Date: Thu, 18 Sep 2003 11:55:35 EDT
From: Aterovis@aol.com
Subject: Chapter One of Never Alone

Author's Note: This is a new short story that will introduce several new
characters who will be appearing in the next Killian Kendall novel. Enjoy!
--Josh


Never Alone
Part One of Four


	The rough bark of the tree bit into my back as I pressed against
it, terror forced my heart into a frantic staccato rhythm. The wan
moonlight from the crescent moon above filtered through the bare branches
above me, allowing me enough light to see shapes and forms, but nothing in
detail. I tried to control my gasping breath, knowing the slightest sound
could give me away and lead to my death.

        I was being hunted. I was the prey.

	I heard something approaching, thrashing noisily through the dry
leaves behind me. Only my hunter would be so careless as to make so much
noise. Stealth was no longer to his advantage; I knew he was coming for me
and we both knew he wouldn't stop until I was dead. I could stay still and
hope he passed me by or I could make a run for it and hope to outrun
him. Fear won out over reason and I launched myself away from the dubious
security of the tree. Maybe the noise the hunter was making would drown out
the sounds I made as I fled blindly through the trees.

	It seemed like the very forest was conspiring against me. Branches
smacked across my face as brambles grabbed greedily at my clothes. I
tripped and stumbled over roots that were seemingly thrust between my
feet. Each time I fell, I doggedly bounced back to my feet and continued
running. I knew I was bleeding, I could feel the warm liquid running down
my face, mixing with the cold sweat of panic, but I felt no pain. I had no
room for anything but fear and the will to survive.

	Suddenly, I burst into a clearing. My mind barely had time to
register the rectangular hole gaping obscenely in my path like a grave
waiting eagerly for its grisly occupant. I veered to the left in an attempt
to avoid it, but I came too close, my foot fell at the edge of the opening
and the soft earth crumbled, sending me crashing into the black void.

	It wasn't as deep as I'd thought; only a couple feet at the most. I
struggled to get up again, but this time agonizing pain shot down my leg
and I collapsed back to the earth. I rolled over just as a dark shadow fell
over me. I looked up to find a figure looming over me, silhouetted against
the sky, his features cloaked in darkness. The hunter had caught his
prey. I knew with a sudden grim certainty that this was to be my grave.

* * *
	I awoke with a start, my heart pounding and my T-shirt wet with
cold sweat. I sat up, pushing my damp hair away from my face and took deep,
gulping breaths. Calm down, I told myself.

	It was just a dream -- the same dream I've been having periodically
for years now. I used to wake the whole house up as I came up out of the
nightmare screaming and crying. I'd learned to control my reaction
somewhat, but it was still no less terrifying.

	Eventually, my heart rate began to return to normal and my
breathing evened out. I was wide-awake now and knew from experience I
wouldn't be getting much sleep for the rest of the night. I glanced over at
my clock radio and saw that it was almost four o'clock in the morning. It
could have been worse, I thought with a sigh. The last time I'd had the
dream a couple months ago I woke up at two-thirty. I'd barely made it
through the next day at school, I'd been so tired.

	I slid out of bed and peeled off the clammy T-shirt. Unlike my
dream, the sky was brightening with false dawn and my room was lit with the
ghostly illumination. I caught a glimpse of myself in the full-length
mirror on the back of my door and stopped. I looked awful. My shoulder
length black hair hung damp and limp, framing my face with its sticky
tendrils. Dark circles surrounded my deep brown almond-shaped eyes, set in
a broad face with high cheekbones. No one ever had any trouble guessing
that I was of Native American heritage. I fit the Hollywood stereotype
perfectly, even down to my less-than-average height and lean, fit
body. Throw a loincloth around my narrow hips and I was ready for my
close-up.

	My looks came to me naturally. My mother was a member of a local
tribe called the Mocatans and my father was a Lenape Indian from New
Jersey. They'd met at a Powwow back in the days when Dad was a championship
competitive dancer and were married a year later. I was born less than a
year after that and in a fit of Native pride I was named Jacy, Native
American for `moon'.

