Snapdragon Book I: My Enemy Read online

  Snapdragon Book I: My Enemy

  Brandon Berntson

  Print ISBN: 9781500975845

  Ebook ASIN: B00JQR1LFG

  Copyright 2014 by Brandon Berntson. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be copied, sold, or distributed digitally.

  Cover art by Fiona Jayde at http://fionajaydemedia.com/

  This is a work of fiction. Any reference to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, places, characters, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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  SNAPDRAGON

  Book I: My Enemy

  by

  Brandon Berntson

  This book is dedicated to my mother and father,

  and to Nicholas Andrew Sagan

  PROLOGUE

  BOOK I

  MY ENEMY

  CHAPTER I

  CHAPTER II

  CHAPTER III

  CHAPTER IV

  CHAPTER V

  CHAPTER VI

  CHAPTER VII

  CHAPTER VIII

  CHAPTER IX

  CHAPTER X

  CHAPTER XI

  CHAPTER XII

  CHAPTER XIII

  CHAPTER XIV

  CHAPTER XV

  PROLOGUE

  He couldn’t remember any of it, but she’d help him. It wasn’t a bad thing, forgetting his childhood, but sometimes she wished he could remember…

  The good things…

  “Ben,” he’d say sometimes in bed or while they were having dinner, but then he’d go back to doing whatever he was doing, as though he hadn’t said a word.

  Not everything was good, of course. Some memories were tragic, fearful nightmares, the reason she grew scared when he mumbled Ben’s name as often as he did. The past was tapping at the window, threatening to shatter their lives. Soon, it would spill out across the floor, devouring them, as it had done all those years ago.

  She just wanted him to come back to himself, remember it without it haunting him, but maybe this was for the best. For the two of them, she remembered enough.

  Still…the good things…when they played together as children, the meadow and how beautiful it was…

  Ben…

  Yes. She thought he remembered Ben. Why else would he call to him, whisper his name?

  Of course, he didn’t forget everything. She was still here. Why else was he able to love and need her if he couldn’t recall at least some of his youth?

  She had that much. It filled her, made her realize how special she was to him, thinking of the time he’d told her, “I don’t know. There’s just something about you. Like I would lose my life otherwise. Kinda like…a talisman.”

  It was all she needed, and she felt the time—his remembering—drawing near.

  Sometimes, she thought she should leave. Maybe then, he would remember, but she couldn’t. Not when he said things like that. Her leaving would only add to the nightmare, the swirling vortex of cold air and confusion. If she left, he’d relive the trauma and horror all over again. Or worse. They would relive it. And what would happen then, how unstable would their lives become…?

  They were dozing on the couch after a light lunch: tuna fish sandwiches and sour cream and onion potato chips, a simple meal, one a child would have, she thought, and smiled.

  She looked to the mantel above the fireplace and caught a glimpse of yesteryear.

  Velvety blue…

  She moved her fingers through the fine hair of her husband’s head.

  Seeing yesteryear, she steeled her heart against the past, as if it were reaching up to assault her again.

  Resolute, she nodded. No, she’d never leave him. Being here, staying now, the battle was halfway won already…

  She looked to the mantel again and smiled.

  Yes. A talisman.

  Just keep them safe, he’d told her. How many years ago was that? A decade? A millennium? Just keep them safe. Everything will be okay. I promise. Just keep them safe.

  She’d kept them safe, but she wondered about the promise. The adornments from yesteryear were on the mantelpiece, even if he never said anything about them—one of her feminine furnishings to warm the house—the touch she had for close, comfortable décor.

  Any day, she thought. Any day now, and he will remember everything. And it will not be bad a thing. It will be a good thing. It will make him more beautiful. It will make everything beautiful again—the way it was—all the beautiful things we remember…the games we played.

  The past wasn’t the only thing haunting him. It was something else, something bigger, more beautiful than everything else…the thing she wanted him to understand.

  Yes. A talisman.

  Something very much like Ben.

