THE ROAD NOT TAKEN

CHAPTER 2

by Cedany

“So, how long are you planning on staying?”

Devin shrugged. “Depends how long Father will tolerate my presence.”

Vincent gave him what he considered to be a spot-on impression of Father’s most disapproving stare. “You know it’s not like that,” he said. “And I’d hoped you would consider staying a few months, at least. It’s been so many years, there’s so much that you missed–”

“The food’s definitely improved,” Devin remarked in the hopes of changing the subject, dragging his spoon through the thick vegetable stew they were having for lunch. “Do you remember that godawful pea soup Irene used to make?”

Vincent cringed at the memory. “That was an…unfortunately frequent item on the meal rotation, as I recall. Of course, back then we didn’t have nearly as many Helpers with access to fresh food.” After a moment of eating in silence, he tried again. “I’m guessing you haven’t decided yet, then?”

Devin all but squirmed; he wasn’t getting out of this one easily. On the one hand, the Tunnels felt more like home than anywhere else he’d ever been, but on the other…

Life Below was no picnic. People toiled endlessly just to keep their hidden society afloat and safe from harm, in a place where a simple thing like a hot bath was a luxury for the infirm and elderly–he couldn’t decide if it was more like living on an eighteenth-century farm, or in a post-apocalyptic bunker. The burst pipe they’d spent all day working on was looking to be a multiple-days-long project, whereas that kind of thing could have been at least mitigated in mere hours Above. Somebody or other was always being sent to collect donations from Helpers, or scavenge for spare materials in scrapyards and dumpsters. The general day-to-day was all hands on deck, all the time–anyone who wasn’t on construction or kitchen duty was almost constantly fixing, cleaning, and sorting materials for use. Despite their best efforts, however, their location beneath a major city put severe limits on their self-sufficiency…they simply didn’t have the space to be fully independent.

The whole of the Tunnel community struggled for survival while modern life went on more or less peacefully above their heads and, as far as he knew, the only reason they couldn’t modernize–even a little–was because this was the way that Father had decided things should be. Which, if he brought it up, he was sure would turn into an argument he didn’t feel like having just yet.

Vincent was correct in his assumption that Father had welcomed him back with open arms, although Devin suspected he either didn’t know the reason why or was heavily in denial about it. Upon his return, Father had outright stated that he was more comfortable with him staying Below where he could keep an eye on him, and not gallivanting around the world with a collection of fraudulent credentials and a wallet stuffed with fake IDs. And that was it. As far as their father was concerned, the prodigal son had returned and it didn’t matter why. He’d expressed no sorrow or comfort over the loss of Charles. He was merely “glad”–although he certainly hadn’t looked it–that Devin had finally come to his senses and was hopefully home for good.

“You’re right,” he said. “I haven’t.”

And as if his growing conflict with Father wasn’t enough, that very night would be the beginning of a series of inexplicable events that might very well send him packing…

After a long day, Devin wanted nothing more than to collapse into bed–which he promptly did, only to find that the book he’d been reading wasn’t on his nightstand where he had left it. “His” chamber–one of the more recently created guest chambers–was small and tucked away, far from the central Hub and not the easiest to find. But, he supposed, anyone who’d actually lived here in the past twenty years knew the labyrinthine, anthill-like Tunnels like the back of their hand.

At first, he suspected Mouse, the resident tinkerer, who he’d been warned had a tendency for taking things for his projects, be it from other Tunnel residents or shops and construction sites Above. But the kid didn’t strike him as much of a reader, and he couldn’t think what project of his could possibly involve a pulpy crime novel. Maybe it was another of the Tunnel dwellers, starved for “lowbrow”–Father’s word, not his–literature after one too many editions of Blake and treatises on philosophy.

Devin was too tired to think about it, and decided he didn’t much care, as long as they returned it. He blew out the candle, rolled over, and was asleep in minutes.

* * *

The next morning saw him sauntering drowsily to breakfast with bags under his eyes. He’d slept for nearly ten hours but felt like he’d only gotten a twenty-minute nap, plagued by the memory of an utterly bizarre dream that he couldn’t remember any details of.

He lost track of how many cups of coffee he downed as he tried not to faceplant into his scrambled eggs. Father noticed–of course he did. And it appeared he’d left his sense of tact on his bedside table this morning. “You look terrible–did you sleep at all last night?”

“Like a rock,” he said. “Yesterday must have really done a number on me.”

“Vincent, will you see if Samuel is willing to take Devin’s place, at least for today? I don’t want him working on such a serious project in his state.”

Devin had to wonder if Father was worried for his sake, or for everybody else’s.

Probably the latter.

