Fade (8 page)

He had been against it. He fought against the implants. But their Earth was unlike the one to which they had been going. There weren’t people like them there. People with powers. They were children, and children would make mistakes. It was too much of a risk, they’d said. Finally, he consented that they were right. For the first time, he was glad that he did. Jonas would find them because of those implants. If they were anywhere within two thousand miles of where he sat, they’d show up. As long as the implants were still functioning.

Jonas went cold at the thought. What if he sat for hours waiting for a signal that would never come? Worse: what if while he was waiting for a little green light to lead him to his girls, that Wraith was on its way to one of them? What if… the device gave a hollow beep, and the first of the lights appeared. She was just seven miles away. He almost broke down at the idea that he was less than ten minutes from seeing one of his little girls, who were—it was the first time the thought had come to him—by now, young women. He sat the device in the cup holder next to him and drove as it continued searching for the other two girls.

***

Angela always made sure she had something to do on a Friday night. But she’d broken her—albeit often flexible—rule about partying too hard on school nights. She had a hangover from hell. She popped four aspirin and oozed onto the couch. After throwing up twice at school that morning, she left to go home. Now, the worst of it was over, but she still felt lousy. That, and she was royally pissed that Nathan had ditched her at the party. She’d had to sleep on Michael’s couch—the guy who threw the party—and wear some of his sister’s clothes to school, which fit like crap and were miles from couture.

Flipping on the television, she wrapped a throw around herself. Her eyes began to droop as soon as she sat down and, within minutes, she was asleep. A loud, static buzz woke her. Her heart slammed against her chest and she stared wide-eyed at the television. A faint picture flickered and danced between thick lines of snow. She fumbled for the remote that had fallen from her hand and flicked it off. “Stupid cable,” she moaned, “scared the mess out of me.”

Angela sat up, rubbed her face, pushed her hair back. Her stomach gurgled as she got up and walked into the kitchen. Stepping on the leg of her sleep pants—the white ones, covered in kisses—she almost fell. She was about to curse her bad luck, but instead whipped her head sideways at the sight of something in her peripheral vision. There was nothing there but living room. She swallowed, stared at the nothing, then opened the refrigerator, grabbing a bottle of water and taking a sip. It was cold and soothing as it ran down her dry throat. Another longer drink and she turned again to the living room, thinking maybe she’d pop a movie in if the cable was still out.

An R&B song, the gist of which was the singer’s desire to kiss his girl up and down all night long, started to play from crumpled jeans on the floor. She sang the lyrics under her breath as she wrestled to pull the phone from the pocket.

“Hey, Hope,” she said.

The phone buzzed, followed by a click, signaling that the call had dropped. She looked at the screen and rolled her eyes; her phone flashed, went dead. “Nothing freaking works.” A long sigh followed her as she began walking to her bedroom to plug it in.

After plugging the phone in, Angela dropped onto her bed, fuming, thinking of all the things she wanted to do to Nathan. It was a list which had changed since the night before. She wished her phone were working so she could call Hope back and vent. Instead, she closed her eyes.

She had just about succeeded in falling back to sleep when the knock at the door jolted her awake. Sitting up, she growled, slapping a nearby pillow. The idea that it might be Nathan crawled into her mind and she wasn’t sure how to feel. On the one hand, she would love little more than to shred him and slam the door in his face. On the other, she looked and felt like a steaming pile. Trashing him would be far more effective if he saw her in all her glory, able to imagine the sexual wonders which he had missed out on for the rest of his natural life.

Peering through the peep hole, she had almost convinced herself that it would be him: almost in tears, slouching behind the door. But it was just some guy in a tie. “Better not be some damn Mormon or something,” she hissed and opened it, leaving the chain latched. “Hey.”

The man, tall and lanky, deep-set, dark eyes, stared at her for an uncomfortably long moment and then smiled. His teeth were long and as gray as the trench coat he wore, and made for an unsettling look. She almost closed the door, but then he spoke.

“Even after all this time,” his voice seemed to creak like an old hinge, “you girls
still
have a certain smell to you. I
just
realized that. Different than the others here.”

