Virtual Blue: Adventures of Blue Shaefer, #2

Chapter One

Fiona?

Mom?

A voice, silent for two years, stirred Fiona into a vortex of confusion.

Fiona, you must help him. He needs you.

Fiona stood in the living room of the home she and her mother had lived in for three months.

Her mother sat on the white leather couch, her shoulders slumped in obvious fatigue. She gazed at the cream-colored carpet, lines on her face visible from drained emotion.

Mom, you’re alive! Joy surged through her, but a gnawing coldness in her stomach told her she was kidding herself.

She dropped onto the couch and wrapped her arms around her mother. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. It’s my fault you died. If I hadn’t left, Gunther couldn’t have... Overwhelmed, tears fell from Fiona’s face and soaked into the soft shoulder of her mother’s blouse.

It’s not your fault, sweetie. It was my time. Now, listen; I can only stay for a little while.

A comforting, oddly cool hand patted the back of Fiona’s head.

No! Fiona locked her arms around her mother. Last time I walked out of this room, I said we’d make up for lost time. Then you died.

Tender fingers caressed Fiona’s arm. It’s okay, baby. Don’t mourn me. I watch you from a good place.

Mommy, please don’t go.

I had to come to you, to warn you. A great evil—even greater than Gunther—is about to be unleashed. You must go to Chip and stop it.

No, Mom. Chip can’t help. Chip’s just as much to blame. If he hadn’t messed with Gunther’s ghost... Not entirely true, but after two years of replaying that night, she still couldn’t help but blame him...and herself. If he hadn’t gone searching for that money, trying to clear his father’s name... Another sob clogged her throat. Fiona trembled, wanting nothing more than to spend the rest of their precious moments together locked in an embrace, enjoying total silence. Something they never did when her mother still lived.

Her mother leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss on her forehead.

Fiona’s heart glowed. She drew a shaky breath. She remembered that the last time she’d talked to her mother, Fiona had kissed her on the cheek, with no idea it would be a final goodbye.

Chip did nothing, my dear. But he stands in the path of a great evil that will destroy him if you don’t help.

Head reeling, Fiona hugged her mother tighter. Chip asked me to visit him for Thanksgiving break. I wanted to stay with Dad here in New York, instead.

You’ve been ignoring all of Chip’s invitations the last few months, the specter scolded.

Mom...

Chip needs you, Blue, and if you’re truly honest with yourself, you need him, too. Now, more than ever.

Fiona couldn’t speak, shocked that her mother used Chip’s special endearment for her, after her blue, spiked hair. She’d never told her mother about the nickname. There hadn’t been time.

Fiona broke their embrace and crossed her arms over her chest. If I see Chip, it’ll be to break things off. I’ve thought about it a long time, and I don’t want to be in the relationship anymore.

Fiona, I’ve forgiven him. Why can’t you? Her mother’s tone changed to the impatient negotiator Fiona had known all-too-well. Her mother apparently caught herself. Fine, dear. Do what you must. Just get on the plane and get back to Indiana. Or you’ll most certainly regret it.

Fiona!

A masculine voice startled her awake. Her eyes snapped open to focus on her dad’s face. She drew in a breath, and a hand touched her shoulder.

No! She couldn’t stop the cry from escaping her lips.

Fiona, honey, it’s okay.

Fiona’s pajama top stuck to her, sweaty under the thin quilt, but the familiar smell of her dad’s aftershave made her sit up and lean into his strong shoulder.

I’m here, not in Perionne. She glanced around the bright white walls of her bedroom in the spacious condominium her dad owned in upstate New York. Johnny Depp as Jack Sparrow winked back at her from one wall; framed prints of Starry Night and The Scream decorated another.

I’m home.

Blinking through the disheveled hair in her eyes, she pulled him to her in a hug.

He hesitated, then wrapped an arm around her waist and patted her on the back.

She understood his discomfort. She usually remained stiff during these offerings of love from the father who’d been unavailable most of her life. It was a minor miracle they could find any way to connect after missing so much time.

Her dad’s concerned voice rumbled in her ear. Do you remember your dream?

Fiona nodded against his shoulder and told a partial truth. I was dreaming about...her.

His grip became less tenuous and more caressing. I’m sorry, Fiona. I know how you still miss her.

Fiona pulled away and wiped tears from her face, not wanting to offer more detail. I’m not sure I’ll ever get over it.

Her dad nodded and rose, his awkwardness apparent. Come down when you’re ready. I have breakfast waiting.