	I may have looked like your typical Hollywood Indian, but my life
was far from it. Instead of living in a wigwam in a serene village, I lived
with my family in a two story farm house in a small town in Maryland --
and our home life was anything but serene. I was the oldest of six kids,
and at sixteen, I was expected to take on a lot of responsibility. I didn't
really resent it, but my parents were pretty strict and their expectations
were maybe just a little high. Between school, my part-time job at the
Dairy Queen, and my family responsibilities, I didn't have much time for
myself.

	I moved away from the mirror and groaned softly as I remembered
what day it was: Sunday. See, my family is very religious. Before you start
conjuring up images of me in a sweat lodge, it's important to know that
shortly after I was born, my parents "found the Lord" (who knew he was
missing?) and became born-again Baptists. This meant that in a few hours,
we'd all bundle into the family van and set off to Sunday School. Don't get
me wrong, I don't really have a problem with God or church or whatever, but
I haven't really decided if it's all for me just yet. I resented being told
what to believe without being allowed any say in the matter.

	I walked over to the window and lightly touched the painting
sitting on the easel. Still wet. Art was my therapy. Whenever I needed to
get away for a while, I'd lock myself in my room and paint. Oil paintings
were scattered around my room, leaning against the walls, propped up on my
dresser, and stacked under my bed, even in my closet. I guess if I had to
categorize my work, which I was loathe to do, I would have to call it
abstract.  Some of the images were recognizable if you used your
imagination, but some were just designs that held significance to no one
but me, expressions of my emotional state at the time they were
created. Only a few close friends had ever seen my paintings, and none of
them had known quite what to make of them. Not even my family had seen
them. I bought all my own supplies, which was the main purpose of my
part-time job.

	I moved the canvas on the easel off to one side and propped up a
new one; its crisp whiteness a little intimidating at first. I'd prepped
the canvas already, so I could just start painting. I squeezed out some
fresh pigment onto my palette, dipped in my brush, and began to paint. I'd
chosen dark, brooding colors to match my mood.

        I slowly got lost in the creative trance I seem to slip into when
I'm painting. I didn't notice as the room started to brighten with the
sunrise, or when the sounds of my family waking up began. The next thing I
knew, Mom was banging on my door. "Jacy, are you up?" she called, causing
me to jump as my concentration was broken.

	I blinked in confusion for a second before answering. "Yeah, I'm
up," I called back.

	"You'd better get a shower now or you won't have time for
breakfast," she said. I listened to her footsteps retreating down the hall
as I stared at the almost completed painting before me.

	Consciously, I hadn't been painting anything in particular, but
apparently my subconscious had been busy. The painting was all dark blues,
purples, and black; dark vertical stripes against an only slightly lighter
background. It was very foreboding and it didn't take much imagination to
recognize this painting; it was the setting from my dream. With a sigh, I
dropped my brush in the jar of paint thinner and painfully forced my
cramped fingers to open. I'd been painting for hours without a break and my
hands were complaining bitterly.

	I picked up the painting and carried it to my closet, where I
carefully set at the front of the stack of paintings I kept there. I called
them my Nightmare Series. I had one for every time I'd had the nightmare
since I started painting about a year ago. They all bore a striking
similarity but only a few were finished, and those had been painted all in
one sitting. I never went back to them; in fact, I never looked at them
again once they were put away in the closet.

	I closed the closet door and went to get ready for church.

* * *
	Isn't it funny how you can look back on your life and see how, if
certain things hadn't happened exactly as they did, your life would have
turned out so drastically different? Things that seem so terribly
insignificant at the time turn out to be major life altering events when
looked at from the right perspective and the things that seem of such great
consequence often lose their importance with time. One thing I've learned
is that it's the little things you have to watch out for.

	It was a couple days after I'd had the last nightmare and I was
working at Dairy Queen after school. I was at the front counter, which
meant I was taking orders, serving ice cream, making milkshakes and so
on. It's always busier at the front counter during hot weather and today
wasn't an exception. I'd just served up two ice cream cones when they
walked in.

	I'd seen the girl around at school. She'd been in a couple of my
classes, but I couldn't remember her name. She was an attractive girl, dark
chocolate skin, glossy black hair that she now wore tied back with a
colorful scarf, warm brown eyes behind small glasses. It was her friend
that caught my attention however. He was tall and thin, short dark hair
that he wore carefully messy, dark brown eyes under impossibly long, dark
lashes, and his skin tone was the same as mine. I knew immediately that he
had to be an American Indian as well. I'd never seen him before, I was sure
I would remember him if I had.

