Ex-Communication: A Novel (34 page)

The garage was a lot like hers back home, an example of controlled chaos. A huge Lincoln filled most of the space. There was a trio of bikes parked—stacked, really—against the back wall. Metal shelves held some canned food, jars of nails and screws, a plastic toolbox, and a few more paperback books. It looked like Piers Anthony and Alan Dean Foster had been banished from the loft. An upright piano stood under a drop cloth and some empty flowerpots. An old painting—a guy with a mustache and a sash—hung on one wall next to a pair of rakes and a folding ladder.

Madelyn pulled everything off the piano and opened the lid. She pressed her hands against the Lincoln’s windows and looked in the backseat. She got down on all fours and looked under the car. It wasn’t until she climbed back to her feet that she bothered to look up.

Just like her own mom and dad, Hector’s grandfather had saved space by putting stuff up in the garage’s rafters. He’d even wrestled a sheet of plywood up there to use as a huge shelf.
She could see suitcases, old boxes, and what looked like a big stuffed bear.

Stretched between two of the beams, right over the big door, was something wrapped in a black trash bag. It was about three feet long.

It took her a minute to get the ladder off the wall, and another two to get it in front of the Lincoln. As she was trying to set it down, one of the legs swung up and broke the Lincoln’s tail light. Nobody would ever know, but she still felt bad. She kicked out the ladder’s legs and climbed up to the top. It wobbled a little, but she’d never been scared of heights.

A few tugs and the plastic bag came loose. The box was dark wood, just like Hector had said, with narrow iron hinges. It looked old. She slid one side free and let the whole thing settle into her arms. It took a moment to get her balance and then she worked her way back down the ladder without using her hands.

The box reminded her of a coffin, even though she’d only been to one funeral in her whole life. There was a crest engraved in the lid with a few words in Spanish—she’d studied French in school. There was a latch made from the same black iron as the hinges. The padlock on the latch, however, was steel and new.

Madelyn looked around the garage for a minute and found the plastic toolbox. There was a flathead screwdriver right on the top tray and a hammer underneath that. She pushed the screwdriver through the padlock’s hasp and whacked it with the hammer. The screwdriver slipped loose and spun across the garage. She chased after it, repositioned, and pounded a few more times. The padlock didn’t budge, but the latch tore free from the wood. It made her pause for a moment, then she beat on the screwdriver a few more times until the box cracked and the latch ripped away.

She heard a thump behind her and spun around. Grandfather de la Vega and the other ex were pressed against the garage door, their heads framed in the large windows. Well, the top of grandfather’s head. The wood muffled their clicking jaws. Another
ex, a skinny woman in a dress, stumbled up the driveway behind them.

Less than an hour until sundown. She needed to get moving. She threw open the box and tossed aside an old black sheet that had been folded over the contents. And there was the sword.

After seeing the first
Pirates of the Caribbean
movie she’d convinced her parents to let her take fencing lessons. It’d been a huge letdown. Junior-level fencing wasn’t as action-packed as the movies made it out to be, and competition-legal foils just didn’t measure up to the gorgeous sword Orlando Bloom had made for Commodore Norrington or the one Inigo Montoya’s father had made for the six-fingered man.

This sword did, though. She didn’t know anything about weapons but she could tell this was a piece of art. There weren’t any fancy jewels or gold or anything, but it was still beautiful. The blade was thin and covered with hundreds of curls and scrolls that reminded her of her dad’s paisley ties. Above the handle—the hilt, she remembered—was a circle of metal, curved down to guard the hand. It was cut and engraved to look like an elaborate flower. A thick rod of metal stretched side to side beneath the circle, and a matching one curved down to make the knuckle guard.

She wrapped her fingers around the hilt and lifted it out of the box. It was a little heavier than she’d expected, but it balanced in her hand really well. There were a few faint nicks on the blade, but they’d been ground down and polished out. The sword had been used a lot, but somebody had taken care of it. The edge was still sharp.

“Corpse Girl for the win,” she said with a smile.

Another thump convinced her to get moving. There wasn’t any scabbard or anything in the box, so she hiked up her coat and slid the sword through her belt. It was a little awkward, but she was pretty sure she’d be able to ride a bike with it.

Grandpa and his tall friend ignored her and kept trying to walk through the garage door. The female ex stood in the
middle of the driveway as if lost in thought. There was a stringy piece of something caught in her teeth and it flapped up and down as her jaw moved.

Madelyn swung her leg over the bike and edged the kickstand up with her foot. As an afterthought, she reached out and tugged the gate closed. The exes twitched when the latch connected, but none of them made a move toward her. She guided the bike past the dead woman and back down to the street.

She peeled the tape off her sleeve and took another look at the Thomas Guide pages. Just over three hours until Max’s deadline. A lot of the trip into the Valley had been uphill. Hopefully the way back would be faster.

“ARE YOU SURE
this is the best way to go, sir?” asked Freedom.

“This is where Josh got away,” said St. George. He gestured at the railing, then nodded across the street to the blood-splattered SUV the prisoner had been shot against.

“That’s not quite what I meant.” The huge captain glanced out at the street. “There’ve been no sightings of Cairax from the south.”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Max. He’d pushed up the sleeves of his suit and unbuttoned his shirt to display more of his tattoos. “Like I said, he’s all around the Mount. He saw Josh leave. He’ll see us leave.”

