About the Dark (4 page)

In a minute, I heard a key grinding against
the steel innards of our lock. Two turns. Then a sharp click of the
bolt retracting. I glanced through the eyes of a god out there in
the mall and saw how two of his comrades, already grown to their
divine proportions, pressed their shoulders against the behemoth of
our door and began pushing. The door crawled an inch. The hinges
shrilled and groaned, and the bottom of the steel slab grated
against the floor. The gods cursed.

When the door was half-open, they entered,
six giants dressed in black polyester tracksuits stretched to the
breaking point. Their handguns, ridiculously miniscule in their
cabbage-sized fists, were pointed at our heads. No, I wasn’t
looking at them through anyone’s eyes—I’d seen all of this enough
times before—and my mind itched to slip back into the library, but
I willed it to stay, because today, tonight, we were doing the
craziest thing possible: we were trying to break out of here.
Without having come into our gifts. Or in Sinna’s case, without
having mastered his gift. I didn’t believe we had a chance in hell,
but Fox had decided we would try, and so we were going to. And now,
as per our escape plan—or rather Escape Plan, because the way Fox
and Demi talked about it, even blind, I was practically able to see
capital Es and Ps coming out of their mouths every time they’d said
those words—anyway, according to the Plan, I had to chat up Rig,
one of our guards who was also a vile animal that liked to hit me.
The very thought of talking to him filled me with dread and
disgust, but Fox coughed, and I forced my lips into the coquettish
smile he had taught me. I raised my eyebrows to seem lighthearted,
the way Demi had instructed me. From Fox’s sideways glance, I knew
that instead of cute and carefree, I looked like I was suffering
from a rabid toothache, but my muscles seized up. Well then, here
goes.

“Rig,” I said sweetly, making sure he could
see at least half of my smile since I didn’t dare to turn around
all the way, “how—”

I stumbled in my speech, because a series of
elephantine steps echoed through the mall. My arms dropped. Who on
earth could be tromping out there when all of our guards were
inside this store?

“Keep your friggin’ arms up,” Rig growled at
me.

I flinched at being ordered around like a
dog, but with a few guns aimed at me, I didn’t have much choice. I
could follow his command slowly, though. Pausing every second, I
was still lifting my arms when our door screeched again, crawling
open a bit wider, and in marched four more gods. These ones were
dressed way fancier than our regular guards—no tacky polyester
tracksuits there, but expensive leather coats, crisp white shirts,
and silk ties. One guy even had a hat, a black fedora, pushed deep
onto his fleshy forehead. Their guns were not the usual Sig 220s
either, but some special affairs, big and sleek, with triggers that
were actually enlarged for gods’ massive fingers. To top it all,
two of the newcomers had flamethrowers slung over their
shoulders.

My heart felt like a lump of ice that was too
big for its niche in my chest. Had our guards somehow learned that
we were going for a breakout tonight? Was this the
reinforcement?

Before I could freak out any more, two
normal-sized people walked in on nearly silent feet. A man and a
woman. Or, to be precise, the other way around: first, a
middle-aged, medium-height woman and then a man walking strictly
behind her back. Since I hadn’t seen many women here, I gawked at
this one through Rig’s eyes. Fleshless and spindly, she reminded me
of a dried-up butterfly, but a butterfly with the terrible past,
for the woman’s face had no smile lines. Her dull brown hair
flopped listlessly over her shoulders, her gray eyes stared into
space, and her baggy, mud-colored pantsuit hung crumpled off her
bony shoulders. In her pale fingers she clutched what constituted
the only bright spot on her figure: a dazzlingly white plastic
folder.

I wondered what her gift was. It couldn’t be
godliness—she was much too scrawny for that, and besides, her suit
didn’t seem like it could stretch. And it wasn’t anything connected
with grace or dance because she slouched. And there was no way she
could be a color—if she were, I was sure she would have changed
that drab hair color to something more interesting. Well, maybe her
gift was holding something tightly, I joked to myself, because the
woman was clasping that thick folder with more feeling than there
was in the rest of her body. Which all of a sudden made me wonder
if her indifference was just a pretence.

Since I couldn’t infer anything else about
the woman, I abandoned Rig’s eyes and found a different pair of
peepers. These were aimed at her male companion, and when I saw
him, I barely managed to choke off a shriek. Because it was Don
Horgreth, the Permanent President of the United States and the man
on whose orders I’d been locked in here for fifteen years. After a
moment of breathless rage, I exhaled. Horgreth would pay for my
suffering, and soon, but today—what was this jerk doing here?