Several minutes later, showered, dressed, and, feeling more like herself, Fiona padded lightly down the spiral staircase to the great room. In the open kitchen, her dad stood with his back to her, holding a spatula over a pan and facing the stove while projecting calm confidence. She eyed the stack of pancakes on a plate near his elbow.

Fiona hopped into a stool at the breakfast bar and waited, drumming her fingers on the countertop. Pancakes? What did I do to deserve this special treat? On most weekends, her father diligently manned the stove to coax up his special pancakes. During the week...not so much.

He turned and placed the loaded plate next to hers. I have a late morning, but I’ll probably be at the office into the evening tonight. I was hoping you had a little time, as well. Besides, after the night you had, I thought you needed a little pampering.

Fiona picked up a fork and stabbed the top four with unguarded enthusiasm. She grinned, grabbed the syrup bottle, and dribbled syrup over the stack of cakes on her plate. I always have time for pancakes, she teased. Though she had rounded out a bit since high school, she still thought she looked too skinny.

Her dad tipped a carafe of chilled orange juice from the middle of the breakfast bar and poured some into a glass. He slid onto the stool next to her and filled his plate.

This works out well, Fiona said, not looking up. I need to talk to you about something. I made a decision this morning, and I’m not sure what you’re going to think.

He reached for a mug of steaming coffee and raised an eyebrow in mock concern. Oh? Are we going to have a confrontation?

Fiona giggled. They argued rarely, and when they did, they usually settled disagreements by talking it out–a refreshing change for Fiona after the years of intense fights with her mom.

Fiona took a deep breath and decided to just say it. I think it’d be best if I spent Thanksgiving in Indiana this year. With Chip. Rather than going to Perionne, he’s staying at his house in Bloomington. Thought I’d join him for a few days and let him show me around the IU campus.

Oh? Her dad took a long sip from his coffee. I’d hoped that we would spend a few more holidays together before your boyfriends took up all your time.

An unspoken we’ve had so few hung between them.

Only last year, Fiona learned that her dad hadn’t willingly stayed away while she grew up. When he’d first rejected her mother’s offer to move to New York to be near him, her mother had placed a trumped-up restraining order against him. Only after her death did he feel he could come back into his daughter’s life. Fiona finished her senior year of high school in Perionne, living with Chip and his father, and then moved with her dad out to New York.

I know. And it’s not what you think. As his other eyebrow rose, she stopped herself. "Okay, okay, it is what you think. Sort of. But I’ve made another decision. I’m going to break up with Chip. And I can’t email him or text message him. We’ve been together over two years, and we’ve been through a lot. I need to talk it out and make it right. I owe him that much."

Her dad wiped a napkin across his face. I know a lot of this is new to me, but I imagine that every father is torn between secretly wanting his daughter to swear off boys and join a convent, and to find some sort of balance between what’s cool and what’s safe. Chip’s been a strong, stabilizing influence on you, but I’ve been concerned about you for a long time.

Fiona swallowed a mouthful, wondering what was coming next.

Do you have any friends at school? Good friends?

An embarrassed flush burned over her face. I do okay, she said, shifting in her seat. She couldn’t even explain it to herself, but friends hadn’t been a big priority her first year in college.

Listen, it’s not that I don’t appreciate having you here. But you know if you want to live on campus, you’re welcome to at any time.

It’s a ten-minute ride by subway, Dad. Living on campus doesn’t make sense.

And that’s also a great excuse to stay away from campus life...I’ve been concerned that this long-distance relationship has been an ongoing reason for you to turn away from the people around you. You have a boyfriend, but you never see him, so you’re free to ignore all social activities for the next four years and come home every night to study or watch DVDs with your dad.

I know, Dad. I just had to realize it for myself. As her father’s words struck home, hurt stabbed at her. Hey, are you saying you don’t like watching movies with me?

Her dad chuckled and rose from his seat. He placed an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. I love watching movies with you, Fiona. I just want you to be happy. And you’re old enough to decide for yourself where you can go for Thanksgiving. You work it out and do what you have to do. But I still get you for Christmas, deal?

Fiona hugged her father close. Deal.

They separated, and he bent to retrieve his leather briefcase. What are your plans today?

Fiona looked down at her orange juice. Um...well, I have Writing 201 at 10:30, Algebra 3 this afternoon, and...a classmate is coming over to study with me.

Is this classmate of the male or female persuasion?

Um...

The eyebrows crept up again.