	I couldn't seem to tear my eyes away from him as they approached
the counter. What was going on with me? I'd seen better looking guys than
him before, but they'd never captured my attention like this. There was
just something about him, something that I couldn't look away from. Thank
goodness, neither of them had so much as glanced in my direction; they
seemed to be caught up in an argument of some sort.

	"I don't know why it's such a big deal," the girl was saying in a
very annoyed tone of voice.

	"All I said was that I didn't want to meet him," he snapped back,
his eyes flashing with barely controlled anger. "You're the one making a
big deal out of this."

	"Two chocolate chip cookie dough Blizzards," she ordered, still
without looking in my direction. As I made the desserts, I continued to
shamelessly eavesdrop. Hey, if you're going to have a loud argument in a
public place you should expect to be overheard.

	"Why don't you want to meet him?" she demanded.

	"Why do I have to give you a reason? Why can't you just accept that
I don't want to? Maybe I have reasons I don't want to share with you."

	"I thought I was your best friend."

	"Oh for God's sake, you're such a drama queen."

	"I'm a drama queen? If that isn't the pot calling the kettle
black!"

	"It's not like you tell me every little detail about your life."

	"I practically do. I just don't understand why you can't tell me
why. He's such a nice guy."

	"I didn't say he wasn't a nice guy."

	"Then why won't you meet him?"

	"Can we just drop this? Please?"

	They fell into an uneasy silence as I thought about their
words. Could he be gay? It sure sounded like it from their conversation. I
didn't know any gay guys personally, although there were a few at my
school. I'd certainly never considered myself gay. I was attracted to girls
even though I'd never dated -- my parents thought I was too young. I'd
never really been attracted to guys...at least before now.

        I glanced over my shoulder to find him watching me appraisingly. I
felt a blush immediately spring to my cheeks as my head snapped back
around. Luckily, my skin tone is dark enough that a blush doesn't show
easily. He probably knew I'd been listening now. How embarrassing. I
concentrated on their Blizzards, which were almost done.

	"It's because he's chubby, isn't it?" the girl snapped just as I
was turning around with their finished desserts.

	The guy gave a huge beleaguered sigh. "Look, he's just not my type,
ok?" He gave me a smoldering smile and I almost tripped over my
feet. "Unlike him," he said deliberately locking his eyes with mine.

	If I hadn't set the Blizzards down already, I'm sure I would have
dropped them. As it was, my mouth went dry and I suddenly couldn't seem to
remember what to do next.

	The girl gave me an exasperated look. "How much do I owe you?" she
asked slowly, as if she was talking to a mentally challenged child.

	I shook myself a bit and quickly rang them up with a shaking hand.

	"I'll get it," the guy said, reaching into his pocket and pulling
out a wallet. He counted out the exact change, his fingers scraping
suggestively against my palm as he handed me the money. He smiled again as
they turned to go.

	"I don't know why you do that," his friend hissed.

	"Do what?" he asked innocently, shooting me a final glance over his
shoulder.

	"Mess with poor boys' heads like that."

	"Don't start."

	I watched as they left, still arguing as they went. I wondered if
that was how they always were and, if so, why they were friends in the
first place.

	I took the next person's order, but kept an eye on the two of them
as they walked across the parking lot. I was filling a cup with soda when I
felt the hairs on the back of my neck suddenly stand up. I spun around to
see the guy and girl still arguing. She'd stopped walking and he was slowly
backing away from her, gesturing angrily with one hand. While I watched, he
reached the curb without realizing it and stumbled off...right into the
path of an oncoming bright red car. I watched in horror as the car threw
his body into the air like a rag doll. I couldn't hear from inside, but
imagined the sickening thud as he slammed into the ground and lay there
unmoving.

	I gave a strangled shout and dropped the soda. I couldn't believe
no one else even seemed to notice what had happened right outside. I leaped
over the counter and ran for the door, exploding out into the intense
humidity of the September afternoon. I came to a skidding halt as I
realized they were both standing in the middle of the parking lot, still
arguing. What was going on? Had I imagined that whole scene?

