Dark Angel; The Chosen; Soulmate (16 page)

(Relax, Gillian. You won't be harmed. I promise.)

And she couldn't let go of the steering wheel. The voice seemed to be inside her body, diffusing through her muscles. She couldn't take her foot off the accelerator.

“Gillian, slow down!” David was yelling now. “Look out!”

(It will only take a second…)

Gillian's world had been switched into an old-time movie. The flickering black-and-white kind. With each frame, the telephone pole in front of her got bigger and bigger. It was happening very slowly, but at the same time with utter inevitability. They were rushing oh-so-slowly toward that pole, and they were going to hit. On the right side of the car, where David was sitting.

(No! I'll hate you
forever
…)

She screamed it in her mind and the last word seemed to echo endlessly. There was time for that.

And then there was a loud sound and darkness.

“Can I see him?”

“Not yet, honey.” Her mother scooted the plastic chair closer to the emergency room bed. “Probably not tonight.”

“But I
have
to.”

“Gillian, he's unconscious. He wouldn't even know you were there.”

“But I have to
see
him.” Gillian felt the hysteria swelling again, and she clamped her mouth shut. She didn't want a shot, which is what the nurses had said they were going to give her when she started screaming earlier.

She had been here for hours. Ever since the cars with the flashing lights came and pried the station wagon door open and pulled her out. They'd pulled David out, too. But while she had been completely unhurt—“A miracle! Not even a scratch!” the paramedic had said to her mother—David had been unconscious. And had stayed that way ever since.

The emergency room was cold and it didn't seem to matter how many heated blankets they wrapped around her. Gillian kept shivering. Her hands were blue-white and pinched-looking.

“Daddy's coming home,” her mother said, stroking her arm. “He's taking the first plane he could get. You'll see him tomorrow morning.”

Gillian shivered. “Is this the same hospital—where Tanya Jun is? No, don't answer. I don't really want to know.” She stuck her hands under her armpits. “I'm so cold….”

And alone. There was no soft voice in her head. And that was
good
, because, God, the last thing she wanted was Angel—or rather that
thing
, whatever it was, that monster that had
called itself an angel. But it was strange after so long. To be all alone… and not know where
he
might be lurking. He could be listening to her thoughts right now….

“I'll get another blanket.” The nurse had shown her mother the heated closet. “If you could just lie down, honey, maybe you'd feel like sleeping a little.”

“I can't sleep! I have to go see David.”

“Hon, I already told you. You're not going to see him tonight.”

“You said I
might
not get to see him. You didn't say I
wouldn't
! You only said
probably
!” Gillian's voice was rising, getting more shrill, and there was nothing she could do about it. The tears were coming, too, flooding down uncontrollably. She was choking on them.

A nurse came hurrying in, the white curtains around the bed swirling. “It's all right; it's natural,” she said softly to Gillian's mother. And to Gillian: “Now, just lean over a little—hold still. A little pinch. This is something to help you relax.”

Gillian felt a sting at her hip. A short time later everything got blurry and the tears stopped.

She woke up in her own bed.

It was morning. Pale sunlight was shining full in the window.

Last night… oh, yes. She could vaguely remember her mom and Mrs. Beeler, their next-door neighbor, leading her from the hospital to Mrs. Beeler's car. She remembered them
taking her upstairs and undressing her and putting her to bed. After that she'd had hours of wonderful not-thinking.

And now she was awake and rested and her head was clear. She knew exactly what she had to do even before she swung her legs out from under the covers.

She glanced at the ancient Snoopy clock on her nightstand and got a shock. Twelve thirty-five. No wonder she was rested.

Efficiently, without making a sound, she put on Levis and a gray sweatshirt. No makeup. She ran a comb once through her hair.

She paused, then, to listen. Not just to the house, but to herself. To the world inside her own brain.

Dead quiet. Not a creature stirring. Not that that meant a thing, of course.

Gillian knelt and pulled the shoe box out from under her bed. The wax dolls were garish, red and green, like a hideous parody of Christmas. Her first impulse at the sight of that poisonous green was to get rid of it. Snap off one doll's hand and the other's head.

But what that would do to Tanya and Kim, she didn't want to think. Instead, she forced herself to get a Q-tip from the bathroom, soak it in water, and dab the iridescent green powder away.

She cried as she did it. She tried to concentrate as she had when she'd done the spell, seeing the real Tanya's hand, seeing it heal and become whole.

“Now may I be given the power of the words of Hecate,” she whispered. “It is not I who utter them, it is not I who repeat them; it is Hecate who utters them, it is she who repeats them.”

When the powder was off, she put the dolls back in the box. Then she blew her nose and rummaged through the pile on her desk until she found a small pink-flowered address book.

She sat on the floor cross-legged, dragged the phone close, and thumbed through the book.

There.

Daryl Novak's cellular phone number.

She dialed quickly and shut her eyes. Answer. Answer.

“Hello,” a languid voice said.

Her eyes flew open. “Daryl, this is Gillian. I need you to do me an enormous favor, and I need you to do it
now
. And I can't even explain why—”

“Gillian, are you okay? Everybody's been worried about you.”

“I'm fine, but I can't talk. I need you to go find Amy Nowick; she's got”—Gillian thought frantically—“uh, honors chemistry this period. I need you to tell her to drive to the corner of Hazel and Applebutter Street and wait for me there.”

“You want her to leave school?”

“Right now. Tell her I know it's a lot to ask, but I
need
this. It's really important.”

She expected questions. But instead, all Daryl said was, “Leave it to me. I'll find her.”

“Thanks, Daryl. You're a lifesaver.”

Gillian hung up and found her ski jacket. Tucking the shoe box under her arm, she walked very quietly downstairs.