Standing behind the butterfly woman, Horgreth
seemed to be casually waiting for someone to come or something to
happen. His posture relaxed, even nonchalant, he rocked on the
balls of his feet, now glancing at the ceiling, now at the tops of
his gray loafers. He intertwined his plump, short fingers…very
young fingers, by the way. And his face—I realized it only now—his
face looked much too young for a guy in his forties. No, really,
Horgreth looked like a smiley teenage model from a clothing ad,
except that instead of faded jeans and a tight T-shirt, he was
wearing a dark gray designer’s suit.

After another minute of dallying and playing
with his cufflinks shaped like severed hands, Horgreth stepped out
from behind the woman. There was certainty, almost finality in his
manner, as if whatever he’d waited for had arrived. “Turn around
slowly,” he said in a low, raspy voice…finally something that
seemed right for his age.

I whirled to face him.

“Didn’t you hear him, bitch? He said,
‘Slowly,’” Rig snapped, his open-palmed hand shooting toward my
head, but stopping midway, maybe because the god wasn’t sure if
Horgreth would approve of his hitting me.

Fox, Demi, and Sinna did a shuffling
about-face. Now they saw Horgreth too, and all of them managed to
stay calm, I mean, more or less, because Demi did snarl quietly,
and Fox’s hands curled into fists.

Horgreth studied us with light-hearted
disinterest. It was as though he’d much rather be somewhere else,
and yet, for all his nonchalance, when his cursory gaze reached
Fox’s right cheekbone, it stopped and hardened, as I’d feared it
would, because there Fox had tattooed my name. I’d begged him not
to. Everyone who joined Horgreth had to tattoo DH on their right
cheekbones, and while Fox didn’t and, I knew, wouldn’t work for
that firm, Horgreth expected that from all of us; hence, our
cheekbones were his territory. But Fox had been adamant—he’d said
he belonged to nobody but me—and now, upon reading Fox’s cheekbone,
Horgreth transformed: his youth and cheer fell away, the pleasant
roundness of his face melted, and instead it was the mug of an
ageless and cruel shark.

When Bones, one of our regular guards, saw
Horgreth’s face, he shrank by at least a foot and dived into
fibbing, “Sir, don’t think nothing. We found the tool the kid used.
For the tat. We took it away. It’s all under control.”

Rig gave a look of scorching hatred to Fox.
“No, it ain’t. And we didn’t find what he used for the tat, not
really. We just had our guesses. And besides, that brat can turn
air into a weapon. He’s a sneaky one. We should waste ’im, we
should.”

Before such stupidity, Bones turned the color
of raw egg white and crumpled the paper bag with our food for the
day.
Pop
went something in there, and brown liquid—soup to
all appearances—leaked out of every seam. Bones squatted to set the
bag on the floor and didn’t get up again, probably fearing his legs
would fold if he tried to.

This small scene between Rig and Bones must
have reminded Horgreth to keep his outward cool because he was all
breeziness again. “My worst investment. Four kids who cost me a
fortune, and not one of them come into their gift yet. What a
waste!”

The butterfly woman made a move to speak, but
he gestured for her to stay silent.

“Show me your wrists,” he rasped in our
direction.

Since I’d promised to behave, I truly meant
to do what Horgreth had ordered, just not right away. Maybe I’d be
the second to do it, or the third, and yet, one by one, Fox, Sin,
and Demi turned their hands palms up and stretched them out and
waited—and I still dawdled. Fox’s jaws clenched. His face started
to look like a hilly landscape, and I gave up: I flipped my hands
over.

Fifteen years ago, right after we’d been
brought into this mall, the traffickers had labeled us: name
tattooed on one thigh, gift on the other. Later, for ease, they had
done the same with our wrists, and now Horgreth was gliding along
our line, reading our gifts out loud: “Nightmare, death, time.”

He halted in front of me and read my wrist in
a hoarse whisper, “Heart.” He squinted at me. “The deadliest talent
of all. Being able to channel any feeling into any person anywhere
in the world. Some say it’s not an absolute power. They say hearts
can’t create worlds or raise the dead. Bullshit. It doesn’t matter
what you
can
do as long as everyone
believes
you can
do anything, my all-powerful one.” The man’s expression didn’t
change, but his voice couldn’t hide his furious hunger, and I knew
he really wanted to be here. But why? It wasn’t like I’d come into
my gift. I couldn’t even sense other people’s feelings, much less
channel anything.

