A Wild Light (13 page)

I ran toward the door. But I was too late.

Grant limped inside—and stopped, staring. Déjà vu filled me, as though life had rewound itself to that predawn moment, seeing him for the first time. His expression was the same, concerned and weary, more than a little wild. Soot covered his cheek and clothing. His hair was slick with rain. He looked at me, then past me, at the woman on the ground.

“What—” he began, but she made an ugly choking sound, staring at him like a normal human would stare at Bigfoot, or little gray men from outer space, or even the Easter Bunny wielding a chain saw—with horror and shock, and disbelief. It made her look young to me. My hands felt dirty for hurting her.

“Lightbringer,” she breathed. “Abomination.”

I pushed Grant back toward the door. “Get out.”

He staggered, staring over my head. “Maxine. She’s—”

“—like me,” he finished.

The woman screamed at him. Not in fear or pain—but rage. Her voice sounded like the siren wail of an electric guitar, inhuman and unearthly, cut from something wild. The boys rippled across my skin when they heard that cry.

Mary’s body twitched, then broke into a full seizure. Grant shoved me aside, so violently he almost lost his cane. He staggered, caught himself, and shouted.

Just one word, but a word that became a soaring note that rose out of his throat like thunder. I felt an answering tug inside my heart, as though my body was connected to the power in his voice.

I remembered, too, what he had told me—energy, auras,
I can change people
—and whipped around, staring at the woman, who was still screaming at him, screaming like she didn’t need to breathe.

I had broken her neck. Heard the crack, seen the paralysis. But she was moving again, hands twitching, legs trembling. Mary was still unconscious, breath rattling in her throat. Her seizure had stopped, but she was withering away like there was a tube jammed in her heart, sucking out blood, sparks.

Her life, stolen away to heal another.

Grant snarled. I crossed the room in two steps and drove myself down onto the Messenger, slamming my knee into her chest. Bone cracked. I wrapped my hands around her throat. Her voice choked off. A small part of me screamed and screamed as I strangled her, screamed like I was a little girl watching a horror movie, but I gritted my teeth and didn’t stop.

She looked up at me. No fear in her eyes. Just a promise. I had a feeling she was good at keeping those.

I wasn’t surprised when she disappeared—leaving my hands empty, my ears ringing with silence. What surprised me was how disappointed I felt for not killing her sooner.

A mistake I could rectify. My left hand closed over my right, holding the armor tight. I closed my eyes, focusing on the woman with all my strength. I had to follow. I had to finish this, for all our sakes.

Ice spiked from the metal into my bones—ice becoming fire, striking straight into the marrow of my fingers and wrist. I braced myself.

But nothing happened. I didn’t slide into the darkness.

I opened my eyes, staring at the armor. I’d never known what I was doing when I used it. Just instinct. Drive. Hunger. It had always given me what I needed most, but what I needed and what I wanted weren’t always the same things.

I needed to kill that woman. I needed to kill her before she hurt anyone else. I couldn’t let that wait.

“Don’t do this,” I said to the armor. “Not now.”

The armor pulsed twice: two heartbeats. Like it was saying,
Fuck you.

I tried again, focusing on my need, even shaking my right fist like that would be the magic bullet. Got nothing in return. I had been told the armor had a mind of its own. Fine. It could go fuck itself. I might just cut off my own arm out of spite.

I looked over my shoulder. Grant was on the floor, hauling Mary into his lap. His jaw was tight, eyes hard, but I knew that look for what it was now—anger and grief, and determination.

“She’s alive,” he said, not looking at me. “Barely.”

I stood, swaying—and then sat down again, hard. My head hurt. It was hard to breathe. Nothing had been done to me, I wasn’t injured—but I felt like parts of my body had been turned inside out. Including my mind.

I kept seeing things when I looked at Mary and the apartment—memories overlaying reality, sparks of light, snatches of music—piano, a flute—the feeling of warm arms around me while my fingers banged out a rough version of “Chopsticks”—the scent of popcorn, the crunch of chewed nails—the boys giggling while watching old Disney movies starring Dean Jones—

And that scent of cinnamon all around me, in my hair, on my clothes, buried in my skin.

I remembered those things. I hadn’t forgotten them. But having them so near the surface of my mind made me feel distant, removed, out-of-body. As though I was living another woman’s life.

I looked at the armor again and clenched my hand into a fist. The woman could be anywhere. I couldn’t hunt without help, and it was still daylight. I was stuck. A sitting duck. And that woman was out there, probably using her voice on another unlucky soul. I wondered how many lives it took to heal a broken neck.

I scooted closer. “Will Mary be okay?”

“Yes,” Grant said firmly, but in a tone of voice that really meant
No, but I’ll make it happen if I have to rip a hole in hell.

“Who was that woman?” Grant asked, then shook his head. “Wait. Get me my flute first.”

“Where is it?”

“Over there, beneath the window.”

I managed to stand again and staggered in the direction he pointed. I saw the table, and several flutes—most of them made of wood—but there was one that gleamed golden, a lovely instrument. I had a feeling that was the one he wanted. I picked it up, turned—and stopped.

My mother’s chest was on the floor beside the table. Old-fashioned, solid wood. Nothing fancy except for what it held. Journals, photographs, weapons, all the little pieces that were left of my mother’s life and my childhood. It was hard to look away. I could remember carrying it up the stairs into this apartment, I could recall placing it in different spots, trying to find just the right place to store it.

I could see, in my mind, removing pictures and spreading them on a table, pointing out my mother’s face, and saying,
You’re right, we do look alike. But all of us always do.

