Heirlooms

Thank you to everyone (especially ♥Ho Ho HOOves♥ who's shown an interest in this story. You've helped motivate me to finish it. Thank you, also, for your patience. I'd also like to thank my talented sister-in-law, Kelley, for carefully reading over and making so many useful suggestions, as well as my daughter, angelfaceco...the relentless editor.

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         She picks up what now seems like a flimsy wicker rocking chair (funny how it seemed so sturdy and comfortable a few hours ago) and faces a wild eyed, sword wielding stranger. In this split second time seems to stand still. As her rushing blood pounds in her ears, she realizes she needs to think of something fast, but all she can ask herself is, "Why in the world did I open that door?" Had it only been a few minutes since she'd heard him knocking?

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         Cheryl wiped the counters, the touch ups of after-dinner cleaning. She listened to Angelia and the children upstairs giggling as the kids had their bath, and smiled while she worked, thinking how lucky she'd been to be able to offer this woman and her special children a home. She'd inherited this spacious house when her spinster aunt succumbed to a long bout with cancer.

         When Cheryl first left Michael, she had no idea where she'd live or how she'd cope with being on her own. Too ashamed to contact her parents, she went to the local women's shelter after her boss and friends at work finally convinced her that his violent temper would always make her life miserable. She needed to get away from his insane control. Two girls from the office helped her pack a few things after she spent some time talking to a phone counselor at the shelter's helpline. If it hadn't been for her friends and the shelter staff people, she might not have stuck to her intentions. But when Michael showed up in the parking lot outside her office complex and made an ass of himself, her intentions solidified. Fortunately a friend was with her as they headed out, and from that evening on, the rest of her friends in the office took turns making sure she got to her vehicle safely. The shelter staff helped her find a tiny apartment, and Michael decided she wasn't worth any more of his time when he found another pretty and vulnerable young girl. Cheryl didn't know much about her, but she felt sorry for her and mentally wished her well. She'd thought better of having any contact with her at the time. She was too busy trying to get her own life straight. Then she heard they'd moved out of town and felt nothing but relief until reading about the girl's violent death and being subpoenaed to Michael's subsequent trial as a witness for the prosecution. She was even more relieved when Michael was sent to prison, although her relief was mixed with so many regrets and "if only"'s.

By then she'd grown so much and overcome many challenges. She renewed her relationships with her parents, broken off when she ran away from them to marry Michael, and they were happy to see she did have some good common sense after all. They encouraged her to take some continuing ed. classes at her local college and community center in order to give herself more options in the future. She'd become a confident, independent woman.

Then the letter came from the executor of her aunt's estate, informing her she'd inherited the house. Two stories and a full basement! Five bedrooms upstairs, two of them with full baths. She was overwhelmed when she first moved here...not knowing what a simple person like herself was going to do with all this space.

She met Angelia at the library. Cheryl had been sitting nearby, studying for a conversational German class she was attending. Angelia was searching through a newspaper with a notebook and pencil, scrawling something down every now and then. Or trying to. Cheryl smiled to herself, behind her book, when Angelia's fingers tensed around the pencil as two adorable but rambunctious children kept running up to her to tell or ask her something. She finally gave up studying, and walked over to where Angelia was trying to reason with the two inquisitive rugrats.

"Hi there. Anything interesting in the paper? Three pairs of eyes turned her way.

"Oh hi. I'm just looking for an apartment, or a room to rent somewhere...or something." Cheryl sensed Angelia was understandably a little guarded. The little girl (she appeared to be around four or five years old) was not going to be distracted by this new person for too long, and again tugged on Angelia's sleeve.

"Mommy, Bruce took my picture book. I was looking at it first!"

"Look Mincey, Mommy really needs to finish what she's doing. Can you please go find another one that looks fun, just for right now?"

The little girl pouted and crossed her arms. "But Mom! He just keeps on taking my books!"