	Their words were lost to me as I stood there trying to figure out
if I was losing my mind. I rubbed my face and when I dropped my hands, the
guy had started slowly backing away from the girl, gesturing angrily with
one hand. I felt a chill sweep over my entire body as the hair on my neck
once more stood up on end. My mouth worked for a few seconds but nothing
came out.

	Just as he was about to step back off the curb I found my
voice. "Hey!" I yelled.

	He stopped and his eyes met mine as the girl turned to give me a
look that clearly said, "Drop dead." The red car drove by harmlessly behind
the boy. I registered all this with half a thought, since most of my brain
had stopped thinking about anything else the second his eyes had met mine.

	"What?" the girl demanded.

	"I...you..." I had no idea what to say now. My mind went
completely blank. "Be careful crossing the street," I finished weakly.

	The guy raised one eyebrow as a slow, sultry smile spread across
his face. "We'll do that," he said, his voice making the words sound
impossibly sexy. "Thanks for the reminder." He turned and made an
exaggerated point of looking both ways, then turned back to me. "How's
that?" he asked.

	My face was burning in what I was sure had to be a visible blush
this time. Great, now he thought I was a complete nutcase. And maybe I
was. I still didn't understand what had just happened. Of course, why did
it even matter what he thought of me. I'd probably never seen him
again. Instead of answering, I turned and walked back inside. My manager
was waiting at the counter.

	"What was that about?" she asked, sounding rather irritated.

	"I..." Once again I was at a loss for words. What was I supposed
to say? That I'd had some weird psychic moment, seen the future, and rushed
out to save a life? Yeah right. I didn't even buy that one. "I thought I
was going to get sick," I managed to say. Come to think of it, I just
might.

	I must have looked as bad as I felt, because she seemed to accept
my excuse. She really wasn't a bad boss at all. She pressed a hand to my
forehead. "Maybe you should just go home for the day, get some rest."

	I nodded gratefully and slipped off my apron. That sounded like a
great idea.

	"What are you doing home early?" Mom asked brusquely as I came
through the back door.

	I sighed. Mom was okay, but she wasn't the most maternal woman
you'll ever meet. She could definitely be a little controlling at times. I
was basically a good kid so it didn't bother me too much, but she often
gave my younger brother Michael a hard time.

	"I was feeling sick at work so they sent me home," I said.

	Mom's eyes narrowed. "Then you'd better go on up to your room," she
said quickly. "I don't want some virus going through the whole house."

	I wasn't about to argue. I climbed the stairs to the second floor
and quickly shut myself into my room. Being the oldest had its
advantages. I'm the only one with a room to myself. My two younger
brothers, Michael, who is fourteen, and Raphael, eleven, share one room. So
do my three little sisters, the twins Gabrielle and Ariel were nine and the
baby of the family Dina, who is five-years-old.

	I threw myself across my bed and allowed myself to think about what
had happened at work for the first time. Not that I had any idea what had
happened. None of it made any sense to me. Or it did, but my mind refused
to accept the obvious explanation. I didn't believe in all that psychic
mumbo-jumbo...did I? I was so confused. I pondered it all for a while
before finally just deciding to ignore it. It's not like I ever talked to
the girl and chances were that I'd never see the guy again. I felt a
strange pang of regret at that last thought.

	What was it about that guy that had so totally swept me away? There
was no way I could be gay. Mom and Dad would totally freak out. Besides, I
liked girls. A nagging voice at the back of my mind suggested that maybe I
was bisexual, but I quickly told it to shut up and mind its own business.

	I thought about trying to paint, but I wasn't really in the mood. I
dozed off eventually and didn't wake up until someone tapped on my door.

	"Huh?" I grunted groggily.

	The door opened and Michael stuck his head in. "Mom wanted me to
see if you want dinner," he said.

	I blinked at him for a second before the words sank in. "Yeah, I
guess," I said, sitting up.

	He pushed the door open and came in with a plate piled with
food. "Thought you might so I made you a plate," he said with a grin.

	"I can't eat all that," I protested.

	His grin grew wider. "I know. I'll help you."

	I couldn't help but laugh. Mikey seemed to be at that age when his
stomach turned into a bottomless pit. He could consume huge amounts of food
and still not be full.