I walked back to Grant. He was humming. Sounded like something from
Swan Lake
. I gave him the flute, but he grabbed my hand before I pulled away.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, and it hit me that I was naked. No one—no one I remembered—had ever seen me like this. I had never imagined anyone would. Too much, too insane. Demons covered my skin. Maybe they resembled tattoos, but I knew the truth.

But Grant didn’t look at my body. Just my eyes.

“Maxine,” he said, squeezing my hand. “Maxine, answer me.”

I tried to pull free. “I can’t be hurt. If you know anything about me—”

He stopped me by kissing my hand. Just one kiss, but it was gentle and desperate, and my voice choked into silence. I shouldn’t have felt that kiss, but I did—the boys let me—and the heat of it sank through my muscles and bones.

My first kiss.

Grant pressed his cheek against my hand, and let me go. “Better get dressed,” he said hoarsely. “Someone’s going to come looking for us soon. Might come up here.”

I nodded, unable to find my voice. I went and locked the front door, then walked past him and Mary to the bedroom. I spared a glance for Jack’s body, still covered by the sheet. My grandfather. Praise be his light.

He was starting to smell.

Grant began playing the flute. A mournful melody filled the air, achingly beautiful, cutting through my chest like a blade made of exquisite light: first light, dawnlight; that soft morning glow, the kind that filled windows and warmed skin and sheets.

I felt that light inside me when I heard his music. I felt five hearts beating against my skin, in steady time to that rise and fall of perfect notes. Five hearts, my heart, all of us together, as one.

And a sixth, I realized. A sixth heartbeat, pulsing softly below my heart.

There and gone. I touched the spot, breathless. Waiting to feel it again.

I was still waiting, even after I started looking for clothes.

I
wanted to stay away from the bathroom mirror. Just one glimpse was enough. I was bald. Tattoos covered my entire head. I looked like a circus freak from circus hell, the kind where clowns ruled. My worst nightmare. I hated clowns.

“Hey,” I said, rubbing my cheeks, rubbing and rubbing until Dek and Mal got the message and receded from my face. Pale skin appeared from beneath black scales and silver claws, and my lips went from gray to pink. I think the boys would have stopped at my former hairline, but I had no wig, no hat or scarf. Until I could find something to cover my head, the boys would just have to sit out the day below my jawline.

I rubbed the scar beneath my ear. I looked like shit.

My cowboy boots were ruined. I peeled them off. Slid on new jeans, a turtleneck and slim vest. Found running shoes and socks. I looked almost normal when I was done. Except for the shadows in my eyes. And the fact that I had no hair.

Fortunately, I still had some eyebrows. Not very good ones, but at that point, I was happy for anything.

I tugged on gloves last of all. Held up my right hand and turned it around, studying the armor. It had grown, as I’d known it would when I transported myself from that hall downstairs. Not much, just a fraction of an inch up my wrist—but that was a fraction of an inch I’d never recover.

“Fuck you back,” I said to it. “I hope you had a good reason.”

Grant had stopped playing his flute. I hesitated before leaving the bedroom, but when I opened the door, he was still seated on the floor. Mary’s eyes were open. She was smiling at him, so sweetly it almost hurt to see. She gave me the same smile though it slipped a little.

It was enough, though. The old woman didn’t smile for just anyone.

“Alive,” she said, patting Grant’s hand. “Good song.”

She looked healthy. Pink skin, bright eyes. I imagined her hair appeared a little less gray; and some of her wrinkles had smoothed away.

“What did you do?” I asked Grant.

“Gave her back what was taken. Plus a little extra.” He rubbed his face. “It was close.”

Close.
He looked tired. I sat back, thinking hard about what I had seen, what I had been told, what I remembered. Piecing it all together.

I had questions, but all of them but one could wait.

“Mary,” I said. “Where’s Byron?”

POLICE were everywhere. I had a feeling they would be looking for Grant—based on the same feeling I had that he owned the place—but he stayed with me as we made our way to the basement. Mary came with us, after changing into some of my clothes. Pants looked strange on her. So did long sleeves. I made her leave the butcher knives in the kitchen.

No one saw us. A quick glance outside the windows showed that the police were still keeping everyone outside the building; but I heard voices echoing down the smoky halls, using words like
arson
and
structural integrity
.

The basement didn’t smell like smoke, and the air was cool and damp. Years ago, the warehouses that made up the Coop had been part of a furniture manufacturer, and some of the old equipment was still stored in the dark underbelly—massive iron structures whose purpose I couldn’t guess though the boys liked to come down sometimes and climb all over them. Good diversion while hunting rats. During their last adventure, they had worn safari hats and carried machetes. Eaten both, along with the rodents.

There were few lights in the basement, and none was turned on. I left it that way. I could see light from Mary’s room, shining from beneath the closed door. It made a path across the concrete floor, and our footsteps, along with Grant’s cane, echoed loudly. I heard no one else but us. Mary started humming “Oh, What a Beautiful Morning,” and twirled on her toes like a dancer.

I hadn’t been down to Mary’s room for weeks. Not much had changed. Racks lined the walls, filled with wooden flatbed containers brimming over with young marijuana plants and blazing sunlamps. On my last visit I’d had the boys eat her plants—and equipment. These couldn’t be the same ones. But here we were—and here those plants were. I just hoped the police didn’t come into the basement looking for anyone.

Byron lay on a cot in the corner, covered by a thin blanket and about fifty balls of brightly colored yarn. A zombie sat with him, holding a gun.

Rex. For a split second I didn’t recognize him, but then the memories returned. I hung back at the door while the others went in and studied that thunderous aura. Old parasite. Oldest one I had seen in quite some time, including this morning’s run-in at Killy’s bar. The dark cloud of his aura hovered over a grizzled brown face creased with wrinkles and other signs of age and stress. Rex’s host had lived a hard life before being possessed.