Since Cheryl was no longer the uncomfortable focus of anyone's attention, she took the opportunity to have a closer look at this family. She looked at the pouting book-thief victim called Mincey. Long blonde hair waved and curled wildly down to the middle of her back. Cheryl had passing thoughts of what a chore it must be to brush through in the morning, but noticed that even though it wanted to have a mind of its own, it was very carefully arranged. A lock from each side of the front was pulled back in a partial ponytail that was fastened at the nape of her neck and made to go under each earlobe on its way. The mass of blond curly waves above this accessorizing was tugged out evenly, so it "poufed" in a way that made it look like a turban of hair. The rest of it flowed down her back like a veil or scarf hanging from the turban hair arrangement. Bruce's blonde curls also meandered wildly just past his ears. Angelia sighed tiredly as he snatched yet another book from Mincey, stuck out his tongue, and walked quickly away. Cheryl found herself trying desperately not to laugh. But she sensed a small break in Angelia's reserve when they both looked at each other and could no longer keep the laughter back.

"Look, why don't we all get out of here for a while? I've got a newspaper back at my house, and you're welcome to look through the classifieds over a cup of coffee."

"I'm afraid I can't. We need to be somewhere in just a few minutes." As Angelia replied to her invitation, Cheryl noticed hopeful looks come and go on the faces of the children. And as Angelia folded up the newspapers and returned them to the librarian, Cheryl heard snippets of the kids whining to their mother.

"Don't like....", "I don't want...", "hate that ole place..." Until Angelia snapped quickly around and gave them a look which even Cheryl could translate as: "That's it! Don't say another word!"

She tried not to be obvious as she watched them leave, but she decided that evening to haunt the library until she could see them again. She sensed there was something different about them and they were in some kind of trouble. It took quite a few chance meetings at the library, quite a few conversations over newspapers and kiddy quarrels for Cheryl to learn Angelia had been running away from the children's father, and they were staying in a shelter nearby. She was careful not to offer a visit to her home again too soon; waiting until she sensed Angelia had some degree of trust in her friendship. Afterwards, they had some more conversations over Cheryl's kitchen table.

And then one evening Cheryl had come home to find Angelia, Bruce and Mincey sitting on her front porch, surrounded by a few old tattered bags, packed to bulging.

"We've just come to tell you goodbye. The shelter can't keep us any longer, and we're gonna have to move on." Angelia quickly said in reply to Cheryl's unasked, but obvious question.

"Look, just come in for a little while, and let's talk about some things first. Maybe there's another answer."

Angelia's wall of reserve went almost all the way back up immediately, and Cheryl could see it. "Oh come on. Could we at least talk a little bit more? Maybe I could help you out till you get on your feet."

There was a long few minutes of silence as Angelia considered this, her situation, and how much she and the kids had come to know and somewhat trust this new friend. "I'm not sure I can answer all your questions, but maybe it wouldn't hurt to try. If there is another answer, I sure would like to know. I'm very, very tired of roaming from place to place, running and hiding."

"All right, come on in then. And you might want to bring the bags in. I don't know how safe they'll be on the porch."

That evening Cheryl learned Angelia's carefully guarded secret. When Cheryl offered to let them stay with her for as long as Angelia felt they needed to, Angelia was weary enough of the life they'd been living to consider it, but she knew Cheryl should know what she could be getting herself into. And so she told her about why her and the children's ears were always carefully camouflaged, about how they all seemed to be different from anyone else they'd ever met, and about how her parents had died before she was old enough for them to explain all of this. About growing up with hateful and abusive foster parents and how their outrageously spoiled son came to think of her as his possession. About how he discovered the strange ability she possessed to move things with her mind and bullied her into using it for his amusement and profit. And she was in tears by the time she told Cheryl the heart-wrenching stories of the bullying that had resulted in both her pregnancies. By this time, Cheryl was angry.

