A Glimpse of the Past

(This is Part 2 of the Warlock Killer series. If you haven't already, read Part 1 here.)

Lawson checks his watch. He’s late to his interview.

The subway train slides to a stop and the doors open. He shoulders his way through the throngs of people up to the crowded streets, scanning the buildings for the big green ‘C’.

He paces up and down the street, but the logo is nowhere in sight. Sweat collects in his palms and drips down the back of his neck. He was so sure it had been here.

He’s never going to make it to his interview on time now.

He sighs and heads to the nearest coffee shop and orders himself an iced vanilla latte. He settles down in the corner and takes a sip, but at the taste, he blanches.

Iced vanilla lattes are his favorite drink, but this is absolutely revolting. He returns to the counter and requests a new one, but when he slides back into his seat and takes that first sip, he nearly vomits.

What is wrong with him today?

He glances out the window and catches the gaze of a young man with soft brown hair and sharp cheekbones, and suddenly he finds himself fighting back tears. Something tears at his chest and he grips the table, sucking in sharp, shaky breaths.

What the hell?

He rips his eyes away and stumbles to his feet, tossing the latte and rushing back out onto the street. His head pounds and the sunlight only makes it worse. He wipes the remnants of tears from the corners of his eyes and descends into the subway tunnels. He grits his teeth against the pain in his head, and the screech of the subway tracks nearly sends him reeling backwards. He clutches his hands over his ears and squints against the hot, blinding lights as the ache in his head grows until he can barely hear over the pounding inside his skull. Everything around him becomes a thousand times louder, a hundred times sharper, and a million times more painful.

He reaches the last step and stumbles on even ground. The voices of the people around him are like thunder in his ears. His vision blurs with black and he runs into someone, his feet giving out underneath him as he stumbles to regain his footing. His back hits the ground and the shock numbs the ache for a split second, but then it’s back, and his eyes can barely see the ceiling high above him through the veil of pain.

‘Oh, to see how far you’ve fallen.’ Voices echo in his head.

Haunting laughter follows behind the words and he curls into himself, clenching his eyes shut.

A scream of anguish tears into his eardrums and he finds himself screaming too as pain and fear scorches his body.

The scream dies, replaced by the murmur of his own broken voice.

‘Why are you doing this?’

Ice cold hands press into his forehead and fingers wrap around his wrist, and the chill of their touch slams him back into the dark subway. The pain subsides, leaving only a small throbbing headache, and he stares dazed up at the two paramedics hovering over him.

“What’s going on?” He mumbles to the closest paramedic, an older man with a grey goatee and practiced hands.

The man smiles gently. “We were hoping you could tell us that, son.”

Lawson sits up slowly and touches a hand to his head.

“I just had this headache and then there was this awful pain and screaming. I heard this horrible screaming.”

The man stills and glances at his partner.

“Do you have a history of auditory hallucinations?” The other paramedic asks. She tightens the ponytail holding back her stringy blonde hair which tugs at the skin around her narrow face.

Lawson’s eyes widen. “What? No. I wasn’t hallucinating—” He glances around, but everything is going back to normal. Nothing had happened other than his collapse. Nothing is wrong. “I’ve never—”

“Come on,” The man gets to his feet and holds out his hand, “let’s get you to the hospital so we can get you checked out.”

Lawson shakes his head. “No, no, I can’t.” He scrambles to his feet and backs away. “I can’t. I—”

His vision blurs and he stumbles.

“Hey, hey,” The woman reaches out for him, but he flinches violently. She withdraws. “It’s okay. We can help you.”

Lawson keeps shaking his head. “No. No.”

Images flash across his mind. Symbols written in thick red liquid. Hands covered in blood. Pink water running down the drain.

He digs his palms into his forehead.

“What’s happening to me?”

“Come with us,” The man says, “and we can figure it out.”

But Lawson’s stomach twists at the thought and though he knows he should go with them, everything inside of him is fighting against it.

“I can’t.” He mutters. “I’m sorry. I have to go.” He turns and rushes up the stairs, ignoring the protests of the paramedics behind him.