Fiona giggled. Male, and it’s not what you think.

Her father drew out an exaggerated exhale. Lucky for you I happened to schedule a late day for myself.

"It’s really not what you think!"

Shouldn’t you get rid of one boyfriend before you invite another boy into the house? Or is that sort of thinking old-fashioned?

Daaa-aaad! She played along. He’s in my lit class.

And you can’t study in the library?

Fiona folded her arms across her chest. "As it happens, I thought you were going to be here, so everything would’ve been fine."

All right, all right, you can meet him here. But if he wants to take you out to Starbucks, I’d be okay with that. He leaned over and kissed her forehead. Have a good day. I love you.

Love you, too.

The door shut, and Fiona hugged herself, shaking off a sudden chill.

After classes, Fiona raced home to get the house ready, telling herself the arrival of Drew Allamand didn’t mean anything.

She’d met Drew last year in Introduction to Poetry. They’d been clustered with about ten other writing majors in the same workshop classes. Throughout the year, study group invitations had piled up, each rejected in their turn. By winter, these had morphed into Friday night party at Gwen’s and poetry reading at Drew’s. She’d started the semester excusing herself from a CSI season premiere party.

Last year, all she wanted was to be left alone.

And now?

As the doorbell rang, she wiped clammy hands across her jeans, and, not for the first time, wondered what the hell she was doing. Why had she finally invited a classmate—a decidedly cute classmate—to her home?

Trying to calm the butterflies in her stomach, she opened the door.

Drew, dressed in a blue T-shirt and faded jeans, grinned at her. Waves of dirty-blond hair curtained his boyish face. He held a compact plastic folder in one hand. Hi, Fiona. He reached one arm out to hug her.

Startled at the familiarity, Fiona stepped back, then caught herself and leaned into his friendly, brief embrace.

Drew walked through the door, amusement flashing in his cool green eyes. Good to finally see you outside of class. Nobody would believe it when I said I was coming over today.

Wow, has it gotten that obvious? Fiona led Drew to the couch next to the coffee table stacked with her textbooks. I know. You’ve all been very patient, and I’ve been ignoring you. She sat on the couch, motioning an invitation at the spot next to her.

Drew dropped down and slumped against the cushions. No, it’s cool. It’s just, you know, we’re all in this together. Gwen wants to see more of you, and the others, too. But, hey, Drew shrugged. I told them you’ll show up when you’re ready, and not before.

Glad for his understanding, she tried to explain. I had...a rough senior year. In high school, I mean.

Your mom died, I heard. Gwen mentioned something about it.

A laugh escaped Fiona, and she fought a sudden urge to leave the room. I doubt Gwen knows the half of it. She looked at the coffee table and picked up the massive Norton Reader. Want to start with this?

Hell, no.

The frankness of his reply splashed like cold water on her face. She looked into piercing green eyes. What?

You’re a poetry major, right?

Yeah.

Well, so am I. Let’s see ‘em, Fiona. Show me your poems.

A rush of excitement flushed through her.

Drew waved the plastic folder in his hand. I’ll show you mine if you--

Fiona giggled. Don’t be a cornball. Stay right there. She stood and raced toward the stairs. She could feel his gaze follow her up the spiral stairwell. She returned a few seconds later, grasping her own zippered portfolio.

Drew took the offered folder and looked at the first piece in the stack, called American Idol Finalist, a poem she’d penned shortly after the move to Perionne. She noted Drew’s intake of breath during the last stanza—a pleased reaction he couldn’t fake.

Wow. That’s terrific, Fiona. So much anger, and yet focused into such a cutting observation about media and sexism. I love it.

Yeah, thanks. Fiona felt herself flush from the praise. There’s a whole story behind it, as well. My English teacher wanted to fail me after reading that, until a friend intervened and busted him, more or less.

Sounds like a good friend to have. Drew’s voice held the hint of a question.

Yeah. Chip, he’s...a guy I was seeing back in Indiana. A long time ago. She stared down at the carpet, feeling ashamed as the lie spilled from her mouth.

Drew turned the page, this time reading a borderline-rant Fiona had penned shortly after breaking up with Joey, her—she could admit now—loser boyfriend.

Smart girl.

Slick guy.

Coffee bar nights.

Poetry under starlight.

She gave her heart away.

Stoned stare.

Stupid, crazy fights.

She’s barely out of sight,

He gave her heart away.

Fiona waited for Drew to take in the words.