"What about school? They couldn't get away with just keeping you out of school. Didn't the other students or teachers ever suspect anything?"

Angelia's thoughts wandered briefly to the tall, gangly boy who had popped up often when she'd been sent out of the house for one reason or another. What had he thought during and after the times he'd seen her foster brother's cruelty?

"I really just don't know."

"Why did you just keep staying there?" Cheryl asked.

"Because at that point, I had no idea there were other options open to me. My so called "family" repeatedly told me that there weren't, and took every opportunity to find little ways to bury that misconception in my mind."

"What made you finally leave then?" Cheryl leaned forward and stared wide-eyed as she waited for Angelia's answer.

Angelia got up, walked over to the counter, and snatched some Kleenexes from the box there. "Because" she sniffled, blew her nose, and blinked back any more tears, "after the children were born, they were the only bright spots in my life. I fell in love with my babies, and as they grew, it became more and more apparent to me that they had inherited those abilities that made that man's...my UGH! foster brother's mind work in such hateful ways. I had to get away before he found out they had those powers. He had already seen their ears are shaped the way mine are, and he kept watching them closely for any sign they had inherited the telekinesis from me too."

Cheryl sat back. "Wow." Then she asked, "and what, exactly is so strange about your ears?"

Angelia closed her eyes for a second, then opened them slightly and looked down shyly as she slowly moved her hair behind her ears, exposing them. They were not extremely misshapen. They just curled around towards the front, almost in a perfect circle, like short pipes of flesh stuck to the sides of her head.

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He stands across from Cheryl, sword still poised high in his right hand, his left hand extends to block the chair she thrusts at him. She extends one thrust just far enough for him to curl his long bony fingers around a spindle of the chair. As he tugs it toward himself, he sneers "You can die quickly, or we can make this slow and agonizing. Either way is fine with me." She runs forward suddenly, surprising and backing him up to the wall, forcing a momentary loss of concentration. The sword clatters to the floor, and Cheryl runs toward the sliding glass doors that lead to the backyard. As she runs, her thoughts fly back to that day (was it only a few months ago?) when Angelia told her about her past. So this is who she'd been running away from.

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         On the same afternoon Angelia was sitting on Cheryl's porch, waiting to say goodbye, Devon Monteneau was having a temper tantrum in the office of the only private detective in his hometown. Herbert King was unimpressed, and his air of cool unconcern frustrated Devon all the more.

"I've been paying you for six months now, and for what?" Devon's high-pitched whine grated on Bert's ears, and he set his jaw, gritting his molars to control the angry responses that came to his mind. He had seen enough of this man...child...brat and his parents and how they'd treated the young girl who lived with them through the years to be totally disgusted with all of it. When Devon Monteneau came to his office to hire him to find Angelia and the children, he took it as an opportunity to see something would be done about them.

"Mr. Monteneau" he said, slowly rising from his chair, "be assured it may take some time, but you will eventually get what you're due. Now, if you'll excuse me, this case will take less time if I get right back to work on it."

Devon eyed him suspiciously for a moment. "I'll leave for now then. But if I find out you've been hiding anything from me..." He walked up to the other side of Bert's desk and hissed, "...it'll take more than a refund of the fees I've been paying you to make me a satisfied customer." Bert returned his cold stare without blinking until the pasty-faced, bony framed man finally slunk away from the desk and out of the office. Then he plopped back down in his desk chair and squeezed his eyes shut to try to erase the whole episode from his mind.

Knowing the diminuitive size and inherent cowardice of his opponent, his threats of physical violence didn't concern him at all. Six foot five, and two hundred ninety pounds, he'd have no trouble taking care of Devon Monteneau in a fair fight, and there was no doubt in his mind he'd enjoy it. But fighting with him didn't suit his purposes at the moment.