He feels paranoid as he hurries down the street, jumping at every sound, his heart beating out of his chest, his eyes flitting over the crowd faster than a hummingbird’s wings. He keeps all his weight on the balls of his feet, and he can’t seem to curb the nausea rising in his stomach.

He passes by a building he’s passed several times before on his hunt for the large, green ‘C’, his roaming eyes flitting over its face, but this time he stops cold. A chill runs through him as he turns slowly, stepping back and tipping his head up to get a better view.

A gigantic poster takes up most of the building’s surface, towering over the people below and blocking out the windows behind it, a giant poster…of him, though his brown hair is longer and tied back in a messy ponytail, and his eyes have a different sheen in them, wild with excitement and adrenaline, and he strums a guitar with the shadow of a band behind him. On the bottom of the poster, in big bright letters, is the name, Jensen Dames.

Lawson stares in shock.

He has never picked up a guitar a day in his life. He’s an accountant, or at least he intends to be. He’d just finished college and is on the hunt for his first job. That interview, that was his best chance and he’d screwed it up. And now this—what the hell was this?

Someone bumps into his shoulder and he jerks around, tearing his eyes away from the poster. He catches a glimpse of the library across the street, and he barely checks for cars as he crosses, his heart beating out of his chest as sweat gathers on his forehead.

His hands tremble as he steps into the library and he’s afraid the students studying quietly at the tables and the old people reading in the corners can hear the pounding of his heart.

He sits down in front of the first empty computer he can find and types in ‘Jensen Dames.’ He clicks his nails on the tabletop as he waits for the search to load and when the text finally lights up the screen, his eyes devour it.

Jensen Dames is a renowned pop punk musician, famous for his original sounds and meaningful lyrics, or at least he was. He’d disappeared three days ago after his best friend’s murder and hasn’t been seen since.

Lawson sits back and swallows.

Does he have some secret identical twin or something?

But something itches in the back of his mind. Something isn’t right about this.

He gets to his feet and before he can think about what he’s doing, he’s standing outside the doors to a music shop. He glances around him as though looking for some sign to tell him to turn around and walk away, but there’s nothing, and his eyes shift back to the storefront with a pit in his stomach.

He steps inside and cold air washes over him. He bites his lip and scans the store, and his eyes are drawn to a dark blue electric guitar, plugged in and on display in the corner. His fingers twitch, and something like nervous excitement flitters through his chest. He picks up the guitar and slides his fingers over the strings, looping the strap over his shoulders. Jitters dance across his fingers as he lays them over the strings. He takes in a weighted breath. And then he plays.

The music pours out of him like water through a broken dam. His fingers fly across the strings as though he’s been playing all his life and he tips his head back, closing his eyes as he relishes in the feeling of the music coursing through his blood. When his hands finally still and he catches his breath, he realizes he’s gathered a small audience. He flushes and quickly returns the guitar to its stand.

He squeezes through the crowd and tries to rush out of there, but a teenage girl with dyed green hair steps in his path.

“Jensen Dames?”

“No.” Lawson replies quickly, but he feels dizzy with unease.

He can’t play the guitar. He doesn’t know how to play the guitar. So how the hell did he just do that?

The girl rolls her eyes. “You obviously are. You just played one of your latest singles just there. Everybody’s been wondering where you went.”

“I’m not him.” Lawson tries to step around the girl, but she tracks his movements with her own.

“You bailed in the middle of your tour. They had to cancel, you know? I bought tickets and everything. You can’t just do that.”

“I said I’m not him.” Lawson snaps, and the girl steps back.

“Jerk.” She mutters.

He flees the store back out into the street. His head pounds and his breathing shallows.

His name is Lawson Williams. He went to Westburg University. He’s an accountant.

Whoever this Jensen Dames is, Lawson’s not him.

But something twists in his chest. Nothing feels right. Even his own name tastes wrong on his tongue.

He hops back on the subway, neglecting the empty chairs and gripping the center pole with an iron grip. He’s practically shaking by the time the subway train comes to a screeching stop. He rushes through the streets to his apartment, fumbling to stick the key in the knob. He sighs in relief when he finally gets the door open, but as he steps inside, his sigh quickly turns into a gasp.

It’s empty.

There’s not even a single piece of furniture.