The pause extended much longer than it would have taken to read the poem. Drew lowered the paper and seemed to retreat into himself for over a minute. Finally, his gaze turned to her, as if seeing her for the first time. This is also incredible.

Heat crept into her cheeks.

You have a beautiful soul, Fiona. You should bring these to one of our poetry-reading gatherings.

Fiona shrugged. I know. I wanted to, I just... well, you know how poetry is. You sort of expose your innermost self to everyone.

Drew nodded. I know. Believe me, I understand. But that’s the magic of it, as well. He flipped through the pages and stopped at an assignment piece from last spring. The red B- still showed at the top.

Loneliness

An empty, gaping hole.

It’s so deep, so dark.

Clawing your way to the light.

Your fingers become so raw.

Heartache so strong,

You just stop existing.

Is it possible to go on?

Drew’s gaze scanned across the first few lines.

A different sort of embarrassment flushed over her. That’s...kind of unfinished. I mean, I turned it in, but I couldn’t... She trailed off. I couldn’t do it, and I wrote crap. I guess there’s nothing more to say about that.

Huh. Drew couldn’t hide the disappointment in his voice. Is this about another boyfriend?

No, my... She stopped, not sure she wanted to go there with this relative stranger.

Another pause before Drew spoke again. Not bad. Missing something, though. Maybe if you keep working on it. We can brainstorm some time.

Fiona smiled, trying to contain her welling attraction. I’d like that.

Drew flipped pages and read another recent assignment. Without comment, he turned more pages, read, then skimmed more still. With a deep sigh, he closed the portfolio and turned to look at her, a somber expression on his face. It’s worse than I thought.

What? Panic broke her reverie.

You. Drew extended his index finger and tapped her upper sternum.

She froze, unsure how to respond to a skewed act of both familiarity and respect.

You’re dying inside. At least, your inner poet is dying, isn’t it?

His words made her ache. My inner poet definitely took an ass-kicking last year. She offered a sad smile. And yeah, I’ve been a little lost.

Drew finished her thought. And that’s why you’ve stayed away from us.

Fiona processed his words, trying to find an honest answer. "My mom...she didn’t just die. She was murdered. We had unresolved problems between us, and then just like that... she snapped her fingers. ...she was gone."

Oh, my God, I’m so sorry. Drew crossed himself. You must have been devastated.

Surprised by his response, she downplayed the moment. Let’s just say I’ve had my share of therapy in the last couple years. She thought back to her appointments with sympathetic Dr. Churchill and how the therapist tried to help her refocus the blame away from herself and onto Gunther, where it belonged.

But because the incident involved a ghost, Fiona couldn’t completely confide in the doctor without the risk of being diagnosed with schizophrenia. So, stuck with a secret she couldn’t disclose, Fiona sorted through some of her issues, especially her feelings for Chip, on her own.

Or have I?

Drew leaned close, and for the first time, Fiona realized his arm had slipped behind her shoulders. When did that happen?

I like the poet I see on those first pages, he whispered. His words bridged the space between them. I like her a lot. You should let us help you.

Fiona swallowed. I want to.

"I want to help you, if you’ll let me."

She tipped her head up toward him. I’d like that.

His lips touched hers.

She responded hungrily.

He deepened the kiss.

Her back arched from her need, her toes curling. She reached up and stroked the back of his head.

What a kiss!

They separated moments later, the air filled with their mutual gasps.

Guilt slammed her. Nausea churned in the pit of her stomach, and she knew this was wrong.

He leaned in for another kiss.

No. No, Drew, we need to stop. She placed a hand on his shoulder, pressing gently, hoping she wouldn’t have to use more force.

To her relief, he leaned back into the couch. It’s okay. He took a deep breath. It was pretty intense for me, too. I didn’t mean to push.

Fiona shook her head. No, it’s not that. I like you. And I’m okay with what happened. It sort of helped me confirm something. But right now, the words my father said this morning are going through my mind. I need to get rid of one boyfriend before I take on another.

A palpable silence hung between them before he responded. Yeah, you might have mentioned the boyfriend part. His tone chilled, and his eyes flashed anger.

I’m leaving next week to visit him over Thanksgiving weekend.

And that’s supposed to make me feel better...how? A touch of amusement cut through the coolness in his voice.

Fiona grabbed Drew’s arm, noting the hard muscle under her fingers. No, listen. Chip and I...we’ve been in this sort of long-distance non-relationship for over a year now. He’s special to me, but...I need to end it and move on. But properly, face to face, without any side baggage.