  BOOK I

  MY ENEMY

  CHAPTER I

  In the summer of 2004, two immortal entities, one light and one dark, descended from time and space, and landed on the outskirts of Ellishome, Colorado. Waging endless wars across the galaxies and bound by time, they sought the one thing to set them free:

  Division.

  One was a purveyor of darkness, a manipulator, corrupting everything precious, magical, and holy in its path.

  The other was on a quest for something else altogether…found in the eyes and heart of a child, for evil can be banished only by purity, undoing, permanently, the union its fathers had placed upon them.

  ii

  Sadie McCall sat in his bedroom and imagined himself pitching on the world’s biggest stage. Baseball not being confined to America, Sadie saw himself striking out the world’s greatest hitters…mainly Sammy Sosa (even though Sammy played for the Cubs at the time, and now that Sadie thought about it, might be retiring soon). Rudy, Sadie’s older brother, said he’d be pitching in the majors someday and striking out Sammy Sosa. “All you have to do is grow up before Sammy retires,” Rudy had said.

  In the McCall household, there was only one religion, and that religion was baseball. No other practice was exercised with such piety. As Sadie McCall knelt by his bed, rifling through various baseball cards, he might as well be praying to the baseball gods. Only they could understand his passion, the ache he had to be recognized as the world’s greatest pitcher. Surely God—who loved Sadie with all His heart (at least from what his mother told him. She was the only devout Christian in the household)—knew how much Sadie loved baseball, and how important it was to him. If God loved him as much as He claimed (as much as his mother said He did), then surely his dream of striking our Sammy Sosa was already being orchestrated. After all, God was God, and what else could Sadie put his trust in than the Man who’d created America’s favorite pastime?

  It was no strange thing in the McCall household, either, that a hitter, and not, say…Roger Clemens or Curt Schilling had inspired Sadie to pitch. Sammy had a wide-open, fearless stance, and when he swung, it was a thing of artistic beauty, like a spring-loaded pivot from the waist up. He seemed to hit everything thrown at him. If Sadie could learn how to strike out Sammy Sosa—a feat for any starting ace—he’d be the greatest pitcher in the world!

  So, Sadie McCall dreamed big, and he strove for high heat, longing to pitch against Sammy Sosa on the world’s biggest stage. Not a bad ambition for a boy of nine, and like most boys, imagined it in the most dramatic fashion: two strikes, three balls, the bottom of the ninth, game seven of the World Series. Sadie’s team (the Mariners perhaps—since Sammy played for the National League) was up by 1, Cubs 0. Sadie had pitched a shutout
thus far, and though Sosa had managed to get several hits off him, he still hadn’t struck him out. Sammy was at the plate now, though, with a runner on third. One swing could win it.

  “Sadie winds up. There’s sweat coating his brow, Jim. Look at all the cameras flashing. Man, you can even smell the popcorn, hot dogs, beer, pretzels, and fresh cut grass. Sadie delivers! It’s a low knuckleball. Sammy digs in and swings—”

  A knock at his door shattered the image, and Sadie turned.

  Rudy, his sixteen-year-old brother, stepped inside. “Hey, Cannonball. It’s the perfect day for pitch-and-hit. Grab your mitt, man. Let’s go!”

  Sadie smiled, black hair falling into his blue eyes, and blushed. He was a smaller version of his older brother. “Where’s the bat?”

  “Outside, waitin’ to burn one of your fastballs over the fence.”

  Sadie looked to the framed poster of Sammy Sosa on the wall (his bedroom was a shrine to the right fielder). The picture had been taken a split second after one of Sammy’s homerun swings. Sadie liked to imagine this ball was still sailing high over Wrigley Field and into the darker regions of space.

  Sadie smiled and grabbed his mitt, cards forgotten. Wearing a Cubs jersey with number 21 on the back, he grabbed his Cubs hat from the headboard, and followed his brother outside into the backyard. It was the perfect day. The sun was high and warm. Few clouds patched the sky. A hint of a breeze brought the smell of…fresh cut grass, popcorn, pretzels, and hot dogs?

