Histories of the Void Garden, Book 1: Pyre of Dreams by Damian Huntley

fabricating specialized tires for the car had also
been a necessity.
    Every time he
heard the deep throaty roar, it brought a smile to West’s face, but
the streets of D.C made him feel like a caged animal. He drove up
New York Avenue, heading toward 34th Street and pulled into a small
housing development, coming to a stop one block from the Beach’s
house in Brentwood at five thirty.
    It was a
pleasant neighborhood, with tree lined streets and houses built in
a modest variety of styles. West climbed out of the car quietly,
closing the door with a gentle push. No longer the caged beast, now
he scanned his surroundings for possible threats. Not many things
could pose a real threat to West, but not many, was too many, and
that thought was never far from his mind. He walked toward David
Beach’s house slowly, stopping beside a large oak tree. He leaned
against the tree and stood silently watching the cars in front of
the house. There should be something there, some movement, some
indication …
    He was only
standing there for a few minutes when he heard the low rumble of a
van’s engine as it pulled around the corner. The advertising decals
on the van boasted the “Best cleaning service in Maryland” and West
wasn’t surprised to see the van roll past him and park on the
opposite side of the street, fifteen yards from the Beach’s home.
He was even less surprised to see two men of average stature exit
the front cab of the van, both glancing furtively about the street,
both paying particular attention to the cream sided double garaged
three bed townhouse. The two men climbed into the back cab of the
van and closed the door behind them.
     
    Stephanie couldn’t
sleep, which was always the case if she was awoken by the first
light of day. She would pull the blankets about her head, leaving a
little tunnel to the outside world so she could breathe, and she’d
lie with her eyes closed, concentrating as hard as she could on not
thinking about anything. It never worked. Once she’d accepted that
she wasn’t going back to sleep, the morning seemed to open up in a
vast array of possibilities, and usually, overwhelmed by choice,
Stephanie would resort to the familiar.
    She was part
way through this ritual, pulling the first breaths of outside air
through her blanket snorkel, when she heard coughing from the next
room. Brow wrinkled with determination, she climbed carefully out
of her bed, tiptoed to the bedroom door, and pulling the brass
handle down slowly, she whipped the door open in a smooth motion,
making sure she didn’t slam the door handle into the wall. She took
wide steps past her dad’s bedroom door, determined not to wake him.
Her Aunt Hannah’s door was an altogether trickier affair, usually
booby trapped with clothes hanging on noisy hangers on the back of
her door, but Stephanie was ready for this, and only opened the
door far enough that she could squeeze through the gap, but not so
far as to bump the jangling clothes against the tall dresser behind
the door.
     
    Hannah woke with the
smell of strawberry lip-gloss, wafted into her face by the labored
breathing of Stephanie, who had either been running laps, or had
been trying really hard not to breathe.
    “Spiff, I’m
really sorry, but if the big fat hand hasn’t made it past six, I’m
going to have to kill you.”
    “There’s no big
fat hand.”
    “You know what
I mean.”
    Stephanie
pressed the button to wake up her aunt’s phone on the bedside
table, and saw that it was a little before twenty till six. She
buried her face in the pillow, and mumbled something.
    Hannah nudged
her shoulder gently, “What did you say?”
    Scared eyes
peaked out from the safety of the pillow, “Aww shish kebab,”
    Hannah gasped,
“Stephanie Beach!”
    “I said shish
kebab!”
    “You know what
it means. What time is it anyway?”
    Stephanie
checked again, “It’s five twenty-seven, and plus forty-two
seconds.”
    Hannah groaned
and pulled the blanket over her