“How can he be all around the Mount at the same time?” said one of the guards.

“Bilocation,” Max said. He shook out his hands while he talked, letting his fingers bounce and snap at the edges of his palm. “It’s not just for saints. A lot of the higher and lower entities can manifest that way.”

The guard’s lips twisted into a frown. “What’s that mean?”

“It means he can be all around the Mount at the same time.”

St. George shifted his hips again. He was used to carrying various pouches and pieces of gear on his belt, but the sword was something different. It swung like a lopsided pendulum and pulled at his waist. Even with his strength, it felt odd.

The weapon they’d settled on had come from one of the old prop houses. Ilya had found it in a barrel with two or three dozen others and—after Max’s halfhearted approval was given—spent an hour putting an edge on the safety-dulled blade. It looked like a classic knight’s sword, with a square crossbar for a guard and wire wrapped tight around the hilt. The pommel was a big wheel of metal with a large ruby in it, although St. George was pretty sure the gemstone was cut glass at best.

It looked like a real sword when he held it in a shaft of sunlight. It felt like a real sword. Hopefully that would be enough.

Stealth stood off to the side. Her cloak had settled around her, and she’d let her hood sink over her head. She said nothing as they made the final preparations.

Max finished his hand exercises and looked at the cloaked woman. “Look,” he said to her, “I know you’re not going to like this, but if something happens … well, don’t come after us. No matter what you hear or see, don’t come out.”

Stealth stiffened beneath her cloak. St. George was sure he was the only one who caught it. “Why not?” she asked.

“We’re either going to stop Cairax or not. If we do, you’ve got no reason to go out past the wards. If we don’t, well …” Max shrugged again. “The walls and wards will give everyone a small degree of protection. Not much, but use them as long as you can.”

Stealth glared at him for a moment. Then she nodded once in assent.

The sorcerer turned to St. George. “How do the runes feel?”

“They itch,” said the hero. Max had painted a series of symbols across St. George’s back and chest with a fat brush he’d found in one of the scenery shops. He hadn’t used regular paint. It was something oily that just smelled wrong. He’d mixed it up while the two heroes had talked with Dr. Connolly. “It feels like a peeling sunburn.”

“Good,” said Max. “That means they’re working. Should
give you an hour or two if we’re lucky.” He looked up at the sky. “We should get going. We’ve got half an hour or so until sundown. Maybe an hour till full dark.”

St. George nodded. He exchanged a solemn look with Freedom, then turned to Stealth. He had a sinking feeling this was the last time he was going to see her, and she had her mask on.

“I’ll be back soon,” he told her.

Her head dipped ever so slightly inside her hood. “I am certain you will.”

He waited a moment, wondering if she was going to crack and hug him or something. He thought about hugging her. He thought about pulling her mask up and giving her one last kiss.

But she was cool and professional. She didn’t crack. It would be demoralizing to the guards if she did. So she walled herself off and didn’t give any hint of what they’d shared. She was cold and strong and merciless so no one else had to be. So everyone else could just live.

It was who she was, and it was part of the reason he loved her.

He hoped he survived to tell her.

Max traced one of his tattoos with his finger and looked at St. George. “I can levitate pretty easy, but I’m not fast. How do you want to do this? Piggyback?”

“God, no,” said the hero, turning away from Stealth. He gave a wink to the guards. “If I’m going out to my death I don’t want to look pathetic doing it.”

They all chuckled. The mood rose a little bit.

He focused on the spot between his shoulder blades, floated into the air, and held out his hand. Max grabbed it wrist to wrist. They rose up and floated out past the Big Wall.

The exes below tilted their heads back and followed them through the air. They snapped their jaws open and shut. Their desiccated fingers stretched up to claw at the empty space below Max’s feet.

“A little higher would be nice,” said Max.

“You’ll be fine,” said St. George.

They drifted over to the circle burned into the pavement. The shambling dead hid it well from the Big Wall, but from overhead it was easy to see. St. George paused in the air just before it. He looked down at Max. “As soon as we’re over it? Or once we’re past it?”

“Past it. The seal itself is the end of the safe area. He’ll see us, but you should be safe from any level of possession.”

“Should?”

“For a while, anyway,” said Max. “If he wants to kill either of us, he’ll have to do it the old-fashioned way.”

“Great.”

They floated a few more feet. A cluster of exes shuffled below them and brought the sound of clicking teeth. One of them stumbled and fell over backward. The others trampled over it, still reaching for the heroes.

“Hang on tight with both hands,” St. George said. “If it comes at us, I’m going to move fast.”

“If it comes at us, you’re going to want me to have a hand free,” said the sorcerer.

St. George took in a deep breath. He glanced over his shoulder at the Big Wall, where Stealth and Freedom stood watching him. The breath hissed out of his nose as black smoke. He tightened his fingers around the sword and swallowed.

They crossed the seal.

Nothing happened.

St. George turned in the air. There were a hundred or so exes in his line of sight, but none of them was streaming blue fire or growing claws and horns. He swung the sword once and it made a whipping noise.

Still nothing.

“So far, so good,” said Max. His free hand was up with the middle and ring fingers folded flat against his palm. A set of devil horns. “Which way are we headed?”

St. George rose another foot or so in the air and headed west.