  “Hope you’ve been warming up,” Sadie said, grinning.

  Rudy tossed the ball to his brother and walked over by the fence. He picked up the bat, taking several practice swings. “Cannonball’s a little cocky today, ladies and gentleman,” he said. “We might have to humble him with a homer to start.”

  Standing in the middle of the yard (where Austin had built a makeshift pitcher’s mound), Sadie pulled his cap down.

  Cameras flashed. Game seven. Mariners up by one.

  He twirled the ball in his fingers, leaned over, and accepted a signal from an invisible catcher. Sadie wound up, and delivered. His brother (or was it Sammy Sosa?) took a huge cut…missing all of it.

  iii

  Austin joined the game of pitch-and-hit an hour later, his tie loosened over a white shirt. Mattie sat on the porch, wearing a light, summery skirt and blouse matching her reddish blonde hair. She watched her husband and oldest boy in a makeshift parody of baseball with a grin on her face. Sadie stood next to her, resting his arm. Austin had already taken several swings, sailing the ball high into the air, but he was taking a break from the bat now, trying to strike out his eldest son. A slight throb was developing at his shoulder. His hairline gleamed like a pair of polished shoes.

  “Dad, could you put a hat on or something,” Rudy said, shielding his eyes with his hand. “I can’t even see the ball.”

  “It’s all part of my strategy,” Austin said, rubbing his gleaming pate.

  Mattie laughed and winked at Sadie.

  “All right, here it comes,” Austin said, not too sure of himself. He did a comical wind-up and threw the ball. Rudy swung, making a loud crack, the ball sailing high into the air, over the fence, and into Mrs. Teverdosky’s yard.

  “Yee-haaww!” Rudy cried. “It’s ten to one, and it ain’t even the bottom of the first!”

  “Time for the reliever,” Austin said, rubbing his shoulder.

  “Sure, bring in the rookie,” Rudy said. “Sadie, you’re up.” Rudy trotted across the lawn and climbed over the fence. It was his fourth time over already today.

  “We’d better stop before we break one of Mrs. T’s windows,” Austin said, looking at Sadie. “Or just let you pitch. He doesn’t hit as well off you.”

  Sadie gave his dad a smile.

  Rudy hopped back over the fence with the ball in hand. “It’s a miracle we haven’t lost this thing yet.”

  “Let’s call it quits for the day, boys,” Austin said. “Mrs. T’s probably gonna call the cops. Besides, supper’s almost ready.”

  “They can throw a few more,” Mattie said. “Go get him, champ.” Mattie patted Sadie on the rear, urging him toward the pitcher’s mound.

  “Cannonball thinks he can strike me out,” Rudy said, tossing the ball to his brother, and grinned.

  “This is getting dangerous,” Austin said, sitting next to his wife.

  “Guy thinks he can hit off me,” Sadie said. “What do you think of that?”

  Austin and Mattie laughed.

  “Oh!” Rudy said. “That pokes! Can’t hit! Oh, man! This is too good to pass up!” Rudy grabbed the bat and steadied himself by the fence. Mattie and Austin made crowd noises, cupping their hands over their mouths.

  “Come on, Cannonball, let ’er rip,” Rudy taunted, and for emphasis, shook his rear.

  “Go get him, boy!” Austin said.

  Sadie leaned over, zeroing in on the strike zone, rotating his fingers across the threads.

  “Come on, short stuff!” Rudy taunted. “Throw me some heat! Lay it one me this time! Put some mustard on it!”

  Sadie wound up, and for a nine-year-old, looked like a pro. He imagined it was Sammy Sosa again standing in the tattered rock-and-roll shirt and jeans his brother wore. Game seven, the world biggest stage. Sadie delivered, and Rudy took a swing.