She could hear voices from the kitchen. A low voice—her dad's. Part of her wanted to run to him.

But what would her parents do if they saw her? Keep her safe and bundled up, keep her
here
. They wouldn't understand what she had to do.

There was no question of telling them the truth, of course. That would just get her another shot. And, eventually, maybe a visit to the mental hospital where her mother had stayed. Everyone would think delusions ran in the family.

She moved stealthily to the front door, quietly opened it, slipped out.

Sometime during the night it had rained and then frozen. Ice hung like dewdrops from the twigs of the hickory tree in the yard.

Gillian ducked her head and hurried down the street. She hoped no one was watching, but she had the feeling of eyes staring from between bare branches and out of shadows.

At the corner of Hazel and Applebutter she stood with her arms wrapped around the box, hopping a little to keep warm.

It's a lot to ask…

It
was
a lot to ask, especially considering the way she'd treated Amy recently. And it was funny, considering all the
new friends she'd made, that it was Amy she turned to instinctively when she was in trouble.

But… there was something solid and genuine and
good
in Amy. And Gillian knew that she would show up.

The Geo swung around the corner and skidded to a stop. Typical Amy-without-glasses driving. Then Amy was jumping out, her face turned anxiously toward Gillian's. Her blue eyes were huge and seemed luminous with tears.

And then they were hugging and crying. Both of them.

“I'm so sorry. I've been so rotten this last week—”

“But I was rotten to you before that—”

“I feel
awful
. You have every right to be mad at me—”

“Ever since I heard about the accident, I've been so
worried
.”

Gillian pulled back. “I can't stay. I don't have time. And I know how this sounds coming from somebody who hit a pole last night… but I need your car. For one thing, I've got to go see David.”

Amy nodded, blotting her eyes. “Say no more.”

“I can drop you off at home—”

“It's the wrong way. It won't hurt me to walk. I
want
to walk.”

Gillian almost laughed. The sight of Amy dabbing her face with her muffler and stamping her foot on the icy sidewalk, determined to walk, warmed her heart.

She hugged her again, fast. “Thank you. I'll never forget it. And I'll never be the terrible person I've been to you again, at least—”

She broke off and got in the car. She'd been about to finish the sentence “—at least, if I live through this.”

Because she wasn't at all sure that she would.

But the first thing was to get to David.

She had to see him with her own eyes. To make sure he was all right… and that he was himself.

She gunned the motor and set out for Houghton.

She got David's room number from a receptionist at the front desk. She didn't ask if she was allowed to visit.

All Gillian could think as she walked down the hall was,
Please
. Please, if David was only all right, there was a chance that everything could work out.

At the door she stopped and held her breath.

Her mind was showing her all sorts of pictures. David in a coma, hooked up to so many tubes and wires that he was unrecognizable. Worse, David alive and awake and smiling… and looking at her with violet eyes.

She knew what Angel's plan had been. At least, she thought she knew. The only question was, had he succeeded?

Still holding her breath, she looked around the door.

David was sitting up in bed. The only thing he was hooked up to was an IV of clear fluid. There was another bed in the room, empty.

He looked toward the door and saw her.

Gillian walked toward him slowly. She kept her face absolutely expressionless, her eyes on him.

Dark hair. A lean face that still had traces of a summer tan. Cheekbones to die for and eyes to drown in….

But no half-quizzical, half-friendly smile. He was looking back at her as soberly as she was looking at him, a book slipping unnoticed from his lap.

Gillian reached the foot of the hospital bed. They stared at each other.

What do I
say
? David, is it really you? I can't. It's too stupid, and what's he going to say back? No, dragonfly, it's not him, it's me?

The silence stretched on. At last, very quietly, the guy on the bed said, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” The word came out clipped and dispassionate. “Are
you
okay?”

“Yeah, pretty much. I was lucky.” He was watching her. “You look—kind of different.”

“And you're kind of quiet.”

Something like puzzlement flashed in his eyes. Then something like hurt. “I was… well, you walked in here looking so deadpan, and you sound so… cold…” He shook his head slightly, his eyes fixed on hers. “Gillian—did I do something to make you want to hit that pole?”

“I didn't do it on purpose!” She found herself lunging forward, reaching for his hands.

He looked startled. “Okay…”

“David, I
didn't
. I was doing everything I could
not
to. I would never want to hurt you. Don't you know that?”

His face cleared. His eyes were very dark but very calm. “Yes, I do,” he said simply. “I believe you.”

Strangely, she knew he did. In spite of all the evidence to the contrary, he believed her.

Gillian's hands tightened on his. Their eyes were locked together. It was as if they were getting closer, although neither of them moved physically.

And then it was all happening, what had started to happen at least twice before. Feelings so sweet and strong she could hardly bear it. Strange recognition, unexpected belonging… impossible knowing…

Gillian's eyes seemed to shut of their own accord. And then somehow they were kissing. She felt the warmth of David's lips. And everything was warm and wonderful… but there was more.

It was as if the normal veil that separated two people had melted.

Gillian felt a shock of revelation.
This
was what it meant, what Angel had spoken to her about. She knew it intuitively even though she'd never spoken the word before.

Soulmates.

She'd found hers. The one love for her on this earth. The person she was
meant
to be with, that no one could keep her from. And it wasn't Angel. It was David.

That was the other thing she knew, and knew with a bedrock certainty that nothing could touch.
This
was David, the true David. He was holding her in his arms, kissing her. Her, the ordinary Gillian, who was wearing an old gray sweatshirt and no makeup.

It was absurd that she'd ever believed things like makeup mattered.

David was alive,
that
was what mattered. Gillian didn't have his death on her conscience. And if they could somehow live through the rest of what had to be done, they just might be happier than she had ever imagined.