He walked over to his filing cabinet, pulled out the Monteneau file, and returned to his desk. As he opened the folder, Angelia's emerald green eyes stared at him from the picture on the inside front. The wild blond curls the children had inherited framed her heart shaped face. He traced her cheekbones in the photograph the way he often wanted to do when they were children and she'd escaped from the house for a little while, running one errand or another for the lazy trio.

But Angelia never escaped for long, and when he did get a chance to see her, she was nervous and afraid, and in a hurry to get back before the Monteneaus could think she'd been gone longer than necessary. He could recall many afternoons he spent riding his bicycle up and down the road on the off chance he'd see her when she was sent out to buy some supplemental groceries, or to do some work in the yard. Not knowing the Monteneaus weren't her birth parents, he'd written off the occasional episode of childhood cruelty he'd seen between Devon and Angelia as typical older brother harangues, if a little more twisted and sadistic than he'd seen elsewhere.

When he started high school a year ahead of Angelia, his athletic build and sharp reasoning skills quickly came to the attention of his teachers and peers. They encouraged him to get involved in sports and enough extra curricular activities to keep him too occupied for afternoon bike rides. When Angelia came to the school the next year, she had grown more withdrawn and melancholy. In his senior year, he'd been captain of the football team and National Honor Society president.

And Angelia had become pregnant and dropped out of high school, putting an end to his occasional daydreams.

If only he had known then what he knew now.

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As Devon approached the dented and scratched Ford Granada, a combination of his frustration with Herbert King, Private Dick, and disgust with having to drive that smelly old clunker made him angry all over again. When he found the driver's side door was stuck for the umpteenth time today, his temper took over and passers by stared nervously as he screamed incoherently and alternately kicked and pounded the vehicle. His fist hit a crack in the driver's side window, and it shattered, littering the seat with auto glass.

"Damn car, damn Angelia and damn that stupid detective!"

He got in on the passenger side, slammed the door shut, and wriggled his way over the stick shift to the driver's seat. Remembering how much he enjoyed driving the Lexus he'd been able to buy when he had Angelia and her useful talents to manipulate, he jabbed the key into the ignition and turned it forward. He waited for the sputtering cough, the usual accompaniment for the start of the engine, but nothing happened and he sat fuming at the car until he remembered when starting a stick shift, the clutch must be depressed. All this was somehow the stupid car's fault. No, it was Bert's fault. Devon sold the Lexus to pay his detective fees. But he wouldn't have had to hire him at all if Angelia hadn't run off, so that made it all her fault.

He gunned the engine and the car squealed jerkily out of its parking space as he headed home, swearing revenge on Angelia and whoever was helping her.

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Cheryl runs through back yards, scampering over fences and ducking behind trees and bushes, heading for the nearest convenience store, grocery store, gas station...any place where there's likely be lots of witnesses. Devon sneers, setting his jaw, then smiles as he recovers his breath watching her leave the backyard. He can take care of her later. Meanwhile, Angelia and the kids are just upstairs...

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Cheryl and Angelia agreed on living arrangements. Angelia would do the housework and have supper ready on the days that Cheryl had to work. Since Cheryl didn't have many expenses, having inherited the house and some capital from her aunt, Angelia would have time to work a part time job also, allowing her to have some saving and spending money. Each woman would take care of the children whenever the other had to work. Cheryl became like a second mother to Bruce and Mincey and although she had to learn to cope as they continued to discover and develop their special "gift", she soon fell in love with them. They were always curious, eager to learn anything new, and presented a continual challenge to Cheryl to try to continue to learn new things herself. Things like:

...it's not wise to keep sleeping if you hear little feet shuffling around in the kitchen. You're likely to find the kitchen floor has been turned into a beach, with sugar or flour in place of the sand...

...if you ask a toddler if he wants to go to bed now, he'll always say no, even if he's nodding off every other minute while he's insisting he wants to stay up...

...the toy that another child is playing with always looks like more fun... and

...always stay as close to the center of the grocery aisle as you can. And if you've got charge of a couple of telekinetic children...leave them at home while you shop...anywhere!

