Chapter 33 #4
“That is how my society perceives yours.”
“Jesus Christ,” Bastien growled, almost coming out of his chair as he fixed Erik with a stare, shoulders squared, jaw locked. “You’re not serious? We are thousands of years more advanced than hunter-gatherers, who live in small, nomadic groups. We have nothing in common.”
“You have more in common than you think. If you destroy this world, the survivors will once again become hunter-gatherers living in small, nomadic tribes.”
Clay had painted the world with Icarus’s doomed wings, a vision of soaring ambition melting into fatal descent. The silence in the room wasn’t just quiet. It was oppressive—a living entity, thick with the shared breath of unease and dread.
“I have a question,” Marcelle said, breaking into the silence.
“When the fog carried me away, I remembered a dream I had as a little girl. In that dream, a Viking carried me through space to a land with waterfalls, gardens, towering trees, colorful birds, and standing stones. I fell asleep, and when I woke up, I was back in my bed. Did you put that dream in my mind? Or did I really go to that place?”
“I did not give you a dream.”
“Did Violet?” Clay asked.
“She can do mind-to-mind communication with another person.”
“Like telepathy?” Clay asked.
“A more advanced form than you are familiar with.”
“Are you saying she did mind-melds with me, with us, like Dr. Spock?”
“Your intuition and perception are not from her. Those traits are gifts. The same with David, Elliott, and James Cullen. But she can share what she sees with others.”
“When she does that, I perceive it as a vision. Is that right? And once she is gone, I won’t have any more of them.”
“You are unique, Barclay, because you are Vivica’s son, and you inherited gifts from her. You may not perceive them now, but they will come. Do not be afraid of them.”
Clay wasn’t sure how he felt about all this, and now wasn’t the time to focus on it. He’d have time to do that when they returned home.
“But my dream?” Marcelle asked. “Why did she send it to me? Why did she want me to believe it was a Viking?”
“Was it a man or a woman?”
“I don’t know. I couldn’t see the person’s face. But that’s not important. I want to know why she sent it to me.”
“She knew you would grow up to be important to her son,” Erik said, “and she wanted to build a connection.”
Marcelle turned to Clay, searching his face. “Has Violet been manipulating us?”
Clay didn’t look away. “My feelings for you are very real.”
“So are mine.”
Clay hesitated, then asked quietly, “Does anything else matter, then?”
She shrugged. “I guess not.”
Clay pressed a soft kiss to her cheek, his lips lingering a moment longer than necessary.
“I don’t think so either.” He scrawled a sketch of himself stalking the sidelines of a big game.
There was a serious role here, and he couldn’t let anyone down.
He rifled through his sketches. What other questions gnawed at him, begging for answers?
He flipped a few more pages and froze when he noticed he’d drawn a picture of a man climbing a mountain.
No, not a mountain. A hill. Why had that image surfaced? The cave? Maybe?
“How’d you move the cave to MacKlenna Farm?”
Erik’s expression changed from stoic warrior to a mischievous grin. “The same way the clan took a wagon, horses, and gear to New York City in 1896. You gathered the items, and the brooch carried them all away.”
“But a cave?”
“Same principle. We tied a rope around the mound. I stood on one side, and Akeem stood opposite me.”
“What year did you arrive at the farm?”
“I do not know, but it was before James MacKlenna received the land grant from the Governor of Virginia. It took decades for the ground cover and forest to grow around the mound and conceal its location.”
Clay spun his pencil between his fingers as he thought of his next question. He felt like a hostage negotiator, knowing that if Erik quit talking, this Q&A would be over.
“If you put the cave there before the MacKlennas received the land grant, how could you be sure it would one day be on MacKlenna Farm?”
“James MacKlenna was walking the property at the time of the survey. He encouraged the surveyor to use the mound as a natural feature in the metes and bounds description.”
“Was he the same James MacKlenna who insisted Sophia Orsini leave Thomas Jefferson and return to her own time?”
Marcelle’s jaw dropped, and she mouthed, “Thomas Jefferson?”
“I’ll explain later.”
“Yes,” Erik said.
Clay fretted, his pencil flicking a nervous cadence as he churned over past family discussions, haunted by a barrage of unanswerable questions. “You killed Sten after he tortured JC, but the bastard was resurrected. Did Violet take him home to be healed so he could terrorize us again?”
