Chapter 17
Oliver
"Justice and vengeance are not the same--choose wisely which you pursue."
Flashback a few moments
I am standing there looking at Niven, “Mam, how much time do we have?” My voice drowns out the sound of the doorbell as I walk back into the library.
“I will give it to the end of the day. If I can’t find something to help her, then she must go to the hospital.
” She was shaking her head, and I know she would rather just call for help now.
“I informed the kid that I will do all I can, but I can’t make any promises.
” Headlights redirect my attention away from her, initially causing me to head back outside.
I watch the driver’s side door swing open as someone steps out, slamming it behind him.
Brennan!
He glares in my direction, and anger is plastered across his face. He snorts like an angry bull about to charge, before he turns and storms into the manor.
“Brennan is home, Niven.” I step one foot back through the library entrance, giving her the heads up, “I am sure he isn't going to be incredibly pleased with what he finds in there.”
Her shoulders roll back as she gives them a little shake, asserting her confidence.
“I am not afraid of Brennan and remember you helped me.” The corner of my lip curls up in a smile, “I’ll stay here and keep watch, but you should head over and tell him what you’ve done.
” She will not be pawning this off on me, “It is only fair that you tell him what happened. He deserves to know.”
“Sir, I can’t do this without you, please?
” I watch as her eyes pull together in sadness.
“Just give me a moment, I will ask the boy to keep an eye on her.” Before I can protest, Niven jogs up the steps, and muttering can be heard as the whispers bounce off the walls and tumble down the stairs.
I disregard them and pace—waiting for her return.
A few moments pass, and she arrives promptly with a nod of her head. “Ok, fine, let's make this quick.”
Once inside, I speed off to Emory's room.
Releasing a sigh of relief when the door opens and she isn't there, meaning she managed to make it to the garden before he showed up.
Arguing erupts down the hall near the west wing, startling me, causing me to hasten to the noise.
With prior knowledge that Brennan can be a lot to handle sometimes, I choose to keep my distance.
Finding him and Niven deep in conversation, I stay back, lingering just close enough that i know Niven can feel my presence—their voices are in earshot, as I listen just in case she needs me.
Brennan would never do anything to hurt her, though I may not be as sure after she tells him what happened.
“I didn’t know what else to do,” she says to him, her arms crossed—face crimson with indignation.
“So, you bash his face in. Give him a few good lacerations, and lock him in my grandfather's room? Seems pretty thought out to me.” His cheeks begin to brighten with anger, “Where did you put Charlie, Niven? Where is my grandfather?” Stopping to contemplate, he stammers a bit before continuing, “By the gods, don’t tell me you finally put him in a home.” He begins to raise his voice, then checks himself.
Forcing himself to rein it in so as not to use a disrespectful tone.
“You’re like 80 something, how did you even-”
“Oliver… helped me,” she interjects.
Brennan’s eyes go white as he rolls them to the back of his head and scoffs, “Really, you’re going to go with that old Ghost story?”
“It's not a story.”
“Oh, no? Then prove it.” Before she even had the chance to open her mouth, I grab the sconce from the wall and hurl it at his head. He is a trained killer with reflexes like a cheetah, so I knew he’d dodge it—and he does. “Who’s there? What kind of game are you trying to play?” he calls out.
“Really? Brennan?” she interjects, “I don’t have time for this. If you won’t take care of him, then I will.”
“Wow, calm down, ok.” He backs down, trying to brush it off like a teenager would his mom after telling him to clean his room.
“Why has this scum got your old ass knickers in a twist anyway?” Niven gives him a look that instantly made him back pedal, “Sorry, why does he get you all worked up and ready to get blood on your hands?”
She straightens her body. “This will be a long explanation, so I need you to listen to all… of it before you react, do you understand?” He throws his head back and crosses his arms, flicking one hand out—A signal for her to proceed.
“I was in the library—where I always am.” I settle against the wall as she begins to elucidate.
“A phone call came through informing me of an order pick-up.” Her chin pulls in as she fights her emotions, “It was December 21st, and I was waiting for the shipment of the special holiday edition of Harlequin books. I came up here to check on your grandfather…” Her eyes begin to blink rapidly, visibly commanding her tears back.
“I wanted to ask if he needed anything.”
The halls are quiet, not even the rats in the walls scurry, as her eyes begin to shimmer, and her silent battle continues.