In the following months, both Cheryl and Angelia tried to stress to the kids they must never use their gift where other people could notice it, but how do you convince someone so young that something so fun can be dangerous?

So it was one day, as the kids were playing at a sandbox in a neighborhood park, a tabloid photographer happened to get lucky. He thought he was there simply to enjoy watching his little boy play, but when Bruce Monteneau made a plastic bucket and shovel fly across the sandbox, this "journalist"'s nose for "news" started twitching. However, Cheryl had also seen Bruce's little show, and promptly told the kids it was time to go home now. She wasn't sure how much anyone else had seen, and it would have made her skin crawl if she'd known what was going through the photographer's mind as she left the park with the kids. He waited a few minutes, then informed his son that it was time to go home, then got into his car and inconspicuously tracked Cheryl and the kids all the way to the little street where her big, inherited house stood out like a redwood among pines. He went home promising himself it wouldn't be long until he'd have some pretty sensational pictures.

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Herbert King, P.I. locked his office up tight and headed to his car. He had one stop to make before he would be heading to the small Connecticut town where he expected to find Angelia. That would be Devon Monteneau's grungy little apartment to tell him he was off the case, and to tell him where he could get off if he didn't like it. However, as he rounded the corner to turn into the apartment complex parking lot, he noticed that Devon's old Granada was missing. He shrugged to himself and decided to tell him after he returned. He wanted to see Angelia. Wanted to warn her, he told himself. And she needed to be warned as quickly as possible. Little he knew just how quickly.

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Sure enough, the photographer got his pictures. Selling them to anyone had proven difficult, but after being accused of doctoring photos several times, he'd found a rag of a "news" magazine that was about to go under, and was desperate for any kind of sensational "photojournalism", or anything to sell a few more issues, really. They'd paid him a nice sum and published the photos, along with his account of what he'd seen under the headline: Doctor, lawyer, telekinetic thief?

It would be the magazine's final edition. Not very many people saw it. Herbert King, P.I. was not one of the people who saw it.

Devon Monteneau, petty thief and unsatisfied client, was one of the few people who did. He was buying a pack of generic brand cigarettes at the little store closest to his apartment when the headline caught his eye. He grabbed the magazine off the rack and flipped quickly to the table of contents and to the article. Studying the photos, noticing the wild curly blonde hair, a crooked grin started to spread across his face. "Looks like the boy may have inherited a thing or two from me." He experienced a strange, brief moment of paternal gratification. Then he tucked the magazine under his arm, walked out of the store and headed to his apartment. "Nice little playground you've found for our kiddies, Angelia. I wonder if anyone around here would recognize it?" Devon was talking to himself. He was the only person that would listen for long since Angelia had run away. Not that she'd ever been a willing or attentive audience.

He went home, grabbed a beer from the fridge, and sat at the kitchen table. He'd cleared away enough of the trash from the table to sit up to it and study the article accompanying the photos. The ashtray sitting by the magazine was starting to spill ashes over the sides. He went through quite a few cigarettes reading the article over and over, trying to find any clue about the location of the playground. The fingers of his left hand drummed on the table as he finished another bottle of beer. He finally realized he wasn't going to be able to solve this mystery by himself, and was considering his next move. He didn't trust that detective. No, Bert King had taken way too long, and if he'd seen this article, he hadn't let Devon know about it. If he hadn't seen this article, he wasn't taking the case very seriously, in Devon's opinion.

"Fine," he thought to himself. "If Mr. King doesn't want to earn the money I've paid him, I'll find Angelia myself. Then I'll find a way to settle that score. As he set the drained beer bottle on the table with the others, he noticed some things that hadn't registered before. A car parallel parked next to the playground, a street sign, and a convenience store. The license plate on the car was visible in one of the photos, he could barely make out "Lafayette Dr." on the street sign, and there, in bold black letters, was the name of the convenience store.