	"Mom still doesn't want me around the rest of the family?" I asked
as I cleaned off the small table I kept next to the easel to hold all my
art supplies.

	"Nope. She's not taking any risks. Apparently, I'm an acceptable
loss."

	I laughed again. Mom and Michael were constantly butting heads. It
wasn't that he was a bad kid, but he was definitely headstrong and
determined to do things his own way.

	I pulled the table over to the bed to we could both sit and eat. As
he set down the huge plate of food, I noticed his eyes drinking in every
detail of the room. He didn't come in my room very often, and when he did
it was usually only for a few seconds to give me some message from Mom or
Dad. I suddenly felt very self-conscious.

	His eyes fell on the painting sitting on the easel. It was my
latest work-in-progress, a loosely interpreted landscape using bright
primary colors.

	"So this is what you do when you lock yourself up in here?" he
asked, flipping off the question as if commenting on the weather.

	I nodded. He stood up to get a closer look. "Be careful; it's still
wet," I said when he reached for it. He observed it quietly for a few
minutes, then turned his attention to some of the other canvases I had
stacked around the room. The food was all but forgotten; his reaction to my
work my only thought.

	After several minutes of inspection, he turned to me with a
surprised expression. "These are really good," he said.

	"Seriously?" I asked, suspecting some sort of trick.

	"Totally," he gushed. "I had no idea you were this good. I don't
know what I expected, I mean, I knew you painted because you're always
bringing home art supplies, but I didn't expect this. I figured that since
you didn't let anyone see them that they must be awful. You should get Aunt
Lily to look at these!"

	I snorted. Aunt Lily was my mom's younger sister. To say they
didn't get along would be an understatement. Technically, Mom didn't get
along with any of her four sisters, who are all named after flowers, but
there seemed to be a special antipathy for Lily. In order from oldest to
youngest the sisters are Daisy, Violet, Rose, Lily and Jasmine.

	The only time we ever saw any of them was at family events like
Christmas and Thanksgiving or the occasional wedding or funeral. I didn't
know exactly why she and Mom didn't get along, but they always made a
rather obvious effort to avoid each other at family functions. Actually, I
didn't know much about Aunt Lily at all except that she was an artist --
which, I assume, is why Michael brought her up.

	"Mom would flip if she knew I had seen Aunt Lily," I scoffed.

	"So don't let her find out. She has no idea that I hang out with
David." David was Aunt Violet's youngest son. He was the same age as
Michael and they went to school together.

	"I didn't even know you hang out with David," I said, although I
wasn't too surprised.

	"See, it can be done."

	"I'll think about it," I said as I started eating again. We chatted
about the paintings, Michael pointing out which ones he liked the most,
while he devoured most of the food. When the plate was clean, he said good
night and left me alone.

	Now that the thought had been planted in my head, I found I
couldn't think of anything else. Were my paintings really that good? What
would Aunt Lily think of them? I decided to slip one of my smaller
paintings out soon and take it to her to see what she thought.

	With that decision taken care of, my thoughts wandered back to the
guy from earlier, which was exactly what I didn't want to think about. I
needed to distract myself and painting seemed like the perfect solution. I
set my table back up, picked up my brush, and stared at the landscape on
the easel. It was far from finished, but it wasn't speaking to me right
now. I moved it off to one side and set up another, smaller canvas that was
prepped and ready. I stared at it a moment, waiting for it to tell me what
to do. Inspiration struck me all at once and I was off.

* * *
	It was several days later when the next life altering event took
place. It couldn't have seemed less significant at the time; it was just
another ordinary school assignment: research your family history and write
a ten-page paper about your findings. We were supposed to interview older
family members and go back as many generations as possible. Piece of cake,
right? Yeah, I thought so too.

	My first stop -- Mom -- was like hitting a brick wall. "The past
should stay in the past," she said in the tone of voice she used to let you
know she'd said all she planned to say on a certain subject. "Why do you
need to know anyway?"

	"It's for a school project," I explained.

	She pursed her lips. Grades were a big deal in my family. "Well,
they can't fail you if you just don't know," she said after a moment's
hesitation. I read clearly into that hesitation -- she knew, she didn't
want to tell me. Now my curiosity had been piqued.