* * *

When the workday was done and the men had made their progress report, Father beckoned Vincent aside for a private conversation.

“You don’t think I made the wrong decision, leaving the invitation open for Devin to come back?” he asked.

Vincent shook his head. “No. I think he appreciates it, in his own way.”

“He certainly doesn’t seem to.”

“Give him time,” Vincent said. “He’s getting used to our ways again–the work is far more physical than anything he’s likely been doing Above. And besides that, he’s still grieving Charles.”

The subject of Charles had been a point of contention between Father and his eldest ever since Devin had brought him Below–Father admired his compassion, but ultimately felt that Charles’s medical needs would have been more than they were equipped for, and was quietly relieved at his decision to continue traveling with Devin. He didn’t want to broach the subject just yet–if ever–but he had to wonder how much his son had been a friend to the man versus how much he’d been a caretaker.

Perhaps unwisely, he voiced this thought aloud.

“Don’t you dare ask him that!” Vincent exclaimed, surprised at his father’s callousness. “You know as well as I do that it’s entirely possible to serve in both capacities. And it’s only been a few weeks since he died–have some sympathy. Or at least pretend to.”

The older man’s expression was unreadable. “I do have sympathy–I just don’t see how it’s possible for Devin to have formed a meaningful friendship with someone so…”

“So…what?” Vincent’s voice dripped with uncharacteristic venom. Sometimes he wished Father would speak his mind without reserve, but still, he knew exactly what he meant. “Charles wasn’t stupid, and neither is Devin. He thinks you resent him for some reason, and I guess this must be why. If you really want to make amends, offer your condolences–that’s all the advice I can give you.”

With practiced restraint he strode from the chamber, wondering if perhaps Devin saw a side of Father that he himself never had. Maybe he hadn’t always been so benevolent. From what Vincent knew of doctors Above–at least, from the tales Father told of his days in medical school–they could be quite…unnecessarily judgmental.

Another, rather selfish, thought popped into his head–If that’s the way he truly thinks…what must he think of me?

* * *

Devin returned to his chamber that night, after spending the day reorganizing a storeroom with Olivia, to find his missing book returned to the nightstand. Slightly less exhausted than the night before, he settled in for some light reading.

His peace did not last long.

A bank of candles on the dresser extinguished as if a gust of wind was blowing from the direction of a solid wall. There was no wind, but the temperature in the room felt as if it had suddenly dropped about ten degrees. Shivering, Devin got out of bed, threw on a robe, and relit the candles. After a moment’s thought, he swept an arm over the flames in an attempt to replicate the strange phenomenon he’d just witnessed. They flickered but didn’t go out. He tried again with a spare blanket that was draped over the back of a chair, picking it up and sweeping the air around the dresser on all sides. Still nothing. Erring on the side of the ridiculous, he draped the blanket over his shoulders like a cape and bounded across the room–

A chortle from the doorway alerted him to the presence of a man he’d never seen before who was leaning there, wearing a baseball cap and a very amused expression. “What are you doing?” he asked, biting back another laugh.

Embarrassed, he let the blanket fall to the floor. “Who are you?”

The stranger gave no reply, and he couldn’t say for sure when–or even whether–he’d walked away. One minute he was there, and the next, he simply…wasn’t.

Devin awoke with a start, his book folded open across his chest to a page he didn’t remember reading.

Sleep paralysis from a book, he thought. That’s a new one.

Tossing the book aside in frustration, he rolled over and tried to get back to sleep. He was perfectly safe here, safer than he’d ever really been in years. So why did it feel like the opposite?

His obvious lack of sleep was once again noted in the morning, and once again he was relegated to menial busywork. He knew it was for safety’s sake, but yet he couldn’t help but feel he was being treated like a kid all the same. You can’t be trusted, Devin, now go and do something that won’t get people hurt…

He’d been a fool to come back–the invitation had been extended with the unspoken understanding that he likely never would take them up on it. Maybe that’s what the dreams were about–something was telling him that, despite however much he wanted it to be, this was not home anymore. He wasn’t welcome here.

But he was–at least by one person. He and Vincent had fallen back into an easy closeness, as if their separation of twenty-odd years had never been. Devin had to wonder if his little brother’s weird empathy extended to everyone around him, or just his immediate family. He certainly seemed to know what Father was thinking most of the time, and now he had gone out of his way to get in Devin’s face about whatever was responsible for his persistent insomnia. Because he cared. Vincent always cared.

“You’re still troubled,” he noted.