Devon picked up the phone, and got started asking for the number to "Howard's Mini-Mart" on Lafayette Drive in every city he knew of in Connecticut. He was starting to get frustrated when he remembered Angelia had always resented not being able to finish school. He dialed the information number once more and asked for Connecticut's education office. He dialed that number and pretended to be a prospective student, considering coming to the state to continue his education. They very cooperatively made suggestions about some colleges to call, in what cities.

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Cheryl runs into the neighborhood convenience store, trying to catch her breath to talk. "Call help! There are kids there...crazy man...at my house...."

"Okay, let's go! My car's right out front."

Cheryl looks quickly at this tall stranger. "Who are you?" she asks.

"Look, you're Cheryl Blake, right? My name's Herbert King, and if I'm right about the identity of the crazy man at your house, now's not the time to have a cozy 'getting to know you' chat...."

Well, if he's who I think he is, you're right. What the heck's with that huge sword from the Middle Ages?" Cheryl isn't the type to get into a car with a strange man, but under the circumstances she thinks the better of it, starts for the parking lot, then stops short long enough to shout back at the store clerk, asking him to call the police. She runs back to the counter, scribbles her address, hands it to the clerk, and rushes out the door held open for her.

"Good to know Angelia has found such a wise friend" the tall stranger quips.

"Well, let's make sure she's safe before we do any back-patting" Cheryl said as they both get into the car. "Straight down this road." she indicates the way.

"Yup. First things first." Cheryl holds her breath as the man removes a .357 from his glove compartment and cocks it. "Herbert King, Private Investigator, to answer your question about who I am." Cheryl sits back, closes her eyes, and hopes for the best as they speed toward her house.

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Angelia heard the knock on the door and started downstairs to see who was there. She stood, like a child who'd been freeze tagged, at the top of the stairs as soon as she heard that voice. She cringed as he asked Cheryl about his "wife" and kids. Then the sound of the door being quickly pushed as Cheryl tried to close it, and the familiar, sickening clatter of the object Devon had always used as an equalizer, just before she'd heard Cheryl run, in horror, down the basement stairs.

She allowed herself to breathe a quick thanks to her friend for leading Devon away from her and the children, then she'd hurried quietly back to them, and ushered them into the attic. Cheryl and Angelia had fixed up a hidden room there, complete with coloring books, crayons, modeling clay, and other project materials that children generally play quietly with. It was their favorite room in the house, and they'd been taught to think of it as a "quiet" room. As they began to play, Angelia strained to hear what was going on in the basement, wishing there was some way to help. If only Devon hadn't brought that damn sword...

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"Right! Turn right here!"

The wheels on the right side of the car leave the pavement as Bert swerves. As it bounces back down, Cheryl buckles her seatbelt.

"Devon's sword neutralizes the telekinesis."

"Huh?" Cheryl's face registers confusion, mixed with anxiety.

"You were asking about the sword. It rightfully belongs to Bruce. Came to the Monteneau family when they adopted Angelia.

Cheryl's eyelids stretch closed as she massages her temples for a moment, and shudders.

"Tell me about it later. Here's the house."

But Bert is already swerving into the driveway, and out of the car almost before it stops.

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Devon breaths deeply as he watches Cheryl run out of sight, wiping the sweat from his upper lip with his shirtsleeve. He turns back to face the basement room, tosses the wicker rocker away as he ascends the stairs.

"Angelia, you're coming home now. I hope you're up there packing," he says as he reaches the first floor landing. There is no reply.

Angelia can hear the tip of the sword scraping the stairs as he continues to climb. The children have long since given up on their projects and are staying close to their mother at the vent, where all three listen, frozen with terror. Had this monster who still haunted their nightmares murdered their best friend? All they can tell is that she's no longer there.

