Doomsday Can Wait (11 page)

I went through the gate in the white picket fence, strolled up the pristine sidewalk to the green-trimmed white house, and knocked. The music of children's laughter, the trill of their happy voices, rang from inside. The door opened, and there she was—the only mother I'd ever known.

She looked exactly the same as the day she'd died— minus the blood splatter, torn throat, and various bite marks.

"Lizbeth," Ruthie said, and gathered me into her arms.

Despite the knobbiness of her elbows and knees, the boniness of her entire body, Ruthie gave the very best hugs.

She'd taken me in when I was twelve, fresh from another foster home that didn't want me. She'd seemed ancient even then—her lined face the shade of rich coffee, her dark eyes so sharp she saw everything about you, even things you'd spent a lifetime learning to hide.

None of that mattered to Ruthie—where you'd been, what you'd done, who you were. Once she took you in, she never let you go. For throwaway kids, that promise was worth more than money, it was worth our very souls. To be accepted, to know that no matter what happened, Ruthie would love you ...

We'd have done anything for her.

I was still having a bit of a problem accepting that Ruthie had purposely gone searching for kids who were "special," taking them in and preparing them to become part of the federation. I knew she hadn't had any choice—we were talking about the end of the world—still, it would have been nice to be chosen for myself and not my psychic abilities.

However, since my psychic abilities were what had, more often than not, gotten me tossed from every foster home I'd been in, being chosen
for
them instead of despite them wasn't the worst thing.

I drew back, and Ruthie let me go. She touched my cheek and worry shadowed her eyes.

"I'm dead, aren't I?"

She sighed and turned away, leaving the door open as an invitation to follow. I trailed after her, down the hall and into the sunshine-bright kitchen, where the large back windows allowed her to watch over the children in the yard.

I counted four. The small number, and lack of a baby carriage, lightened my spirits. The last time I'd been here the place had been bursting with kids I'd failed to save, as well as a tiny bundle that wouldn't stop crying.

That was a memory I'd do just about anything to erase from my brain.

"Sit," Ruthie ordered. "We've got a situation here."

"Me being dead is going to throw a bit of a crimp in our plans. This is gonna start the Doomsday clock ticking all over again."

"You aren't dead," she said.

"The woman of smoke—" I paused, then sat. "You know about her?"

Ruthie gave me one of her patented stares. Ruthie knew about everything, even before she'd become ...

I wasn't certain what she'd become, but she was definitely more powerful dead than alive. Having her killed had been the Strega's first mistake.

"She stabbed me with my own knife." I made a sound of disgust. How lame was that? "Twice in the chest."

I glanced down, thrilled to discover that the weapon wasn't sticking out of me so that I resembled a shish kebab. My broken wrist appeared to work just fine, as well. I flapped it a few times just to be sure.

Of course no one came here with the wounds they'd died from; that would be too upsetting to the kids, not to mention gross.

"You aren't dead," Ruthie repeated.

"But—"

"Twice in the same way kills a dhampir."

"Right. I—" I stopped, not wanting to say out loud what I'd done to get that talent.

But Ruthie knew. Not talking about my strange gifts didn't make those strange gifts cease to exist.

"We do what we have to do to survive, to fight, to win," she said. "You wouldn't have the power of empathy if you weren't meant to use it, child."

Same thing Summer had said.
Huh.

"It's because of that empathy you're still alive." At my blank expression, she continued, "You're more than a dhampir, Lizbeth. You're a skinwalker, too."

I lifted a brow. "How do you kill those?"

She lifted her own brow in return. "I'll just keep that to myself."

"But—"

"I know 'bout your temper when it comes to Sawyer. If you'd known how to kill him, you'd have done it already—ten times."

True. No one annoyed me more than Sawyer; no one frightened me more than him, either—unless it was his mother.

"We need him," Ruthie said. "You need him."

As much as I hated to admit it, she was right. Still—

"How can I avoid getting my skinwalker nature snuffed out if I don't know how that can happen?"

"It won't. Skinwalkers are some of the hardest beings to kill on God's earth. You think Sawyer would still be breathin' otherwise?"

