As Darkstar had requested, I had closed the curtains and locked the door to my penthouse apartment. But the reasoning behind D.S.’s over-protectiveness was still outlandish to me, as it was to Demonica, from what I gathered. She had called when she returned to Alaska, and nearly immediately. I had tried to get her to fess-up as it were. Either she really didn’t know, (plausible deniability, was it?) or was a very good liar. I have the gift, or curse, of knowing and being able to tell when people like to me, usually. Some people were easier to read than others, but with Demonica, I was completely in the dark most of the time.
Perhaps it was for my own benefit. Instead of being informed, armed and suspicious, I was blissfully ignorant in my lack of information. I just chalked it up to ol’ Darkstar being paranoid. I would take his suggestions under advisement, but not to the point of having several bodyguards around me at all times. I wasn’t that afraid. Hell, I wasn’t frightened at all. Well, maybe the whole notion irked me a bit, and D.S.’s cryptic ways weren’t helping the matter, but I wasn’t going to hold everyone to apprehensive expectations.
I was probably just overreacting. That had to be it. Timidly, I peeked out the curtain and down onto the street below. An irritatingly yellow taxi-van sat waiting outside the front lobby of my high-rise, waiting for me. Whoops. Guess I lost track of the time. I adjusted my dark crimson wife beater over the waistband of my black denims. I tugged the laces of my boots tightly before seizing my duffle, the urn and heading out the door.
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After a twenty minute drive, two hours in customs and an eight hour plane ride, I arrived in the France International Airport, just inside of Paris. Another car trip ensued, lasting a whole of an hour until I reached my destination. My family’s former property had been expansive, stretching from the city limits of Troyes to the edge of the land, where it dropped off into the Channel. It had been mostly farmland, worked by people my father hired and housed on property.
I moved to the, say, twenty foot drop that looked over the Channel. Faintly, I could see the lights of England across the way, or maybe I was just imagining things. I nearly guaranteed it was the latter. Damned jet lag. My fingers curled around the oddly-shaped urn, wringing the neck a bit. A light breeze came over me, forcing the tails of my trench coat to lick against my calves and heels. My brother came up beside me, resting his hand on my shoulder. I glanced up a bit, sighing. Michel, my eldest brother and the one who had come to me in the funeral home, gently pat my shoulder.
“He wasn’t old enough,” my fifth youngest brother mumbled behind me. I turned around to glance at him. They all had changed so much. I remember when my youngest brother, Gabriel, had been shorter than me, redheaded and chubby. Now he was fit, nearly six feet and five inches tall and he had dyed his mid-back length hair flat black. He wore a pair of dark green baggy cargoes, with a black West Coast Choppers sweatshirt. The poor kid had got his first piercing only a week before. I could tell because his eyebrow was puffy and red.
Cináed, the second oldest, was about my height still, but he was a lot more rough around the edges than the rest of my brothers and I. His hair was dyed blue but cut short in an undercut style that just brushed against his earlobes. His somewhat less than muscular frame was held in an old t-shirt that looked so comfortable that I wanted it. As well as this, he had a pair of blue jeans that he was constantly adjusting: obviously, they were far too big for him.
The middle brother, Quentin, stepped forward, wrapping his arms around my shoulders and kissing the top of my head. He was about as tall as Michel, but his hair was down to just above his rear. It was tied into a few elastics, keeping it somewhat manageable at the back of his head. He was probably the bravest of us all, for he was clad in a traditional Scottish kilt, socks, sock garters and the shoes to match. On top, he wore a white, button-up shirt with a few of the buttons untied, as well as a light denim jacket.
I sighed a little, turning around to gaze at the Channel again. Quentin still leaned against me, as if protecting me from the pain I think all of us shared. I let out a soft hmm noise before pulling off the top of the urn, handing it to Quentin. I moved over to the edge of the cliff, chewing on my bottom lip softly, despite the three rings in my lip. My stomach shriveled slightly as I looked twenty feet downwards, wincing slightly as vertigo seemed to slap me in the face.
I felt two hands grab my shoulders and heave me forward, right into two other hands that were around my belly. I screamed at the top of my lungs, clutching the urn tightly and squeezing my eyes shut. My feet planted themselves on the ground, eyes snapping open to glare at my siblings.
“Oooh, I swear… if I didn’t have Dad’s ashes, I’d castrate you all right now,” I growled, glaring at the five of them. They all laughed, and I couldn’t help but chuckle. It was a bit funny. They were trying to make me laugh, that part was obvious. Was I really being that solemn and depressing? I shook my head and turned around, pouring the ashes out over the water. I watched the grayish dust flutter down towards the water that lapped against the side of the cliff. The urn quickly followed. A few seconds later, I heard glass shattering on the rocks below. Quentin tossed the cap over the side of the crag as well.
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We were pearched on our rears and heels a few safe feet from the edge of the cliff. Three of us smoked: Gabriel, Michel and I. Guess we didn’t handle stress as well as our non-smoking brethren. Quentin stuffed his hands into his denim pockets, hunching his shoulders into the lapels of his denim jacket. Damn, did that boy clash. We were all cold, but none of us really wanted to leave the other’s company, even if we were predominantly silent. I was the first to break.
“Remember when Dad was teaching you guys holds? He put Mikey in a sleeper and knocked ya out cold,” I began, smirking fully. Michel dropped his cigarette and promptly proceeded to demonstrate the hold on himself, by crossing his arm over his neck, the elbow pressed against the middle of his throat. He gagged melodramatically and fell forward face-first into the damp ground. This easily brought forward a fit of the giggles to all of us. Michel always had had a knack for making us laugh. He got up on his hands and knees, grinning broadly. I shook my head and flicked my cigarette away, watching it fall a few inches short of the edge of the cliff. I frowned slightly. Damned wind. Yeah, you heard me. I was blaming the wind.
“The one thing that really wowed me was when he always told you to ‘put on something more durable’,” Quentin had set his jaw and deepened his voice to that of just about our father’s pitch. I laughed humbly, wringing my hands together softly. I shrugged my shoulders in a motion of defeat.
“Yeah, Dad hated me,” I laughed sheepishly, gazing down at my wringing hands. Gabriel jabbed me in the shoulder with his fist, frowning.
“Oh, he did not. He just didn’t know how to cope with women growing up,” Gabrient stated, rather flately in fact.
“And, c’mon, there were five of us. You can’t blame him really for not wanting to buy you clothes constantly. Mum put you in those frilly, pansy-ass, pink, froufrou dresses because she had four boys before you,” Cináed chimed in. I sighed and shrugged. A smile crept onto my face. Gross-out warning ahead…
“Yeah, you’re right. Heh. He was pretty clueless. You should have seen his face when I told him I needed pads for the first time,” I stated, much to the displeasure of my brothers, save for Michel. He had a girlfriend, so he knew the drill. My other brothers, however, cringed at the thought of a woman and her monthly visitor. I had to torture them… just a bit.
“Aww, man, Gwen… that was uncalled for,” Quentin grumped. I flashed him my best smile, eyes squeezing up a tad to play the cute-I’m-the-youngest-and-there’s-nothing-you-can-do-about-it card. He grunted, gave me a choice finger, but soon melted. The ‘card’ had worked. My brothers chortled. Michel patted my shoulder to show he was sympathetic. I joined in with the laughter, shrugging my shoulders as was a common movement with me, it seemed.
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