Angelia takes a deep breath and sits up, deciding she's stayed frozen long enough. Holding Bruce and Mincey's chins in each hand, she whispers in an urgent voice. "Stay right where you are, no matter what you hear."

She has no idea what, exactly, she is going to do, but her head tilts upward as she resolves that Devon Monteneau will never again take away anything that was precious to her. She closes the attic door behind her and stands, like a sentinel. "I'm not going anywhere with you, and neither are the children. That's over."

Devon looks momentarily surprised. "Well, well. You're not the scared little rabbit anymore, huh? But you should be scared, my little Angel. You're either coming with me now, or you're never going anywhere again." He punctuates this declaration by planting one hand above her shoulder on the wall, as the other holds the sword. The stale breath and spittle sting like poison on her neck as she lowers her eyes to look at the object she regards as her own personal nemesis. Devon mistakes her lowered gaze for the submission he's been accustomed to.

"That's better," he whispers in a low growl. His hand come off the wall to grasp her shoulder as he tilts his head and lowers it to her face. Angelia presses her back more firmly to the wall.

"Oh yes, my little treasure..." Devon's voice stops abruptly as Angelia rushes forward, ducking under his arm. She scrambles down the stairs and picks up the reciever of the hallway phone, quickly pressing 9-1-1 before running into the kitchen.

Devon follows her after indulging in an exasperated sigh. As he enters the kitchen after her, she slams a drawer closed with one hand. The other is clasped around the handle a butcher knife.

"That's enough." He laughs derisively, What do you think you're going to do with that?"

She charges him. Devon drops the sword and catches her wrist with both hands, then twists her arm behind her. One arm creeps around her waist. The knife clatters on the floor and Devon kicks it away. She turns her face as far from him as possible, grimacing as the hot stale breath assails her neck once again.

"You're hurting my mommy." Bruce announces in an eerily calm voice.

"Bruce! Get out of here! Get away! Run!"

But Bruce stubbornly plants himself in the kitchen entranceway. He looks straight at the discarded sword, and it slides across the kitchen floor in his direction.

"What the hell!" As Devon releases Angelia and runs for the sword, it flies to the ceiling, stopping Devon as he looks up where the sword continues to hover, out of reach. Angelia's mouth drops open as she stares at her son and Devon snarls and runs toward the forgotten butcher knife.

"Don't try it, Monteneau. Make one move and you're a dead man."

Devon turns sharply and faces the barrel of Bert's .357.

Both Cheryl and Angelia run to Bruce as the sword clatters to the floor. Mincey barrels down the stairs to meet them.

"Mommy, I told Bruce to stay, like you said."

"Good girl. Both of you go on back now. We'll be there in a minute." Angelia gives them all a quick hug before she stands up and nudges the kids back up the stairs.

They all hear the sirens approaching as Bruce and Mincey headed back to their attic room. Bert keeps his gun aimed steadily at Devon as Cheryl answers the knock that comes shortly. The paramedics arrive first, followed by the police and firemen. They have everything sorted out in a few minutes, and Devon is cuffed and taken off to the police station.

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"Bert, how did you know?" Angelia asked. The three were sitting in the living room, trying to let their nerves settle after tucking in the kids. Bert then told how Devon had hired him to look for her, and that he'd found some things in the course of his investigation he was sure she needed to see. And so, after they'd caught their breath and somewhat calmed down, Bert went to retrieve some items from his trunk.

Cheryl and Angelia watched from the front porch as Bert returned with a long wooden box under one arm and what looked like a fancy cigar box in one hand. The three went back into the living room for a closer look. The long box was obviously intended as a case for the sword that was now in Angelia's keeping. It had a rich walnut finish and was decorated with a carving of a flower, a long, leafy green stem topped by intricately designed petals, painted in varying shades of red. Those petals were designed so they encased a pearl, right in the center of the flower. Around the edges of the box were small carvings of tiny birds.