What happened to his black couches and his futuristic lamp, his flat screen tv, and the abstract paintings that should have been hanging on the walls?

Lawson backs out into the hall.

What the hell is going on?

Pain stabs into his head like a knife and he grips his scalp, his shoulder slamming into the wall. Flashes blur across the backs of his eyes, purple sheets on a bed littered with stuffed animals, a little girl with blonde French braids, and an email address.

Warlockhuntress85.

He presses a hand to the wall to steady himself as he picks himself up. His eyes are drawn back to his apartment, but he tears them away and flees the building. He hurries into the closest electronics store and buys himself a laptop. Thankfully, the debit card in the wallet in his back pocket works. At this point. he isn’t sure about anything anymore.

He reluctantly returns to his empty apartment and settles down on the floor against the bare wall. He tries to get into his email, but his passwords aren’t right, and he can’t remember what he must have changed them to. He makes a new email and opens a draft, but after he’s typed in the strange email address, he stops.

What is he doing?

This is insanity.

He sees a strange email address in what has to be some kind of hallucination and decides to send it a message?

What on earth does he think this is going to solve?

He bites his lips and stares at the blinking cursor. He needs answers. And this is the only lead he has.

He types the email.

‘I know this is very strange, but I came across your email address and something’s going on with me. I don’t know what, and I’m looking for answers.’

He sucks in his cheeks and hits send.

The reply is almost instant.

‘How did you get this email?’

He hesitates, but he isn’t going to get anywhere if he lies.

‘I’ve been having hallucinations. Voices. Visions. I saw your email in one.’

For a few minutes, there’s no reply and Lawson shifts positions anxiously. Then his inbox dings and he pulls up a terrible quality screenshot of his face wrinkled in confusion, tickled by long strands of his brown hair, and the message, ‘This you?’

He gulps.

‘Yes.’

The next message is a video chat link. He clicks it and an image pulls up of that little blonde girl he’d seen in his visions with the exact same purple bed behind her down to each stuffed animal cluttering its surface.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” The girl huffs. “You failed again.”

“Failed? What do you mean? What’s going on?”

The girl rolls her eyes. “You went after the greatest warlock of all time, yada yada, and apparently you lost and ended up right back here, without memories of who you truly are and with me stuck explaining everything all over again.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

She sighs. “Listen, I’m not going through all this again. We’ve got to do something different this time. This isn’t working.”

He gapes at her. He’s not sure he’s hearing correctly. “Can you please explain what’s going on? And who even are you?”

“My name is Genevieve. And we’ve got to get your original memories back.” She launches into an explanation about a race of superhumans dedicated to hunting down warlocks who sacrifice humans to gain power.

Lawson’s head is spinning by the time she finishes.

He can barely believe what he’s hearing. Superhumans? Warlocks? Human sacrifices? Magic?

This has got to be a joke.

But he isn’t so sure.

He pulls out his wallet and slips out his ID. He stares down at his name, Lawson Williams, 20 years old, brown hair, brown eyes, then his eyes drift to the picture, a predictably ugly image of him in a suit with his hair combed back and glasses on his nose. He lifts his hand to his face. Where are those glasses now?

“Am I dreaming?” He murmurs.

Genevieve rolls her eyes. “No, idiot. This is real. This is actually happening. Everything I just told you is solid truth.”

He shakes his head. “I must have hit my head really hard when I fell in that subway.”

“Wrong again. But look,” she says, “I think I might have just the solution to our little problem.”

She hauls out a giant old book that looks strangely familiar to Lawson.

“What is that?”

“Ancient spell book. Was my grandma’s.” She says it so casually, as if she’s talking about a piece of jewelry.

She flips through page after page as Lawson’s head spins. What exactly is he getting himself into here?

“Ah, here we are. This should do the trick.” She sets down the book with a thump. “Yep. For retrieval of lost memories. All you’ve got to do is draw some symbols in a circle, light a few candles, and drip some herb water on your forehead, and boom, memories returned.

He isn’t exactly sure what to say.

“I guess that sounds simple enough.” He offers.

“Cool. Send you the info. Call me back when you’re fixed, kay?”

“Wait—I didn’t—”

But she clicks off.