Horgreth leaned closer to me. “Or rather an
almost
absolute power. Do you know what can stop you, little
heart?”

“Yeah, sure. A taker,” I said. “But only for
a few seconds.”

“Which is indefinitely if that taker stays
with you,” Horgreth corrected me, then asked casually, “What would
you channel, little thing, if you knew how?”

The question caught me off guard. Of course,
for years I’d fantasized about what I would do to the gods and
above all to Horgreth if I actually could impart feelings to
people, but I’d never thought I would be asked that by Horgreth
himself. And since I didn’t want to tell him the truth, I had to
come up with a plausible lie right under his nose. I took a breath
of our stale air and said what I thought he’d expected me to, “I
would flood you with pain and keep you under till you went mad, and
then I’d slit your throat with a knife I would take from one of
your bodyguards, and then I’d leave this place.”

Horgreth gave me a taut smile, but I couldn’t
tell if he believed me. Well, if he was smart, he would know I’d
lied. Because why would I need pain? It was useless. If I made
everyone writhe in torment, there’d be no one to open the steel
door for me, or to find me a car, or to drive that car where I
needed to go. No, if I really could do any heart-bending, I would
make those gods adore me—then they would do everything I
wanted.

By now, all of the guards were pointing their
weapons at my head. One had even traded his gun for his
flamethrower.

Horgreth tilted his head in the woman’s
direction. “Doctor Liddell, do
you
know how the boy got the
tattoo on his cheek?”

She gripped her folder with what seemed like
desperation. “Not exactly, sir, no. But I believe he used a shard
of a brick.”

Horgreth scoffed. “And where did he get
ink?”

“I do not have this information, sir.” With
that, she made a step backward, away from Horgreth and us and
closer to the door. If Horgreth noticed this, he didn’t show
it.

“Hmm, quite a security I have here,” he
muttered.

“Sir!” Bones scrambled to his feet. “Sir, you
needn’t worry. It’s all secure in here. The door weighs half a ton,
and the lock can’t be picked. You must have a key. And we got dogs
yesterday. Rottweilers. The best of the best. They’ll rip you up in
a flash.”

Horgreth exhaled a little more forcefully
than before, and Bones swayed. “I mean not you specifically, sir. I
mean the children and…” He trailed off, sweat pouring down his
cheeks.

Horgreth shrugged. “The dogs, the doors, and
the idiots guarding it—none of that will be enough when this little
girl starts channeling. Doctor Liddell, you said she was coming
into her gift, didn’t you?”

“Yes, sir, I did,” the butterfly woman
replied with a sudden firmness.

“What—” I began, but Fox elbowed me to keep
my mouth shut.

“Doctor,” Horgreth commanded, “show me.”

The woman opened her folder. “Mr. Rig…” She
looked at the god by my side. “You’re Mr. Lewis C. Rig,
correct?”

The man scratched his cheek. “Yeah. So?”

“Mr. Rig, you have been working here for the
last five years. Is that correct?”

The god glanced at Horgreth and must have
decided to suck up to his boss. “Yeah, that’s right, lady. Great
job. Great pay. And it’s quiet here.”

The woman nodded. “Yes, naturally, a man of
twenty-eight wants nothing more than a quiet life. However, last
week you were offered a position in the Secret Services of the
United States. Your salary would have been doubled. You declined.
Why?”

The god wrinkled his bulbous nose. “Mmm…”

Dr. Liddell didn’t wait. “Mr. Rig, I’m going
to read to you the report you submitted for my perusal
yesterday.”

The man blinked. “Your what?”

Ignoring the question, Dr. Liddell started
reading the top sheet in her folder, “‘December 24. Thursday. Demi
okay, Sin okay, Fox okay, Ever-Jezebel…’” She inhaled sharply.
“‘Ever-Jezebel sulks. Wouldn’t talk to me. Just stares. Don’t know
what she eats—the gal’s too skinny. And tired. Couldn’t stand up,
that’s how tired she was. And it’s like that every day. Why’s she
always tired? Got a scratch on her left foot and a long rip on her
skirt. Wouldn’t tell me what happened. Asked her if Fox did it, but
she just sits and tears those ruffles on her dress into ribbons.
She…’ Well, it goes on for two more pages. What’s more, every
single report I have received from Mr. Rig in the last month is
preoccupied with this child.” She raised her eyes at the guard.
“Mr. Rig, do you care to explain why I never hear about scratches
on the other children’s feet? Or rips on their clothes?”