Angelia traced the edge with her finger as her thumb flipped the latch. There was lettering inside, carved carefully into the velvet, but Angelia didn't recognize the language.

"Oh my gosh, it's German!" Cheryl exlaimed. "The blood red flower...hang on, I'll go get the dictionary." Angelia and Bert just stared at each other as she ran to her study. Then Angelia picked up the smaller box. It appeared seamless, with no apparent opening latch, and was only decorated with two simple leaves, a small, shallow round hole, painted red, at the intersection of the leaf-stems. "Maybe the inscription will give us a clue?" They both had puzzled looks on their faces as Cheryl walked back into the room. After flipping through a huge bilingual dictionary several times, she showed Bert and Angelia what she'd written in her notebook. "The blood red flower and Joringel's love removed the wicked spell. May it always protect his line from evil."

"Who is Joringel?" Angelia asked.

Bert stood up. "I remember that story, but I don't remember anything about a sword. And I thought it was just a fairy tale. Jorinda and Joringel*."

"Wait a minute, there are letters around the edge of the box, too...the feathers....look closely...." Bert and Angelia looked where Cheryl's fingers pointed to the birds on the edges of the box. Cheryl wrote the letters she saw down below the translated inscription.

"Die shönste Perle ist der magisch Schlüssel...The fairest pearl is the magic key..."

Angelia looked closely at the smaller box, then turned the leaf-carved side downward, placing it over the pearl in the middle of the flower carved into the sword's case. Nothing happened.

"Try turning the box," Bert urged. Angelia turned the box to the right, then to the left, and was rewarded with a clicking sound followed by what they'd thought was the bottom of the box sliding partway open. She pulled it down further and the contents were finally revealed. There was a sheet of paper, yellowed with age, with the story of "Jorinde und Joringel", written in German. There was also a sealed envelope, with "Angelia" written on the front.

"I think that's for you." Bert smiled.

She took a deep breath, then opened it, and unfolded the pages.

"It's from my mother, listen..."

"My Dear Daughter,

As I write this you are still a baby, just now taking your first steps. I am so glad that I was able to at least see that. I do not think I will be allowed to watch you learn much more. And so I need to tell you about your father, and try to explain some things you are sure to wonder about as you grow older..."

Angelia was soon consuming the words of the letter in silence, and Cheryl and Bert patiently waited. Angelia finished reading and handed the letter to them.

"I've never heard or read the story of Jorinda and Joringel, but, from what she says here, it's not just a fairy tale. And it seems they were my father's great-great....something or other."

Bert quickly summarized the story for her, as he'd heard it, the tale of the fair Joringa being changed into a nightingale by a witch who had done the same to seven thousand or so other maidens, her lover Joringel, his sorrow at losing her, the dream of the red flower with the finest pearl that would set his love free from the witch's enchantment and finally, his search for the flower and his successful rescue of Jorinda and all the other enchanted maiden-birds.

"Well, according to this, one of the other women that was freed from the spell was the daughter of a wealthy and powerful merchant, and knew a little magic, herself. She changed the flower into the sword and gave Joringel telekinetic powers, in gratitude."

"Well," said Cheryl, "that explains that. To me, anyway, after all these months. Not that too many other people would believe it. Does it say anything about your ears?"

"Yes. It seems that when the spell was removed from the women, their ears were still affected by it."

"So, all of their descendants are telekinetic and have those ears?"

"I guess. She doesn't say why my father and her came to this country, or where from. But the sword is meant to always pass on to the next direct male heir, and he will always be the only one who can control it the way Bruce did. It will neutralize anyone else's extraordinary abilities."

Angelia replaced the sword and the letter and closed the boxes.

Bert stretched. "Well, tomorrow, I'd say we should go find a safe place for that thing."

Angelia smiled. "Are you planning to stay in town for a while?"

~*The End*~

*The story of "Jorinda and Joringel" can be found at:

http://www.fln.vcu.edu/grimm/jorinde_e.html