I wasn't the only one who wanted him dead. Sometimes I wondered if there was anyone who actually wanted him alive. Except for Ruthie.

"I still don't like it," I muttered.

"I still don't care."

"Is it true what Summer told me?" I asked. "Doomsday's on hold?"

"Appears to be. The demons are still killing, but—" She spread her gnarled hands. "Not like they used to."

"So we've got some time to regroup."

"I don't know," Ruthie murmured. "I can still feel the evil on the air like an approaching tornado. That buzzing stillness, which always comes right before the skies turn green and the whirlwind starts."

Hell. That sounded exactly like what I'd felt in Barn-aby's Gap.

"It's strange," she continued. "Almost like nothing's changed. Like Doomsday's still brewin'." She shook her head as if she were shaking off the thoughts. "I'm just an old woman who's seen too much. Can't stop smelling trouble even when it isn't here."

"Oh, trouble's here. It's called a
Naye'i."

"They'll have to go back to square one." Ruthie put her hand over mine where it lay on the table. "They have to kill you."

"The woman of smoke thinks she did. She'll believe she's the new leader. What will happen when she finds out she isn't?"

"Hopefully she'll die from the disappointment," Ruthie muttered, "but I wouldn't count on it."

"You have no idea how to end that—" I broke off before I said something I shouldn't. "Thing," I finished.

"'Fraid not. She's much more than she started as. Evil spirit became witch became Satan only knows what."

"Terrific." I glanced out the window, absently counted children, came up with five this time. They must be playing hide-and-seek.

"Where have you been?" I asked. "Not a word from you since I left Manhattan. I was starting to think I'd lost the magic."

"The amulet," Ruthie said. "It blocked me. From seein' them, from talkin' to you. Messed with my radar." She tapped her head. "I still feel fuzzy. Might have a hard time now and again gettin' through."

"That can't be good."

"You'll be all right. Sawyer's here. He'll help."

"You're sure about that? Sawyer's always seemed to be on the 'help himself and screw the world' plan."

Ruthie's lips curved. "Sawyer likes the world as is. He'll help." She sobered. "You're gonna have to destroy that amulet."

"How about I toss it off a cliff?"

Ruthie was shaking her head before I finished the sentence. "She'll find it. You must go to the benandanti. She lives in Detroit, on Trulia Street. A gray house, red shutters, you—"

"Hold on," I interrupted. "A what-who?"

"Benandanti
means good walker in Italian."

"All right. So a benandanti is a good walking . . . what?"

"Witch."

"A good witch," I repeated. "Like Sabrina? Saman-tha? Tabitha?"

Ruthie gave me the look. I shut up.

"The benandanti has the power to heal the bewitched."

"And this will help me with the amulet, why?"

"Jewelry doesn't possess powers. It's the bewitch-ment that gives it the magic."

I thought of the turquoise and crucifix, still in the car along with the amulet. The strength of the crucifix lay in the blessing upon it. The magic of the turquoise lay in Sawyer's talents as a medicine man. So it followed that the power of the amulet had come from a spell—curse, blessing—it didn't matter.

"You're saying that a benandanti can 'heal' the amulet?"

"Not a benandanti,
the
benandanti. There's only one at a time. And yes, she'll take care of that amulet just fine."

"A benandanti is a good Italian witch; the strega was a bad witch." I frowned. "Was there only one of him, too?"

"Until there's another."

Good news, bad news. The strega was gone, but knowing the Nephilim, another would appear soon enough.

"Is there a good and a bad of everything?" I asked.

"Life craves balance," Ruthie answered. "We wouldn't have devils if we hadn't had angels first."

"Then it follows that we should have enough seers and DKs to fight the Nephilim. Otherwise things are out of balance."

"Lack of balance is what the Nephilim crave. It creates chaos. We need to find more soldiers, and we need to train them. Which isn't gonna be easy when we're also fightin' Nephilim with the few we have left."

"So what do we do? What do I do?"

"Lead them."

"That is
so
not helpful."

Ruthie's lips curved. "You're on the right track. Get Jimmy back; he's the best soldier you've got. Summer ain't bad, either. Have Sawyer search out new federation members, those who don't know yet what to do with their powers, and have him show them."