  “I do believe they call that a strike,” Austin said.

  iv

  Dinner was meatloaf. Sadie shoveled it in, picking several pieces of onions from his mouth, setting them discreetly on the side of his plate. His dad taught him to accept meals gratefully, no matter what was being served. Sadie was grateful, just not for the onions. His throat tightened every time he tried to take a bite. Meatloaf was like a great big sponge, and he didn’t enjoy it for that particular reason, never mind the onions. What was the deal with meatloaf anyway? People acted as if it were a work of art. Sadie quelled his revulsion by helping himself to another serving of cheese potatoes.

  When supper was over—the chore of washing dishes complete (much to the relief of Sadie McCall)—he retreated to his bedroom, picking up the stack of cards he’d been rifling through. He was simply sorting through them, keeping the oldest ones together, the newer ones on top. He had a photo album he kept them in, but he couldn’t resist pulling them out to look at them, liking the way they felt in his hands.

  Sadie stood by his bedroom window now, which looked out over Chestnut Street. Jonathan and Margaret Tudor’s house was just across the street, and little Maggie Tudor, their six-year-old daughter, was in the front yard playing with a red and white beach ball. She threw it high into the air, then gave chase when it hit the ground and rolled away. Her tiny hands couldn’t quite catch it.

  A gust of wind rattled the window. Startled, Sadie stepped back. Clouds covered the sun. Branches of trees bent and creaked with a sudden gale. Leaves rustled.

  Maggie didn’t seem to notice.

  Welcome to my underground…

  Sadie frowned. A chill in the air made him rub his arms. What happened to that cloudless, summer day?

  The baseball cards slipped from his fingers, scattering to the floor. Sadie rubbed his arms again and shivered, stepping back from the window.

  Run, he thought. Get Dad! Something bad is happening. Something…evil?

  He didn’t know that, of course, didn’t believe it. It was just something in the meatloaf.

  Sadie craned his neck and looked through the window down the block, seeing most of the houses along Chestnut Street. Was it a trick of the light or his imagination?

  There was man in a top hat and a cape sitting on a horse in the middle of the road.

  But it wasn’t a man, and the horse...

  Maggie threw the beach ball again and laughed as it rolled away.

  Maybe a carnival was in town, a circus, some early Halloween get-together? What did they call it? A masquerade?

  The horse clip-clopped along the street, the sound growing in volume, seeming to echo in Sadie’s brain. William Holliste
r sometimes pulled a carriage through town during the holidays, charging residents two-dollars a ride. Maybe he was taking the horse out for an evening stroll, practicing for the colder months ahead.

  Dressed like that? Sadie thought. In this heat?

  But it wasn’t hot. It wasn’t hot at all.

  Feel my pain.

  Sweat broke out along Sadie’s hairline. His heart hammered. Maggie continued to play with the ball, completely oblivious to the man on the horse.

  Know my horror.

  Putting his hands against the glass, Sadie studied the man on the horse. He put his nose against the window, making a circle of fog.

  What did you put in the meatloaf, Mom?

  Maggie threw the ball into the air, failed to catch it when it came down, and ran toward the gutter when it rolled away.

  The rider was close now, his face a mask of clouds, body slightly hunched over in the saddle. The horse, too, owned some aberrant quality Sadie couldn’t place.

  It wasn’t a real thing, but a flicker of the night’s endeavors, a spark of illumination. He was witnessing an image of the dark, a specter of shade and shadow. His mind conjured it on his own. He couldn’t perceive the demon in its primordial form, couldn’t see it for what it actually was. The horse, the top hat, the cape were mere suggestions. Sadie didn’t know how he knew this…only that he did.

  The horse’s eyes were dull, lifeless as a shark—its coat dusty, matted, and ill cared for.

  Sadie pressed his face even further into the glass. The rider was in plain sight now.

  Maggie was still oblivious. The ball rolled toward the gutter, and she gave chase. She wasn’t very good at catching it, Sadie thought, and now she wasn’t more than three feet from the man on the horse!

  Fingers of bone held the reins. A wide, lipless mouth devoid of flesh smiled.