	I decided to go over Mom's head. I drove myself over to Grandma
Allen's house. Grandma Allen is my maternal grandmother. She's your typical
grandmother type, complete with wrinkles and shoulder length white
hair. I've always thought she was quite beautiful. She carried herself with
a kind of elegant grace. She lived alone in a small well-kept house in a
quiet suburban neighborhood; Grandpa Allen had died when I was too young to
really remember him.

	Grandma Allen was surprised to see me and even more surprised by my
questions. She immediately became evasive.

	"What has your mother told you?" she asked delicately. We were
sitting on a big comfortable couch in her living room. The whole house was
comfortable; it just seemed to exude a sense of peace and calm.

	"Nothing," I answered. "She said the past should be kept in the
past."

	Grandma sighed. "That sounds like your mother. She never could seem
to understand that we must learn from the past in order to avoid making the
same mistakes in the future." She reached over and patted my hand. "I'd
like to tell you the things you want to know, but your mother and I have
struggled with our relationship over the years. We've found a sort of peace
in recent years and I'd hate to do anything to upset that."

	I nodded, but my face must have betrayed my disappointment.

	"However," she said with a small smile. "I know someone who
wouldn't hesitate a second to go behind your mother's back..."

	I raised an eyebrow inquisitively.

	"Why don't you talk to Lily?"

	"She could help me?"

	"She's done a lot of genealogy work. She probably knows the family
better than I do."

	"I didn't know that," I said thoughtfully. It seemed like
everything was pushing me towards Aunt Lily these days.

	"Do you know where she lives?" Grandma asked.

	"No, I've never been to her house."

	She stood up and left the room for a minute. When she returned, she
was carrying a small notepad and a pen. She sat back down and began to
write. After a few seconds, she ripped off the page and handed it to me. I
looked down to find detailed directions to Aunt Lily's house.

	"Do you think you'll go today?" Grandma asked.

	"Probably not," I told her.

	"But you will go see her?"

	"Yes."

	She nodded. "Good. Now come on in to the kitchen. I have some
cookies I made this morning."

* * *
	It was Friday before I managed to get to Aunt Lily's house. I ended
up taking two paintings with me. One was the landscape I'd been working on
and finally finished, and the other was the last painting I'd done, the one
I'd started the day the guy was almost run over in front of Dairy Queen. It
had turned out to be an abstract figure of a nude male done in shades of
blues and white. It was very different from anything I'd ever done, but I
was quite pleased with it.

	Grandma's directions turned out to be quite easy to follow. Lily
lived in the country in a big two-story white farmhouse. She had a huge
lawn with towering pecan trees scattered around. As I pulled into the
driveway, I noticed a large barn in back. I was out of the car and halfway
to the front door when a large, wooly white bear came barreling around the
corner. At least that's what I thought when I first saw it. I quickly
realized it was just an enormous shaggy dog, but I wasn't sure if that was
any better. I froze in place, unsure if I should make a break for the car
or what. Was he aggressive?

	When he caught sight of me, the colossal canine came to shuddering
halt. He eyed me uncertainly from beneath a heavy fringe of hair for a few
moments. He must have come to the conclusion that I was no threat however,
because his entire rump -- he didn't seem to have a tail -- started
to wiggle back and forth as he lumbered over to me, mouth agape in a
friendly doggy grin. I rubbed his head and was surprised to find that his
fur was quite soft.

	"I see you've met Elmo," a voice said, causing me to jump. I looked
up to find Aunt Lily coming around the same corner from which the dog, who
I now knew was inexplicably named Elmo, had just come. As if she had read
my mind, Aunt Lily continued, "Ironically, his name means `protector', but
your only worry with him is that he might lick you to death. He'd be the
first to run and hide if you posed any real threat." By now she'd reached
the two of us and she rubbed Elmo's head affectionately. He beamed up at
her with a look of total devotion.

	Aunt Lily was in her thirties. She wore her long straight brown
hair in a braid hanging down her back almost to her waist. She was a little
taller than me and very slender.

	"He's gigantic," I said. "What kind of dog is he?"

	"Shh," she said with a wink. "Don't let him hear you call him a
dog. He thinks he's a person. He's an Old English sheepdog."