Everything about this whole scenario feels eerily familiar, but he can’t place why.

He receives the email with the details of the spell and heads out to collect the materials. He’s not even sure why he’s doing this, but things aren’t adding up and he needs answers. What he thought his life was is in shambles. His sleek, modern apartment was apparently a figment of his imagination. Did he even go to college? Or in the last three years, could he have actually been that famous musician, Jensen Dames? It sounds impossible. It is impossible. But that little girl on the other end of the line seems so completely sure of herself, and she has a picture of him, or of this Jensen Dames, whoever he is.

He returns to his empty apartment, which he isn’t even sure he owns. How did he get this key? When did he purchase it? He tries to think back to how he got here, but he can’t remember anything before standing on that subway, heading to his interview. His head burns just trying to think past that point. He has feelings and inklings and ideas about who he is and who he was, but there’s nothing solid, no concrete memories, no family contacts on his phone, no internet trace of his identity. All he has is this apartment, this debit card, and his ID.

Does that building with the big green ‘C’ on it even exist? Or is that part of this insane ruse too? He can’t remember scheduling that interview. He can’t even remember the manager’s name.

What is happening to him?

According to Genevieve, a powerful warlock is happening to him.

His hands shake as he begins to draw the symbols Genevieve sent in a circle around him.

This is absolutely ridiculous. Why is he even doing this? How can he actually believe this nonsense? Nothing’s going to happen, obviously. Warlocks aren’t real. Magic isn’t real. Superhuman races aren’t real. None of this is real.

But neither is his life.

So, what has he got to lose?

He has to go back and forth from the kitchen to retrieve a wet towel so he can wipe off the symbols his shaky hands had brutally misdrawn and start all over again. Eventually, after several tries on each, he gets them right, and he picks up the lighter he’d bought from the convenience store down the street and meticulously lights all the tiny white tea candles he’d strategically placed according to Genevieve’s crudely drawn diagram. His stomach turns as he lies down in the center of the circle and dips his fingers into the cup of rosemary water. He lifts his hand over his head and a few droplets splash across his brow.

A small ache stirs in his chest and tingles spread across his skin.

Something is happening. Something is definitely happening.

Apprehension spins through him as the ache begins to grow, and the tingles zip up and down his limbs. Then it all comes to a sharp stop, and Lawson holds his breath. He can feel something in him building, a pressure that slowly increases with every second that passes. He starts to sit up when a blinding flash of pain tears through him. His body jerks and his back arches, a burn like fire lighting up his body and shooting daggers through his veins, ripping him apart. He writhes and his feet kick at the candles, his arms twisting out from his body.

Visions scream through his head.

An old man holding out a curved sword. Laughing with a boy with shaggy black hair underneath a maple tree. A serious conversation in an alleyway with hushed voices and worried tones. A woman crying over a body sprawled across the bedroom carpet. The flash of a black hood and the glint of icy green eyes.

And as suddenly as it started, it all stops.

Lawson sucks in a breath and sinks into the floor. His head throbs and it takes him a minute to register the room around him, the ceiling above him, the feel of the warm air across his skin, the sweat dripping down his pale flesh, and, he notices with a pang of fear, the hand pressed softly against his forehead.

“You’ve got to stop doing this.”

Warmth seeps through him at the murmur of that voice, and a soft familiarity tugs at his heart. He recognizes it; he’s heard it before, in the subway, but those words dripped malice, and these have a tenderness he can’t describe.

His eyes slide open to a gentle face shadowed by raven black hair.

“Who are you?” He whispers, but something inside of him knows.

His body swims with old emotions, grief and betrayal, pain and misfortune, but he can’t place them. His memories float unconnected in his mind, hovering just out of reach, tentative like they could flit away forever at a moment’s notice.

The boy pulls away.

“Once, I used to be your friend.”

He lifts the hood of a long, black cloak over his head as he rises to his feet.

“Now, I am your enemy.”

Confusion burns through Lawson’s body, sluggishly, like he’s in a daze. Everything dances just barely beyond his fingertips.

“Don’t come looking for me again, Lorrien.” He warns.

And in the blink of an eye, he’s gone.

Part 3 coming soon.

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