"Sawyer?"

"He's always been very good at finding new seers. DK.s, too. Though usually seers draw their own DKs to them."

"Unless they inherit them." As I had.

"Unless," Ruthie agreed. "You need to gather the ones in hiding, keep fightin' at their side. It's all you can do."

"It would be nice if Sawyer could walk on two legs and use his words anywhere but on Navajo land," I murmured.

His going
to
the new recruits and training them ASAP would be more practical than his having to find them by osmosis, draw them to New Mexico, and then deal with them there.

"Take Sawyer with you to Detroit," Ruthie ordered. "It's dangerous."

I wondered if she meant dangerous because it was Detroit or dangerous because of the benandanti and other assorted supernatural beings, then decided it didn't matter. Dangerous was dangerous, and Sawyer was the best bodyguard, even if I couldn't get him on a plane without a wire cage and a muzzle.

Luckily I had the Impala, and Detroit was a short, but extremely annoying, trip around the tip of Lake Michigan from Chicago. We'd be there by morning.

The laughter of the children drew my attention to the window once more. Seven kids now. Where had they been hiding?

I got up and moved closer, peering through the glass. Between one blink and the next, there were eight kids.

"Son of a—" I murmured, as understanding dawned.

The children hadn't been playing hide-and-seek; they'd been appearing—bing, bing, bing—as they died one by one in Lake Vista.

CHAPTER 12

"People are being killed." I spun away from the window to face Ruthie. "And we're chatting in a sunny kitchen?"

Ruthie's eyes were moist. "You think I want them to die? You think I like having a full house?"

I threw up my hands. "I don't know what you want or what I think. I only know that people,
children,
are dying by lucere attack. An attack I was sent to stop."

"But you went down in the field."

"According to you, I'm not dead yet."

"You needed time to heal." Ruthie's gaze became unfocused as she stared past me. "Sawyer's done all he can."

"Did you put a hex on me, make me forget what was going on back there?" I couldn't believe I hadn't remembered until I'd seen that child appear out of nowhere.

"You were here for a reason—to listen, to learn, to heal. Until those things were done, you couldn't leave. No use worryin' about it."

"I need to go back."

"Go." Ruthie flipped her hand, dismissing me.

I fell, fast and hard, slamming into my body, choking, coughing, tasting blood. My face was wet, hell, all of me was wet and my chest hurt. I reached for the pain, expecting to encounter the knife, but it wasn't there. I came upright with a curse, and my eyes snapped open.

It was raining, had been raining for quite a while considering the soaked state of my clothes and hair. One side of my body was warm, the other slightly chilled despite the remaining heat of the summer night.

Sawyer was pressed the length of me. He lifted his head; his snout and paws were covered in blood.

Nearby lay my knife, as pristine as if it had never been buried to the hilt in my chest. Considering the sharp, shiny agony that pulsed between my ribs, I had to think the rain had washed away the blood.

Had Sawyer yanked it out with his teeth? Had I done it myself in the throes of death? Or had it magically disappeared from here and appeared over there? Did it matter as long as the weapon was no longer sticking out of me?

In the distance someone shouted, and I glanced at Lake Vista, then immediately hit the ground again. The suburb was lit up like Christmas, and there were cops all over the place.

I wanted to ask Sawyer what had happened, besides the obvious—death, death, and more death. However, I didn't have time to shape-shift and play twenty questions. We needed to get out of here, and I wasn't going to be able to drive a car with paws.

"Come on," I whispered, inching back to where the Impala was parked in the shadow of the trees.

It wouldn't be long before the police widened their search. If they found a woman and a wolf near that massacre . .. Well, it would make their job a whole lot easier. They'd blame us and close the case.

Even if we were able to get out of jail by some combination of shape-shifting and  magic,  we'd be marked from then on. I wouldn't be able to travel with the freedom I needed. More people would die. I had enough of them on my conscience already.

The memory of the children popping up one at a time in Ruthie's backyard made me want to punch something. I considered putting a dent in the Impala, but knew from past experience that I'd hurt, maybe break, my hand. Sure, I'd heal, but the kids would still be dead. Those kids were forever dead.