	I'd stopped petting him, which apparently didn't sit well with him
since he suddenly butted me with his huge head, causing me to stumble. Aunt
Lily laughed.

	"He likes to be the center of attention. Come on back to my
studio." She started back the way she'd come and Elmo and I rushed after
her. It occurred to me that she didn't seem the least bit surprised that I
was here. I assumed Grandma must have let her know I'd be coming.

	She led us to the old barn in the back yard, which I realized now
had been converted to her studio. As we ducked inside, I was expecting to
find a typical dusty barn. I was surprised to find she'd completely
remodeled the interior. It was open now to the roof, where several
expansive skylights had been installed, letting in lots of natural
light. The floor was poured concrete and the walls had been covered with
sheetrock. The whole place was air conditioned. A large potter's wheel
stood in the center of the room. A table nearby held an assortment of small
metal tools that looked like a cross between dental instruments and torture
devices. A counter built along the wall held several unglazed pots, a large
lump of clay, and various bottles and jars. A shiny metal, barrel-shaped
contraption stood against the back wall. Aunt Lily followed my gaze.

	"That's my kiln," she said. "I was just about to start my last pot
for the day. I have an order I have to fill by next week so if you don't
mind, I'll work while we talk."

	"That's fine," I said, looking around for somewhere to sit. I found
a stool by the counter and brought it closer to the wheel. Aunt Lily
slammed the lump of clay into the center of the wheel and started it
spinning. Elmo flopped down nearby and started snoring almost immediately.

	"So talk," she said as she dipped her hands in water and began to
shape the clay with her fingers.

	"I, uh, had a couple things I wanted to talk to you about," I said
nervously.

	She glanced up at me. "Calm down, Jacy," she said with
amusement. "Contrary to what your mother has probably told you, I don't
bite. I know you want to talk to me about our family, but that can
wait. What's the other thing?"

	"I, uh, paint," I said feeling very lame indeed. Maybe this hadn't
been such a good idea.

	"Paint what?" she asked. Her eyes were glued to the clay, which was
slowly beginning to rise between her hands, almost as if it were
alive. "Houses? Paintings? The town red?"

	"Paintings," I answered.

	"Cool. Artistic ability seems to run in our family. What medium?"

	"Oils."

	"What style?"

	"Abstract."

	"Do you speak in sentences longer than one word?"

	I felt my face heat up. "I brought a couple with me. I thought
maybe you could take a look at them and tell me if they're any good."

	"Sure. Why don't you bring them in?"

	When I stood up, Elmo's head immediately came up.

	"He'll probably accompany you," Aunt Lily said, still not looking
up.

	Sure enough, when I started for the door, Elmo lurched to his feet
and followed eagerly after me. He trotted along with me all the way to the
car and back, his enthusiasm never flagging for a second. Once back inside,
he reclaimed his earlier spot on the floor and once again commenced
snoring.

	Aunt Lily had molded the clay into a definite pot form while I was
gone. Its shape was beginning to emerge and it looked as if it would be a
squat round pot.

	"Hold one of them up," she said. I did as she asked, holding up the
landscape first. She tore her eyes off the clay long enough to look over
the painting. Her eyes widened a bit when she saw it. She quickly turned
off the wheel.

	"What about the pot?" I asked.

	"I can throw it later. I want a closer look at this." She quickly
rinsed her hands off and dried them on a towel, before reaching out for the
painting. "May I?" she asked.

	I handed it to her and stood by while she examined it
closely. After a few seconds, she said, "You said you brought a couple?"

	I handed her the other one, to which she gave equal attention. I
shifted nervously from foot to foot while she looked them over. Finally,
she looked up at me. "Have you had any formal art training?"

	"Just a few classes in school," I told her.

	"Good," she said. "Don't get any."

	My heart fell. She must think I'm hopeless, I thought despondently.

	"These are incredible," she said.

	"What did you say?" I asked, sure I misheard her.

	"I said these are incredible. You have a very powerful,
naturalistic style. Formal art training would probably ruin you."

	"So...they're good?" I asked, feeling a little confused.

	"No, you aren't listening. They're incredible. I'd like to show
these to a friend of mine. Would you mind?"

	"I don't know. Not many people have seen my paintings."

	"How many do you have?"

	I shrugged. "I don't know, between one and two hundred, I guess."