You mean me? Drew’s voice carried a hint of anger. I’m the side baggage? Nice.

Be fair, Drew. Anger crept into her own response. This just happened. You caught me off guard. I will not be bullied into feeling guilty. You and I haven’t talked. You didn’t ask me out. Yes, it would be convenient for me to tell him I met someone else, but that’s not true. Chip and I...we imploded months ago. He just doesn’t see it, and I do. I need to make him understand we’re no good for each other. That’s what’s fair and right. For him. For everyone. She let the moment linger before adding, Including you. And a week from now, we can figure out what... she waved a hand in the air, her mind failing to conjure an appropriate word. We can figure out what...this...is. If anything.

Drew wiped his hands over his face. I’ve been kind of watching you for over a year, hoping you’d come out of your shell.

Oh. She didn’t know what to say. Blood pounded in her ears.

Drew nodded. Look, I dated around a bit last year. Gwen and I went out a few times. And others. He stopped himself. God, that sounds worse, doesn’t it?

The moment of tension ended in a burst of mutual laughter.

Drew dabbed at his eyes. You do have that whole ‘girl of mystery’ aura going for you. Nothing scary, though. So I’ve been interested on and off. Drew pulled his arm from around her and clapped his hands together. All I’m trying to say is: do what you have to do, and we’ll talk. No pressure, I promise.

Fiona offered a smile. Good. Now, I have two other requests.

Drew grinned, and his face reflected his amusement. Uh, oh, are you one of those demanding women?

Fiona reached up and stroked his cheek. "First, I want to see your poems. Secondly, maybe we can get some real studying done in the next couple hours and get ready for that test."

Drew smiled. Done.

A couple hours later, after receiving a sedate kiss goodnight, Fiona shut the door. She returned to the couch, curling her knees up and holding her folder of poems in her lap.

As her reaction to Drew’s presence faded, she swallowed back a tear and clutched the folder to her chest. He’s right. My inner poet is dying.

Chapter Two

Marda Mercedes descended the basement steps and stood before the shrine.

Though they’d resided in the half-duplex for over five months, she still thought of the off-campus house as their temporary base of operations.

Marda chose her team of three specialists from hundreds of candidates. All were Sisters in high standing amongst the dozens of covens of Baalina scattered across the Midwest. Baalina grew these pockets, beginning with her first follower, whose name was lost to ancient history. The cult grew as Baalina drew each woman who’d heard her voice and led them to Her worshippers.

Within the covens, Baalina’s chosen ones enjoyed the peace of sanctuary isolated from all other influences. Christians throughout history despised the Sisters and worked tirelessly to destroy them. When found, they called them out as witches and enacted punishment accordingly.

And yet, it was the Wiccans who’d rejected Baalina’s worshippers most strongly. Wiccans who rejected the concept of demons in the flesh and mocked the practices of the Sisterhood. In some cases, it was the coordinated efforts of Wiccans that broke many of Baalina’s most promising candidates away from the Sisterhood.

Over the last few months, Marda had enjoyed isolation and sanctuary in the company of her two most loyal lieutenants, the so-called Terror Twins, Cyndi and Vanessa. Cyn and Van, for short. The Terror Twins, assassins for hire who held two spots on America’s Most Wanted for years. They shunned any surname, preferring anonymity, and Marda indulged their need for drama.

They worked, lived, plotted, and quarreled together. Sometimes, they laughed and played; but mostly, they focused on the goal–to free their mistress, the Goddess Baalina, from her infernal prison, the chaos realm, that had confined her for hundreds of years.

After about three weeks, Marda could no longer tolerate a place that lacked a shrine to the Goddess. She cleared a space in the basement and constructed a tiny temple and personal sanctuary, a quiet place to escape to whenever their tasks overwhelmed them, whenever she grew weary pondering the injustice heaped upon her mistress.

She’d told the others she’d created it for all of them, but mostly, she’d created it for herself.

She knew everyone in the Sisterhood was loyal to Baalina, but Marda also knew her own role in the order-to-come was special. She had always suspected this to be true, and recently, Baalina herself had confirmed her suspicions. A committed student, Marda rose to the rank of high priestess, and Baalina promised that when she’d been freed of her captivity, Marda would rule at her side.

So she needed the alone time—time to commune with the Goddess.

Marda grabbed the box of matches and struck the tip against the side; the flare of brightness exposed the cool, dark, open space around her. She lit two candles, revealing the green circle surrounding the spray-painted rune of