“I asked him if there was anything he needed. If I could grab him something while I was out?” There is a flash of white as she snags a handkerchief from her cardigan pocket—using it to conceal the quiver in her lips, before she put the cloth beneath her lashes, to catch the tears as they form.
“Werther's candies. That was all he said before I left.” She sniffles, “Upon my return home, Oliver was screaming, and… no matter… how many times… I called her name. Glindaline was gone.” I watch as the house nurse’s name sculpts a type of disgust on Niven’s face that even an untrained eye could see.
Moving closer to her, I attempt to place my hand on her shoulder, but she moves away.
“I charge up the stairs… barreling through the door,” her speech begins to break as her body starts to betray her and shake against her will.
“As I get in the room,” she blows her nose, then continues, “He was... lying on the ground. I raced to him, thinking, maybe… he had just fallen.”
More tears break free and glaze her cheek. “I roll him over… and-and…” Unable to hold it back anymore, she breaks, “He was… c-covered in b-blood… his eyes… were-were… b-bloodshot. He was b-barely… h-hanging on.”
“Stop! What are you trying to tell me?”
“Brennan, p-please" Niven, begs, “let me... f-finish.”
“No! What happened?
Stop!
Dancing around it!
TELL.
ME.
POINT.
BLANK!”
“Brennan!” she yells, tears pouring from her eyes, soaking the collar of her cream-colored blouse.
“Can you just shut your f-fucking mouth and give me the-” Now in a state of hyperventilation, she begins to form a stutter and her words are choppy, “I deserve r-r-respect and for you-you to j-j-just listen!’ Brennan walks over as I finally lay my hand on her shoulder.
Reaching up, he wipes the tears from her face. “Mam, I am sorry. Go ahead, I will listen.” He tries to pull her into an embrace, but she pushes away—finally at her breaking point.
She screams. The cacophonous sound of her lamenting reverberates through the old, empty estate—crestfallen and full of sorrow—she beats his chest with a hammer-fist combo, each hit producing a leaden thud.
Her fight does little to prevent him from engulfing her in his overly muscular arms, allowing her to blubber into his abdomen.
Niven isn’t a short woman by any means, but Brennan is pushing seven feet—even an average-sized woman would feel minuscule in his embrace.
She pulls away only to say. “That beast m-murdered your grandfather in… c-cold blood.” She puts the cloth to her nose, “Then he used his b-b-blood to write on the ground next to him.” Now covering her face, making her next words echo with the wrath she was holding in, “Down with the Selby family! the whole time listening to him choke.” Her voice is strained as it fights against the raspiness that inevitably follows her bellowing, “A poor, helpless old man.” She whispers.
“He s-s-stabbed him thirty-two times!
Thirty-two
fucking
times!”
Her wailing can be heard in the heavens—they are so loud… so strident. Something in Brennan clicks—and as it did, his hands move to her jaw, firmly cradling her face, holding her in place at arm's length.
“What... was written?”
A look of confusion contorts her face, “Down with the Selby family! Why does that-” His face hardens as his grip falters, and his hands drop to the base of her neck and tighten on her shoulders.
“Brennan? What's wrong? Ouch, stop it, you’re hurting me,” Niven lifts her arms between his and then brings her elbows down, striking Brennan, causing him to drop his hold and stammer backward.
His gilded gaze softens for a moment as he makes eye contact with her, “I am sorry. I think you should go back to the library… and... lock the doors.” Pausing, he glances over her shoulder, at me.
“Take Oliver with you.” He turns in the direction of the West Wing, “I only have one last question.” His eyes have darkened as though he were wearing black sclera lenses. “How long has he been here?”
“He came back a couple of nights ago, and when he did—although you may not believe it—Oliver and I were angry… angry enough that he helped me channel my energy,” She squeezes her fingers into a tight fist, “So it would allow him to harness it and manifest.” Brennan’s lip curls upward, causing his left cheek to rise, along with his doubt that presents itself so obviously on his face.
However, his uncertainty drops and is replaced by disbelief when Niven slumps a little, due to me drawing in a pinch of her energy.
With what I took from her, I manage to make the lights flicker, adding a little aesthetic behind her words. She continues to fill him in, and as they speak, their voices fade away, and I slip into MY memories of that night: