Perennial (6 page)

I’m too nervous
about tonight’s trip to Oval City to go home to an empty house, so I drive
through the snobby downtown Beaconsfield shopping area and make an impulsive
decision to stop at Zeppelin Coffee, the small, independent coffeehouse where
Dad buys his fancy coffee-geek beans and accessories. In a city full of
high-end chain stores and expensive boutique shops, Zeppelin Coffee is easily
the coolest retail outlet.

The
downtown streets are old and narrow, paved with newer red bricks that are
supposed to look old but don’t. Despite that poor design decision, downtown
Beaconsfield is actually quite beautiful. Enormous planters overflow with
cascading flowers and hang from every lamppost. Mature trees line the streets.
Old brick structures mix with newer, modern designs, creating a mixed-use area
of high-end residences and ground-floor retail space that draws huge numbers of
shoppers and gawkers from all over metro Detroit. If you could remove all the
arrogant rich people, the place would be perfect.

There’s
never daytime parking available at the metered street spots, so I drive through
a tight alley around back and barely manage to wedge the Explorer into one of
five tiny spots reserved for Zeppelin. Maneuvering an SUV through spaces
originally designed for much smaller vehicles is a real pain sometimes.

It’s
a hot and humid afternoon. Walking through the deserted back lot, I wipe sweat
from my brow and decide I’ll order a large, unsweetened iced coffee. What’s odd
is I’m not a coffee geek at all. I’ve only had a handful of iced coffees in my
life, but for some reason I feel like I’m supposed to be here right now. It’s
as if I’m following somebody else’s program, a feeling I’ve never had before
and suddenly don’t like.

I’m
approaching the shaded, narrow concrete walkway that separates the coffeehouse
from the neighboring building when my attention shifts to a green Dumpster to
my right, directly behind Zeppelin Coffee. The blinding white light and
subsequent vision slice through my mind like the clearest, most vibrant HD film
imaginable.

I
stop in my tracks and place my palms on either side of my head. It all happens
so quickly. It’s new. It’s terrifying. It’s exciting. Imagine a bright
flashbulb filling your head and revealing a crystal-clear display. It’s showing
the future, I realize. Seconds from now. I’m seeing what others can’t.

There’s
a girl hiding behind the Dumpster. I see her in my head. She has no clue I know
this, but she’s waiting for me. She wants to surprise me. Is she a threat? I
can’t tell, but she does seem desperate.

Wait.
There’s more. She’s sick. Really, really sick. She needs help.

I
know who she is. I’ve never seen her face before, but her name pops into my
head after another blast of the mental flashbulb.

“Aruna?”
I say, lowering my hands and preparing to defend myself as I step toward the
Dumpster. There’s still no sign of her, but she’s back there. “Aruna? It’s
okay. You can come out.”

She
stumbles out from behind the Dumpster and nearly falls onto the walkway, before
managing to lean a deathly thin arm against the Dumpster for support. Aruna’s
shoulder-length dark hair is disheveled, matted, and dirty. She’s way too pale.
Her glassy eyes and lack of coordination make it clear she’s in another world,
stoned beyond belief. She’s wearing a wrinkled, black tank top and tight,
tattered black jeans. I see small red marks up and down her arms. Needle marks,
I realize. Right now she’s the most un-Beaconsfield-like creature in
Beaconsfield.

And
this once-beautiful girl is dangerously close to death.

“Hey
there, special new girl,” she says, slurring her words. Her voice is annoyingly
high pitched, and whatever she’s high on makes her giggle at the end of her
sentences. “Face said you’d know who I was.” Another giggle. “But how did you
see me? I thought I was hidden pretty damn well, if I do say so myself.”

I’m
trying to read her and hoping for another vision, but I get nothing. Five feet
separate us. She’s not carrying a bag or any other accessory, and her tight
clothing doesn’t reveal any hidden weapons. Still, her unstable state worries
me, so I clench my fists and keep them at my sides.

Aruna
notices and says, “No, no, no, special girl. You got me all wrong. I’m not here
to fight. You’ll get plenty of that later.” Giggle. “I’m just a messenger. You
know what they say—that thing about not shooting the messenger or whatever.
That’s me, okay?”

“Aruna,
you need help,” I say. “Can I take you to a doctor?”

She
laughs so loudly that I figure it’s only a matter of time before a nearby
employee or resident comes back here.

“Help?”
she says, stifling her laughter. “I’m beyond help, special girl.” She removes
her hand from the Dumpster and manages to stand under her own power, although
she’s swaying badly.

“From
what I’m told, you’ve been missing for two years,” I say. “Isn’t there somebody
you can call? There must be people who care about you and want to know you’re
alive.”

“Shh,
shh, shh,” she says, shaking her head and raising an index finger in front of
her mouth. “Some people prefer not to be found. You know what I mean? Besides,
everybody’s dead to me, special girl. Everybody except Face. Face takes care of
me.” She glances at her toothpick-like arms. “He gives me what I need.”

“My
name’s Alix,” I say. “Alix Keener.”

“Well,
then shut up and listen, Alix Keener.” Giggle. “Face has a message for you.
Stop now and you’ll live. Continue digging and you’ll die.” She smiles,
revealing a set of yellowed and blackened chipped teeth. “They know where you
live, Alix. You live in Willis’s old room. The room he died in.”

The
white light explodes in my head as soon as she mentions his bedroom.
My
bedroom. I see a vision that upsets me, but it occurs to me that this is a
vision of the past, not the future. I see that William and Aruna had a history.
I see them together in his bed, a thin, white sheet covering their sweaty
bodies, the two of them lying on their backs beside each other, smiling and
staring at the ceiling, Aruna’s glazed eyes looking like red spider webs. It’s
obvious what they just finished doing—something I’ve never come close to
doing—but I find it odd that William has his backwards baseball cap and
sunglasses on. I glimpse his tattoos for the first time. William has an ornate,
green, blue, orange, purple, and red Japanese dragon running down the length of
each arm. Each dragon has its open mouth just above his wrist. The dragons are beautiful,
and I wonder how he paid for such quality work.

“Now,
tell me something,” Aruna says, leaning her left arm on the Dumpster again and
ending my vision in the process. She does something different this time though.
I watch closely as her left hand reaches behind the Dumpster and out of view.
“Face says you can talk to the spirits. He says you’ve been talking to Willis.
Is that correct?”

“Aruna,
if you don’t want my help, then I think we’re done here. Would you like me to
tell anybody you’re alive?” I say. “Barely.”

“Oh
my,” she says, laughing loudly again. “The bitch has a sense of humor. I’ll be
sure to let Face know. He’ll like that.” She pauses and somehow manages to hold
my gaze, Aruna not looking as stoned now. “Thing is I know exactly what you’re
thinking, Alix. We all do. You’re thinking you’re safe because of who your
daddy is. You’re thinking if things get too scary, you can just run to Clint
Keener the lawman and turn everything over to him. Truth is you’re nothing but
a bored little virgin schoolgirl who thinks a few visions have made her
invincible and ready for an adventure on the wild side.” She emits a soft grunt
and spits onto the asphalt. “You’re hoping the water doesn’t get too hot, but
honey, let me tell you something: you’re one step away from feeling the boil.
Alix Keener, you will crash and burn to your death if you try to expose,
weaken, or disrupt Perennial in any way.” She brushes a matted clump of sweaty
hair away from her eyes. “And girl, you better believe me when I tell you there
isn’t a damn thing your daddy will be able to do to keep you safe.”

“As
I said, Aruna, it looks like we’re done here.”

I
tighten my fists, sensing she’s about to try something desperate, something
stupid. She’s right, though: part of me does wish either the police or my dad
would show up right now to take her away, but I know that isn’t going to
happen. I’m terrified at the thought of violence, but I’m well aware the road
I’m embarking upon is loaded with it. Right now I’m thankful to Dad for all
those years of self-defense lessons.

“Just
one last thing,” Aruna says, lowering her head and looking sad and exhausted
now, her left hand still hidden as I walk a wide arc to my left to get around
her and onto the path. “Face wants you to have this.”

She’s
barely eight feet away and charges me with surprising speed for a strung-out
druggie, Aruna raising her left arm over her shoulder, sunlight glinting off of
something sharp and shiny in her hand: a knife about seven inches long and
easily capable of ending my life at seventeen. Dad’s fight lessons pay off for
the first time in my life. I don’t have time to think. All I can do is react. I
raise my right arm and chop the outside edge of my hand directly below Aruna’s
knife hand. I have a terrible vision of her future as I deliver a sharp left
jab to her chin. Aruna grunts and hunches over, stunned. Next I grab her left
wrist and the back of her neck and force her out away from me, twisting her
knife-holding hand inward and up, which allows me to bend her left wrist back
as far as I want while simultaneously landing a hard kick to her right knee. Aruna
screams from the pain and drops to her knees, her grasp on the knife easily
weakened enough for me to pry the weapon from her hand. She’s lucky I didn’t
break her left wrist, because that would’ve been my next move if she refused to
release the knife.

I
back off to create some space between us, keeping the silver weapon in my right
hand as Aruna breaks into tears and rolls onto her back. She’s rubbing her
wounded knee with one hand and cradling her aching wrist against her chest. Her
crying turns into childlike wailing. I feel bad for her, but I had to defend
myself.

I
hold the knife behind my back, stand over her, and say, “Aruna, you need to get
away from Face. You tell Face that any man who sends a girl to do his fighting
isn’t a man at all. He’s a pathetic piece of shit.”

“I’m
so sorry, Alix,” she says, genuine terror on her face as her crying stops and
she looks into my eyes. “I mean it. I’m so sorry. He makes me do these things.
But you don’t understand. He has powers too. He does things normal people
can’t. I’m so scared, Alix. I can’t get away. He’ll find me and kill me. The
only way to free me is to kill Face.” She breaks into a fresh round of tears.
“But I don’t think he can die. He’s too different.”

“Did
Face kill William?” I say, noticing a pristine black four-door Mercedes pulling
up and stopping perpendicular to the Zeppelin lot, blocking any chance I have
of getting out of here in the Explorer. Full black tint covers the sedan’s
windows. The vibe coming from this car is one of pure evil, so much so that I
feel the hairs on my arms stiffen and rise. “Hurry, Aruna,” I say, shifting my
gaze between the car and her. “Your ride is here. Did Face kill William?”

“William,”
she says, tilting her head to stare at the car, which just sits there, engine
humming quietly beneath the blazing sun. “God, I’m in so much trouble, Alix.”
She looks at me. “I don’t know how William died, and that’s the honest-to-God
truth. But he’s something, isn’t he? So bad and yet so, so good.” She forces a
smile. “You know what I mean. I can tell. Could you do me a favor and tell him
I said hello and that I miss him and that I’m sorry I lost it?”

“Lost
what?”

The
car engine revs. I’m in no position to challenge this vehicle. Whatever or
whoever is behind those windows holds far more power than I do. So what I do is
walk slowly backwards toward the Dumpster, eyes glued to poor Aruna as she
struggles to her feet and limps slowly toward the Mercedes, where she opens the
driver’s-side back door and collapses into an empty backseat. The door closes
automatically, and the driver pulls quickly away, leaving behind a filthy cloud
of brown dust that blankets my Explorer.

Looking
behind the Dumpster, I find the silver knife’s well-worn black-leather sheath
resting on a rail just beneath the Dumpster’s top hinges, so I sheathe the
knife, slide it into my back pocket, and allow my shirt to fall over it as a
screen.

I’m
coughing from the dust cloud as I walk the narrow path leading to the front of
Zeppelin Coffee.

I’m holding back
tears as I enter Zeppelin Coffee and wait in a short line, heart thumping
wildly. I’m struggling with the overwhelming urge to call Dad’s emergency
number.

What
would I say to him?

“Dad,
a girl who’s been missing for two years just tried to knife me in Beaconsfield
right behind your favorite coffeehouse. Then she got into the back of a
mysterious black Mercedes and drove off. By the way, I’m developing some freaky
psychic abilities and am currently communicating with the ghost of the
beautiful bad boy who died in my bedroom. He needs me to figure out who killed
him, and … oh yeah, the girl who just tried to kill me seems to know all of
this and warned me that Face has powers as well. Speaking of Face, I think he
killed William and runs something called Perennial, whatever that is.”

What
else? Hmm. “Oh, William is a pawn of some guy named Vagabond, who wants to see
if I’m a good enough psychic to gain access into some special club of his.
Also, last but not least, I’m pretty sure Oval City is the epicenter of this
mystery, which of course means I have to go there. Tonight.”

Yeah.
Right.

Dad
has never hit me before, but a psycho rant like that might do the trick. At the
least, Clint Keener—a calm man of reason, a man of the law, a man who firmly
believes that the key to a bright future is a solid education and a willingness
to live according to society’s time-tested rules—would handcuff me and commit
me to the nearest psychiatric facility until the doctors deemed me fit to
reenter the normal world.

But
not everything in the world is normal, Dad. In fact, everything I thought was
normal has blown up in my face in less than forty-eight hours. I’m on my own
undercover investigation now, an otherworldly investigation you would never
understand.

And
this is why I can’t whisper a word to you about my new world.

The
young woman seated at the circular table for two off to my left catches my
attention. She’s sipping a large iced coffee and playing with her phone. She’s
not looking my way, but she’s the reason I’m here. Somehow I know this. She’s
incredibly beautiful too, with rich, deep mocha skin, and long, layered hair.
Her dark clothes are tight but stylish. She looks about my age, maybe a year or
two older. There’s an aura of confidence around her, a type of positive energy
she exudes that makes me want her on my side.

A
flash of light explodes inside my head. Two blurred words in bold black print
hover within the white cloud of light. Her name.

I
leave the line and walk over to her. She knows I’m two feet away but still
pretends not to notice.

“Excuse
me,” I say. She looks up from her phone with big brown eyes that have surely
melted more than a few men. “I’d like you to know that you have the coolest
name I’ve ever heard.”

“Is
that right?” she says, smiling. “And what is my name?”

“London,”
I say. “London Steel.”

“Get
your coffee and sit down, Alix. Vagabond says congratulations, by the way.”

“For
knowing your name?”

“No,”
she says, “for passing your first test back there.”

She doesn’t say
anything for a few minutes, just keeps typing away on her phone. I sit there,
sipping my iced coffee, feeling the uncomfortable pressure of Aruna’s knife in
my back pocket. The place is busy and loud now, adults and teenagers dropping
in for late-afternoon drinks. I realize Dad could walk in any minute, meaning I
should get rid of this knife as soon as possible.

“I’m
sorry,” London finally says, forcing herself to pocket her phone. “I blog a
lot. It’s kind of addictive.”

“No
problem,” I say. “What do you blog about?”

“Good
question,” she says, mulling it over. “I guess you can call me an Internet job
recruiter. I’m a type of headhunter, as adults in the business world call it.
Special jobs for only the most highly qualified people.”

“People
like me.”

“It’s
looking good so far,” she says. “What you did back there was impressive. Being
an effective psychic is rare enough, but where’d you learn to fight like that?”

“My
dad’s a cop.”

“Ah,”
she says. “That would explain it.” London smiles.

I
smile back. “Was that even Aruna back there?”

“Oh,
it was definitely Aruna. Poor thing.” London shakes her head. “We knew Face had
her. We just didn’t know if she was dead or alive.” She raises her eyebrows.
“Now we know.”

“She’s
in danger.”

“Aren’t
we all?”

“That’s
not what I mean,” I say. “I had a horrible vision when I first made physical
contact with her during the fight.” I swallow hard and promise myself to hold
back the tears. “She’ll die soon. It’ll be Face, and it won’t be pretty.”

London,
serious now, says, “I know your abilities are new to you, Alix, as in two-days
new, but is there anything you can do to save her?”

“No,”
I say. “I saw her dead. I saw Face standing over her. That means he’ll kill
her. Just because I can see the future doesn’t mean I can change it.”

“What
else did you see that involved her?”

“I
knew she was behind the Dumpster. I knew when she was about to attack.” I
pause. “And I saw her in bed with William just before he died.”

“Whoa,”
she says, raising her hands as if they’re stop signs. “You saw a
past
event too?”

“Yes,”
I say. “It surprised me. Actually, everything’s surprised me lately.”

“Wow,”
she says. “No wonder Vagabond’s interested in you. A brilliant young mind and a
two-way psychic who can kick ass when she needs to.” She laughs. “That’s hot,
girl.” She raises a hand for a high five across the table, which I gladly give
her.

“When
will I meet him?”

“Vagabond?”
she says. “That’s up to him. Right now, though, I want you to take my hand and
hold it.” She lays her strong right arm on the table. I stare at it before
glancing around the coffeehouse. Nobody is watching us. “It’s okay, Alix,” she
says, sensing my nervousness. “You can trust me, and you know it. Hold my hand
and tell me what you see.”

She
wears a shiny but simple silver ring on her right ring finger. I sense there’s
something special about it, so I make a point of pressing my palm against it as
I wrap my right hand around hers and rest it in the center of the table. We
stare at each other, London’s gaze intense now. At first I can’t get a reading,
just strange warmth from the ring and incredible strength in her elegant hand.
She works a lot with her hands, I realize, but I don’t know what kind of work
she does.

Moments
later the mental flashbulb fills my head with brilliant white light. Seconds
after that, images, footage, and words about the life of London Steel overload
my brain. It’s the strongest reading yet, which is exactly why she gave me her
hand. The power is greater with physical contact. I experienced that with Aruna
as well. I tell myself to harness the power and understand it.

Don’t
run from it. Embrace it and think of yourself as a messenger of good
.

The
reading on London is amazing but terrifying. Sometimes I see what amount to
short video clips of a past or future event, always sharp and clear, often
violent, never more than a few seconds in length. Sometimes a series of vivid
but bizarre battle images shoot through my mind like a high-speed slide show.
Other times I see what I begin calling “word clouds,” like I did with her name
and Aruna’s, the words always slightly blurry and printed in bold black against
a white background.

I’m
crying. I feel warm tears rolling gently down the sides of my face. What I’m
seeing is a violent fantasy world of fire and light, a world of fabulous human
warriors and hideous, grotesque shape-shifting demons, the two sides engaged in
an epic struggle to defeat each other.

“It’s
okay,” London whispers. “It’s hard. I know. Just take it all in and observe.
Don’t react. Observe. It’s all real, and you’re becoming part of it.”

The
vision ends, but fear keeps me holding her hand. I wipe tears away with my free
hand as words begin flowing out of me almost automatically, like a
well-rehearsed script.

“London
Steel is your real name,” I say, trying to regain my composure. “You’re
nineteen and from Canada.” I scrunch my nose. “Canada. Eww. Sorry about that.”

“Ha!”
she says. “London, Ontario, believe it or not. Anyway, nice one. Keep going.”

I
squeeze harder. She does the same.

“You’re
very into genealogy,” I continue. “Your family history in the US dates back to
the so-called lost colony of Roanoke in what is today North Carolina. Before
that, West Africa and Europe. The ugly institution of American slavery had a
huge impact on your family.”

“Excellent,”
she says. “What else?”

“The
silver ring on your hand.”

“Damn,
you are good.” She smiles. “What about my ring?”

“I’m
not sure exactly,” I say, telling the truth. “It’s powerful. Other members of
your family have worn it in the past, but not everybody. It’s like you have to
qualify for it somehow. But it’s not always a good thing. Sometimes you hate
the ring, but most of the time you can’t imagine life without it. Other
families have rings too, but not many. I’ll never have one, and I’m glad.” I
pause and fight off more tears. “The ring allows access to another world.
You’ve done horrible things, London, but only because you’ve had to. You’re
some sort of warrior,” I say, shaking my head slowly. “Nobody would ever guess
it by looking at you, but you’ve killed before. Many times. There’s plenty of
blood and gore in your recent past. And future, I’m afraid. But deep down you
like it. You love the thrill of battle. The taste of it. The smell of it.
Everything.” I pull my hand away, exhale deeply, and lean back in my chair.
“That’s enough,” I say. “What the hell was all that about?”

“You
just passed another test,” she says, retrieving her phone. “And with flying
colors, I should add.” London leans across the table and motions me forward. I
lean toward her, and in a whisper she says, “I sure hope you solve William’s
murder, Alix, because you’re incredibly gifted, and I would love to work with
you. You just read me like a book and got a glimpse of what my real job is.”
She smiles. “You can help us in so many ways. There are sacrifices involved,
but it’s Vagabond’s job to explain all that.” She places her right palm on my
left cheek in an almost-motherly way. The warmth of the silver ring feels
pleasant against my skin. “I wish I could help you in Oval City, but this is
your test. You’re on your own. Evil isn’t just somebody who does a very bad
thing. Evil is much deeper than that. You know that from what you just saw.”
She lowers her ring hand and squeezes my left hand with the kind of strength
guys never dreamed girls could have. “Oval City is evil, Alix. That’s why bad
things happen there. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“Yes,”
I say, nodding. “I’m scared, London.”

“I
know,” she says. “There’s nothing wrong with being scared. I’m scared every
day. Vagabond says courage is being scared to death of something but
confronting it anyway.” She pauses. “Trust your abilities, but don’t trust anything
or anybody else.”

“Okay,”
I say. “Thank you, London.”

“I’ll
say the last part again,” she says. “Don’t trust anything or anybody else.
Anybody
.”
She stands, pushes her chair in, and grabs her clear plastic drink cup. “I know
you’ll do great,” she adds, smiling and laying a hand on my shoulder. “Good
luck.”

“Here,”
I say, covertly retrieving Aruna’s silver knife from my back pocket and palming
the sheath as I offer it to London. “Take this. You’re the warrior. Not me.”

“Actually,
I think you should keep that,” she says, pushing my hand back toward me. “It
might come in handy. Besides, my personal arsenal is good to go.” She winks.
“Good-bye, Alix, but not for long. We’ll see each other soon under very
different circumstances. I just know it.”

I turn in my
chair and watch London Steel exit Zeppelin Coffee. She moves with the
confidence of a runway supermodel, the only difference between her and a
supermodel being she doesn’t look like she has an eating disorder. What I find
funny is that every male in here is basically foaming at the mouth as they
watch her leave.