She did go to close the door on the weirdo this time. But his arm snapped from his side and held it open. Angela yelped and tripped back onto her bottom. The man was peering through the few inches of view the chain afforded, his smile broader now. Angela backpedaled and pulled herself to her feet. She ran. The chain snapped.

“You were all so easy to find. Even though he tried to hide you. Your blood told the tale.” Angela looked at her hand. Blood inexplicably gushed from her palm. “I had to make sure it wasn’t a trap. Jonas became known for his chicanery. Ooh, that’s a good word. I like saying that. Chicanery.
Chic, chic, chic.
” His long, pale fingers slid across the wall as he walked. “I did find your Jonas. Not the god our people have built him up to be, but not bad.”

“Stay back!”

Angela gasped, sitting straight up in bed. She reached a numb and shaking hand out for the water bottle lying next to her and started unscrewing the top. “What in
the
hell was that about?” The bottle dropped back to the bed before it reached her mouth. She tried to stand, losing her balance at once, tripping sideways, tumbling out of bed at the sight of an apparition. It was empty-eyed and near translucent, like a signal from another world, standing solemn at the end of her bed. Her eyes widened to full circles and she screamed.

She wanted to run more than she did breathe, but the mere presence of the ghost-like thing held her in place. All that she could think was that she was about to die. She heard herself scream again. Felt bile rising. Her last act on earth would be to throw up on herself before this thing from hell snuffed out her life. It seemed to smile before a bright, bluish sun entered the room, washing out everything, and Angela slipped softly into unconsciousness.

***

Another beep came soon after Jonas got on the road. One more inch of hope. But it seemed like the third should have appeared by now. If she were farther away than the others it would take longer for the device to find her—he knew that. But, how far could she be? He wouldn’t stop thinking about that last dot now—that a missing green dot might represent the loss of one of his girls. No. That wasn’t what he was thinking. The absence of that dot might represent the loss of his flesh and blood.

“They’re okay,” he said. “All of them are fine.” As he spoke, his foot eased down on the gas. He smacked the wheel with the palm of his hand and whined. It was all piling on him. The truth was breaking through. He had missed everything. He had been unable to raise the girls—prepare them. Stranger’s eyes had watched his daughter take her first step, had taught her
their
way to live life. Now, he was the stranger.

The girls were something different than they were supposed to be. They weren’t told the truth. He wished he didn’t have to care; wished he could just work on being happy for them. Happy that they’d spent no time preparing for a war that might or might not come. But, now there was no choice. They were in danger. The war had indeed come.

He tapped at the steering wheel with his thumbs, hunched forward as if it would make the car move faster. The first girl was a mere three streets over now. The houses began to grow taller a few miles back. They were packed together like eggs in a carton, and then they were two story step-children of mansions, complete with pools and the occasional flower-garbed gazebo. He was glad one of his girls had fallen into the lap of luxury. He hoped a sense of humility had survived the fall.

The beeping grew louder and turned into a long, constant drone as he swung into the driveway of a large, grey house. Barberry, as bright and yellow as the sun, marched down the walkway to the front door—a large, mahogany beast which looked as though it might be more comfortable in front of a cathedral.

He was about to bang on the door, but stopped himself. He had no inkling that the creature that had attacked him had even found the girls. The idea struck him that he might have led it right to one of them, but he accepted that was a chance he would take. Knocking as casual as he could muster, Jonas pushed his long, brown hair back and waited. Nothing. He raised a hand to press the orange-glowing doorbell when he froze at a scream from inside.

Grimacing at what might be a mistake, he tried the knob. Open. He rushed inside. The house felt empty. He stopped in the living room, frustrated, unsure where to go. Another scream set him on his way down the hall to his left. A dazzling blue light began to bloom from a room to his right. His chest became heavy, his breath stopped. He was all too familiar with that wretched light, and barreled into the room, slamming against the door, falling in.