“No shit, Sherlock.” Devin slammed a couple of books back on their respective shelves–he’d been appointed as the Tunnel librarian for the time being, in charge of keeping the community’s wealth of books organized by means of implementing the Dewey decimal system–which, in all his years as a traveling fraud, had not come up much. Father had apparently been meaning to do it for years. What better task to impose upon his disgrace of a son?

“Have you talked to Father recently?” Vincent wondered, in a way that made Devin suspect he knew something that he himself did not.

“No,” he huffed. “It has nothing to do with Father–or at least, I don’t think it does.”

Vincent scooped up an armload of sorted books and began reshelving them. “Tell me.”

“You’re going to think I’ve completely lost my marbles,” he challenged.

“I won’t.”

“Fine, then. If you’re so sure.” He dropped his stack of books and slammed his palms down on the heavy oak table, the noise reverberating around the chamber. “Let me ask you this–do you believe in ghosts?”

His brother turned, his high-arched brow arching even higher. “Why do you ask?”

Devin let out a slow, tired breath and began a rambling explanation. “For the last couple of nights, something weird has been going on in my chamber. The night before last, the book I’d been reading had mysteriously vanished–I thought somebody must have taken it but didn’t think much of it. That night I had this bizarre dream I can barely remember. Woke up feeling like crap and figured I was either still exhausted or getting sick or…I don’t know. Then the next night, the book’s right back where I left it. But no sooner than I get into bed does an entire table full of candles go out on their own–and you helped dig that chamber, you know there aren’t any drafts. So I get up, relight them all and do a little experiment trying to put them out by flapping a blanket around like a moron–and not thinking at all that I could have burned this place to the ground and killed everybody, also like a moron–and suddenly this guy who I’ve never seen before in my life is standing in the doorway laughing at me. One minute he was there, and the next…” He waved a hand. “Poof. Gone. Like he’d just walked away while my back was turned–only I’d been facing him the entire time…I think. And then I woke up in bed, only the candle on the nightstand lit, blanket folded on the chair. Whole thing was just a dream, as far as I know. But for a minute there,” he said, “I sure thought it was a ghost. I’m still not sure what to make of it.”

Vincent had stopped shelving books and stood stock still. “What did he look like?” he asked. “This man.”

He ignored the question and continued. “I don’t know if this is…”–he made a confused face–“the depths of my psyche trying to tell me to get lost, or what. I don’t want to leave…but I feel like I should.”

The question was repeated. “What did he look like?”

Devin shrugged. “I don’t know–what does it matter? Tallish, lanky, big goofy grin. Baseball cap. Looked like he hadn’t combed his hair in– Vince, are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” He shook his head lightly as though he was trying to clear it of some figment of his imagination.

“You know who he is? Is he a newcomer? Or somebody trying to–”

Vincent waved a hand dismissively. “He’s harmless, but rather…puckish, in his way. If he’s come to you, there must be a reason.”

“Like what? To tell me it’s time for me to hit the road?” he scoffed. “So, is he a ghost, or what?”

No response.

“Vincent,” he urged. “Who is he? What is he?”

“Truthfully, I’m…not sure if he is living or dead,” he whispered, a mixture of awe and wonder coloring his tone. “But I would guess that since you saw him down here, unless…oh, no.” He sat down heavily at the table, lacing his fingers together and studying his palms as if they held the answer to his sudden problem.

“Oh, no, what?”

“If he is…who I think he is–and from your description that does seem to be the case–then he…might have followed me into the Tunnels one night, somehow, unseen. He saw Catherine and me together in the park.”

“And he’s going to blow our cover,” Devin said. “You know, I hate to agree with Father, but you need to start being more careful. It’s not just yourself you need to worry about.”

“I know.” Vincent sighed miserably. “But this man kept our secret without having to be sworn to secrecy. I highly doubt he would expose the Tunnels–he likely sees them as a magical, otherworldly place. He wouldn’t want to ruin that.”

Devin flicked his fingers through a candle flame. “Point is, there’s a guy Below who may or may not be a ghost who’s messing with me for reasons unknown to God or man, and as a result I haven’t slept in two days. What am I supposed to do about it? How do I get him to leave me alone?”

“I don’t know that, either.” A mischievous grin crept slowly across leonine features–which might have been terrifying, were it not for the fact that Vincent’s very human eyes sparkled with mirth. “But I know someone who might.”

Devin knew without having to ask who that someone was. “Don’t tell me she’s still here.”

“She is, indeed,” he said with mock gravity as he stood, leaning over the table.

“Oh, dear God, Vincent, no. Do not–”

A meaty arm clapped around his shoulders as he was helped to his feet. “Come on, Devin. We’re off to see Narcissa.”

Devin rolled his eyes. “I’m amazed you didn’t sing it…”