	"One or two hundred?" she repeated with disbelief.

	I nodded.

	"Where are all these paintings?"

	"In my bedroom."

	"Where do you sleep?"

	I laughed. "There's room. They're stacked up everywhere --
against the walls, on top of my dresser, under the bed, in the closet..."

	She shook her head. "Unbelievable. Will you trust me with these
two? I promise to take good care of them."

	I nodded reluctantly. I wasn't sure I wanted anyone else to see
them, they felt so intensely personal, but it seemed silly to refuse.

	She carried them over to the counter and stood them carefully to
one end, away from the pots.

	"Okay," she said as she turned back to me. "Now, the other reason
why you came to see me behind my dear sister's back."

	All of a sudden, I felt very nervous, as if something momentous was
about to happen. Mom was hiding something from me and I was about to find
out what.

	"Aunt Lily..." I started, but she raised her hand to stop me.

	"It's Lily, not Aunt Lily. That makes me feel old. Go on."

	"Lily," I started again. It felt weird to call her by just her
first name. "I know there's something Mom doesn't want me to find out, but
I feel like I have to know. Do you understand?"

	She nodded. "I probably understand better than you think. I wasn't
sure I was going to tell you either, but now that I've met you, well, I
think you deserve to know. More importantly, I think you're ready to know."

	"Know what?" I asked impatiently.

	She studied me for a second. "You've never been to a powwow, have
you?"

	I blinked at the sudden change of subject. "Uh, no," I said.

	She pursed her lips in a subconscious imitation of my
mother. "Figures. It's a part of your heritage. If you want to learn about
your family, you need to start by understanding where we come from. Our
powwow is this weekend; it starts tomorrow actually. Can you get away to
meet me there?"

	"Where is it? And what time?" I asked, trying to keep up with her.

	"It's not far from here, at the state park. And it goes all day,
what time can you meet me?"

	"I get off work at three."

	"That's perfect; some of the crowd will have thinned out by
then. Meet me there at three-thirty."

	"How will I find you?"

	"It won't be that hard, but I'll probably be in the arts and crafts
tent. I help run it. Does that work?"

	I nodded.

	"Great, then it's settled. I'll see you tomorrow and we'll begin
you're education."

	"Aunt...I mean, Lily, my paper is due in two weeks."

	"Right. It'll be a crash course then. I hate to run you off, but I
need to get this pot finished now and start glazing those others."

	"It's okay. I guess I'll see you tomorrow." I stood up and shifted
awkwardly, trying to decide how to say goodbye. Lily solved my dilemma by
throwing her arms around me in a hug. Elmo jumped up and tried to wriggle
in between us. We both laughed.

	"He can't stand to be left out. See you tomorrow, Jacy," she said
with a smile.

	Tomorrow, I thought as I left. Tomorrow I would begin learning
about the part of my heritage that my parents, or more specifically, my
mother, had decided not to teach me. And soon, I'd learn the big secret
everyone seemed to be determined to hide. A feeling of anticipation was
building inside me that I couldn't explain. I just had a feeling that
something big was coming and nothing would be the same again once it
arrived.

To be continued...

---------------------------------------

More about the author:

Josh Aterovis, a twenty-something artist-author, was born and bred on the
Eastern Shore of Maryland and lives there with his partner, Jon. Aterovis
is a Latin pseudonym meaning "black sheep."

Whenever anyone asked Josh what he wanted to be when he grew up, he always
said an author. It got him plenty of strange looks, but he never really
expected it to come true; it was just one of those things a kid says. In
1999, Josh's wishful dream became reality when he began to write a story
and post it on the Internet. Bleeding Hearts resonated deeply with readers,
who encouraged him to seek publication, and in 2001, the story was
published by Renaissance Alliance Publishing, Inc. Named the Best Whodunit
of 2002 by the Stonewall Society, Bleeding Hearts became the first book in
the Killian Kendall mystery series.

Reap the Whirlwind, his second book featuring amateur sleuth Killian
Kendall, was published in May of 2003. Josh has completed four books in the
series and is currently working on the fifth. He has won numerous awards
for his writing and for his web site, which also features his well-received
art gallery: www.steliko.com/bleedinghearts.

Email feedback to Aterovis@aol.com