The young girl hung, floating, eyes closed, in front of the bed; transparent—being transported already. Her eyes were shut and her red hair flowed slow and soft in the light, like she was under water. The Wraith jerked its head about, giving a hollow laugh.

With a speed that made his eyes ache, the creature was no longer there. All of the light, the imminent battle, gone. Now Jonas was standing in the center of a crushed city. Jonas saw Aern, on his knees, beaten. The memory of the Wraith in the bedroom faded. He smiled at his victory. Finally, after all these… “No.” Anger welled inside of him. “Stop!” Closing his eyes tight, Jonas willed the image away. He pushed at the Wraith from behind its mirage with everything he had. Cords popped on his neck. He would give himself for her. His forehead was poorly formed field rows. Sweat streamed down his face. This thing would die. A part of him, something deep inside of him, wanted to open his eyes again. He wanted to see victory over Aern, even if it were just in his own imagination. But he fought back with the scraps of his mental abilities.

His lip quivered. Pain was having its full say. Since the Fade had cut into him, taken the bulk of his powers, it hurt to use the remains. He could handle short bursts if the battle didn’t last. But that ruckus in the woods had almost done him in and he… Jonas collapsed, and that blue light oozed in around the edges of his closed eyes as he was taken.

SEVEN

J
onas woke with a start. The room he was now in was dim, but he could see he was bound to a vertical wooden post. But the bindings weren’t real—well, as far as your average person counted real. There was no actual rope, but no amount of pulling could make them release their grip. It was all in Jonas’ head. He knew that. He’d encountered them before. But, that didn’t make it any easier for him to convince his eyes that he wasn’t seeing what he was seeing; convince his brain that he wasn’t feeling the binding’s tightness. He was
tied
to the thick wooden post in the middle of what looked like a basement. The room was musty and cool, a broken light bulb hung several feet above his head. It was too dark to make out much of anything else.

He knew that
thing
was toying with him, laughing at him; punishing him for fighting it off earlier. But his nigh useless powers hadn’t been enough the second time, had they? They had failed him when it counted—when one of the girls was involved. He’d just... passed out. His head still throbbed. But the Wraith’s pride would be its downfall. Jonas would get free. He’d dealt with their tricks, gagged on the flavor of their hateful cruelty far too many times to be held for long.

In a way, the
imaginary
ties were worse than real shackles or ropes. They were a puzzle that used your own mind against you. Jonas tried to look away from them. His eyes closed, he repeated over and over that nothing held him, trying to make himself believe it. He pulled his wrists apart and, again and again they were stopped by the imaginary bonds.

“These chains aren’t rea—”
Damn!
His bonds had appeared as thick, spiny ‘rope’ before, but as soon as he’d thought of them as chains, that’s what they’d become—heavy, cold. He felt them weigh down his arms, even heard them clink as they tapped the ground.

The Wraith did so love their mind games. How many times had they squeezed secrets out of people by placing them in those imaginary worlds? The most unfortunate got a nightmare come to life just for a Wraith's pleasure. But the rope thing was their favorite trick when they caught someone by themselves. The few survivors had recounted how they would wake, tied to a stake in the middle of nowhere—or at least that’s what their mind kept telling them. Those poor souls could see the stake and the rope, which looked like they’d come fresh from the hardware store. The unlucky ones would die of dehydration. Never held at all, they’d stay. The mind was a powerful thing. Jonas should know. He used to have a powerful mind. He closed his eyes again, whispering to himself that there were no chains,
or
rope. “Nothing. Holds. Me.”

He stood, confident, but was jerked forward halfway up, banging his head on the rough, wooden post—which was quite real—and sliding back down. His side raked across it hard and fast, pulling at the skin along his ribs; rolling it up like a window shade in painful patches, inserting jagged little spurs of wood into the wounds. Hunched over, tense with pain, roses of blood began to bloom on his shirt. Breath escaped in short bursts as he leaned to that side, letting the worst of it subside. He pushed himself upright, deciding the pain might be a good thing. If he concentrated on the pain, instead of the Wraith’s suggestion he’d been cursed with, he might have a better chance.