“No, and we do not know who did.”
“You said the four of you were the original team of travelers. If someone else rescued Sten, that would mean your civilization had an unknown traveler. Maybe they traveled with Violet’s missing brooch.
Maybe the person was also the stranger who gave you the red cloak.
Maybe that person was a member of the Illuminati. ”
No reaction, no comment. Nothing.
There was no point in asking again. Clay moved on. “In the cave, you said you caused Elliott’s misfortune, addictions, and loss, and that the Elders blessed him with gifts. Were those all lies, too?”
“The Keeper is too important to our existence to be selected randomly. Elliott overcame adversity and emerged as a powerful figure forged in fire.”
“You didn’t answer my question. Did you cause Elliott’s misfortune?”
“We took advantage of his situation.”
Clay sketched Elliott, his shirt and pants ripped, with cuts on his arms and face. “When you left, you destroyed all the goodwill between you and the family. Was it worth it?”
Erik stood and set his glass on the coffee table. “It was not. Convey that to the Keeper. Now I must go.”
Suddenly, panic suffocated Clay. His lungs emptied, throat locked. He relived the fall, the broken, bleeding mess at the bottom of the cliff, and the figure kneeling over him, driving his palms into Clay’s chest, maintaining a frantic, life-saving pace.
“Wait! Did you save me when I fell and almost died?”
“It was not me, Barclay.”
“Then who?”
“Do you need to ask?”
“Violet?”
“She has always watched over you. She cannot show her emotions, but she will never forget her responsibilities.”
“I’m not her responsibility. She gave up that privilege when she walked out on me.”
“It is not important that you be aware of that.”
Clay blinked, the world momentarily blurring. The weight of what had happened would require more time than he had left, but he had to say this one last thing to Erik.
“Elliott wanted me to tell you that when it comes time to leave, please reconsider.”
“Tell him I will take his request to heart, but I can make no promises.”
Clay stood and faced the warrior. “I’m not afraid to ask hard questions to shine a light on the cracks in your story, but right now, I can’t think of anything else to ask. But what if I do?”
“They will go unanswered.”
That didn’t surprise Clay. “Is there anything you want to tell me? Maybe give me an answer to a question I haven’t asked.”
“I will answer one. Samantha is my true love. My time with her and my time with our sons were the happiest days of my life.” Erik squeezed Clay’s shoulder. “You are an honorable man, Barclay, worthy of being Vivica’s son, and I would enjoy more time with you. But alas, that is not to be.”
Clay grimaced at the vice-like grip. “If you returned, we would welcome you back into the fold. Maybe not immediately or not without a few fights, but we would like to have you there.”
“I am honored. Would you be equally welcoming if Vivica wanted to return?”
“I doubt it. The family would forgive you, but I’m not sure about her. You took Mark and Tavis on dozens of trips that lasted for months. What did Violet do for her children except abandon them?”
“Vivica does not need anyone’s forgiveness, nor do I, but you should give it. Holding on to it will make you weak. And to what purpose do you keep it? It does not hurt us.”
“What did Sten do to her? Tell me the truth.”
“Can you handle the truth?”
“I don’t know, but I want to hear it.”
“He tied her up and forced her to watch him rape, torture, skin, and slice the throats of four young women. The screams alone would have driven anyone insane. She could not speak for weeks and rarely slept. The specialists finally put her into a deep sleep, much like they did for James Cullen. But they could not remove the horror of what she saw and heard. The memories come back and haunt her, and she has to sleep or die. Your questioning in Chicago triggered her memories.”
“That’s why she shut down.” Clay trembled at the horror she experienced. “That makes Sten even more of a monster and me more sympathetic. Are you going to tell her you told me the story?”
“I will not have to. Vivica will know.”
Damn riddles again. “How?”
“She is not without resources.” Erik slipped his hand into his pocket. “Tell Elliott we have entrusted him with far more than he perceives. It is his honor and integrity that will save our world. Do not let him falter.”
Clay watched intently, knowing what to expect, while the room filled with even more tension.
Bastien squared his shoulders, and Kaitlyn’s stoic presence seemed to recede.
Erik stepped away, whispering in Gaelic, and vanished as the fog swallowed him whole, tearing a gasp of bereavement from Clay’s chest. As the author of this story, he thought he knew the ending.
Would tonight be the last time anyone in the clan ever saw Erik the Viking?