunt me, even so.
Why did my birth parents abandon me on the fire station steps rather than giving me up the normal way?
Why wasn’t I good enough to keep, or at the very least, to place? Who am I, really?
Stupid questions. Thinking them only shovels dirt from beneath the sidewalk on which I stand. One day, the pavement is going to collapse and send me stumbling right down to Hell. I know it. I just can’t shut off my brain.
They didn’t raise you to be an ingrate, Sammy. Forget who you might have been. Remember who they were.
“They never caught the guy, did they?” Nurse Clemmons asks in a sympathetic voice.
“No.” The single word gutters in my throat.
They died before they could see me graduate from college, killed in a hit-and-run while down in Charlotte, picking up supplies for the store. Their murderer was never discovered. All he left behind were streaks of bright yellow paint on their old brown Chevy.
Would they be proud of me, fighting fires? Would I be working a dangerous job if they were still alive?
Questions. I’m made of questions.
Relentlessly, I shove them down so I can better respond to the nurse, who stares at me with great expectation. “My parents were great people. I got lucky.”
Nurse Clemmons gives me a kind smile before waving goodbye. That’s okay. I don’t mind being alone.
Who am I kidding? I hate being alone.
Still, I guess I must drift off into sleep, because when I wake, I find a man sitting in a chair near the end of my second bed.
The whole hospital is darker than usual: the hallway lights are dimmed to nothing but a faint glow, and the room lights are off entirely except for a creep of illumination that strays from under the closed bathroom door.
Yet, I see him. Not clearly, but better than the average person might. I’ve always had excellent night vision.
Somehow, I know this is the man Nurse Clemmons mentioned earlier. I feel it in my bones, in my extra set of teeth, in my phantom extra toes and fingers. He’s just a swathe of darker shadow against the black, but I can sense him breathing and watching me.
Tall and broad, like me. He fills space like the emptiness of a black hole.
“Who are you?” I ask softly, searching with my hand on top of the covers for the nurse’s call button, just in case.
“The question is, who the hell are you?” he asks, his voice a deep rumble.
“And what the hell are you doing, trying to blend into this town? This isn’t Harleysville, boy.
People are bound to notice.” He leans towards me.
I can feel the intention of his gaze washing over me in waves.
“Did The Council send you undercover? They’re slipping, if so, because you stand out like a sore thumb, especially since you’re one of The Tallers. ” He pauses. “Saints. Be. Damned.”
He says the last three words slowly, emphasizing them like they’re supposed to mean something.
He waits. I wait, though I’m not sure for what. Clarification, I guess.
“No response, boy?”
“To what? I have no idea what you’re talking about. What council? And I don’t care for swearing.” I don’t bother to ask about The Tallers. I’m guessing it’s a crack about my height, though he must be nearly the same size, judging by his shadow.
“The Council. Don’t play dumb with me. Just give me your authorization code, and I’ll be on my way.”
There’s something so irritating in the way he makes demands of me, as if I’m not laid up in a hospital bed, suffering burns and brokenness, that I suddenly care less about finding out who he is than seeing the back of him.
“Look, I just had a pretty serious fall into a blanket of fire. My head is pounding like someone’s playing drums inside my skull, my skin is burning, and I’m tired, so if you don’t mind, let’s put this conversation on hold, Mister… ?”
He leans back again. “Xyonis Tull. Xy for short. Your turn.”
“You must already know my name, Xy. You’re in my room.” I try to keep the annoyance out of my voice. It slips in anyway. The truth is, I am tired and sore. And cranky. I feel a heck of a lot better than I did earlier, but I’m still on edge.
“That’s true, Sampson Dean.” He sneers out my very normal name like it’s something absurd. “But I want your real name.”
“That is my real name.”
“Like Hell it is. No Neph is going to be given that fucker’s name. Might as well name you David.” For a moment, he falls silent. The air feels watchful as he studies me. Finally, he clicks his tongue. “No, it’s impossible that you don’t know the story of your namesake.”
“What namesake?” My uncle, Sam, does he mean? My father’s brother from Austin?
“Your namesake. From ancient times.”
“What?”
He just continues to stare daggers into me. I think. I can’t see him staring, since he’s mostly darker shadow, but I can feel his intensity.
Whatever medication the doctor gave me must be wearing off, because the burning on the back of my neck feels like fire ants marching to war, and while they’re charging the front line, flames are licking down my veins. And my skull… the dance party is just getting started.
“Right. Look, Xy…”
“Sampson and Delilah. Book of Judges. Is there a connection?” His shadow head shakes. “Makes no sense to name you after that loser.”
I go to shrug my shoulders and instantly regret moving.
“Fuck.” So much for spending my life not swearing.
“Sorry. And no connection I know of.” Except, if my Bible history is correct, I think Sampson was strong and powerfully built, as am I.
“But he was betrayed by a woman, right? I’m not sure if Nina betrayed me,” I say, completing my thought out loud, “but it’s always felt like it. ”
He leans forward again. “You’re drifting, son.”
Yeah. I am.
He pounds the arm of the chair in which he’s sitting, startling me back into wakefulness as the entire floor shakes under my beds. “Fucking Nazirite.” The disgusting sound that follows echoes through the room.