Awoken (7 page)

Michael froze.

“Does that upset you? Well, my father always said a liar’s life is one of disappointment.” Smiley leaned in close to Michael and whispered into his ear like a dark, midnight wind. “A little black bird told me a cat died in your yard, amigo. You’re a liar, Michael Stevens.”

Michael’s heart skipped a beat. Smiley knew his name.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, come on,” said Smiley. “Tell Uncle Nabal your little secrets.” The friendly drawl deepened into an animal-like growl. “What do you know? What are they hiding?”

“Nothing!”

“Your choice, amigo.” Smiley pulled a steel-cased syringe from his pocket. “We’ll just continue this conversation somewhere more private. We wouldn’t want people to get the wrong idea.”

They were going to drug him!

Michael’s pounding heart went into overdrive. The point of the syringe hit his bicep, and then snapped off with a tinny
ping
.

Smiley’s grin faltered. “What the h—?”

The stonesong surged. “Get away from me!” Michael roared.

The sidewalk fractured with a sound like a gunshot, and the ground leapt up beneath Smiley’s feet, catapulting him into the nearby parked car with enough force to dent the fender.

Michael’s sunglasses shattered, and silver tendrils of light burst from his eyes and body, setting the sidewalk alight. He was the pavement, the street and the sidewalk. Water lines were numb slivers in his flesh; the crisscrossing sewers, a gaping emptiness in his belly.

“This is unit four. Come in, control!” A hissing geyser fanned up from the sidewalk next to Skullface, drenching him as he shouted into his collar and pressed a bony finger to his ear. “We have a priority one situation. Requesting immediate instructions!”

“My, my, Michael, you do have a secret.” Grinning, Smiley pushed himself away from the dented car. “I’ve seen the eyes before, but the lights?” He whistled loudly. “Now, that’s something new. Have to say, though, you don’t look so hot. You feeling okay, or are you a mite dizzy?”

Michael narrowed his silver eyes. “Stay away from me. Don’t make me hurt you.” The ground trembled anew, but less than before. His vision blurred.

Smiley shook his head. “You’re kind of new to this, am I right?”

The silver light flickered around him, and then winked out completely. Michael staggered.

“See? I know a thing or two about secrets, Michael. For instance…” Smiley reached up for his sunglasses, but a skeletal hand closed on his wrist.

“Get in the car.” Skullface pulled Smiley’s hand away from his glasses. “We’re leaving.”

Smiley shook free of the thin man’s hold. “Are you insane? You saw what the kid did. The doctor—”

“Has ordered us to disengage,” Skullface finished. Walking over to the dented sedan, he opened the driver’s side door. “These are direct orders, Nabal. We disengage. Get in.”

“What’s going on out here?” Mrs. Finche called from across the street. The old woman had a dirty spade in her hand, and she waved it furiously as she hobbled toward them. She must have heard the gunshot crack of shattered sidewalk from her backyard garden and come down the block to investigate. “Is that you, Michael?”

Michael tried to answer her, but all that came out was a dry rasp. Dizziness and nausea had robbed him of his voice as well as his strength.

Smiley looked from Mrs. Finche to Michael. “Saved by the hag, amigo. Oh, well.” Stepping away, he opened the passenger door and climbed inside. “Be seeing you real soon, amigo. Count on it.”

Michael’s response was to noisily vomit on the sidewalk.

Smiley laughed. Skullface gunned the engine, and the car sped away.

Michael watched the car until Mrs. Finche’s wrinkled face blocked his view.

“It
is
you, Michael,” she exclaimed. She had a smudge of dirt on her nose. “Are you all right?”

Michael rubbed his churning stomach. “I feel a little sick, but I’ll be okay.”

Mrs. Finche nodded to the geyser spraying up from the sidewalk. “I believe we’ve got a busted water main. My goodness, just look at this mess.”

Leaning a little to the left so he could look past Mrs. Finche, Michael caught sight of Smiley’s car turning a corner farther up the street.

Mrs. Finche tapped the spade against her cheek, oblivious to the mud deposited in its wake. “An earthquake, do you think?”

“Earthquake?” Michael muttered absently. Smiley had known his name.

“I’ll bet that was an earthquake,” Mrs. Finche asserted. “All that rumblin’ underfoot near shook my carrots right up out the ground. Near gave me a coronary ta’ boot!”

His stomach was feeling better, good enough to get home, anyway. But what then? Smiley knew about the cat. Probably about the dollmen, too. He’d seen Michael’s silver eyes and witnessed the stonesong in action.

“An earthquake, in Flintville of all places,” Mrs. Finche gushed. She lifted the spade to her brow, shielding her eyes from the sun. “Is that Emmitt Jenkins coming out of his house? Sure, it is. Emmitt, get your carcass back in there and call the mayor! We got us an earthquake to report!”

Michael glanced down at his feet and spied the broken syringe lying on the grass. Why try to drug him? What did Smiley want?

A rickety old man came down from a porch two houses away. Cane in hand, he hobbled toward them with a sour look on his face. “An earthquake?” he blustered. “Have you finally gone senile, Judith? There’s nothing out here but a busted water main. I heard the pipe rupture clear in the living room.”

Mrs. Finche glared at the old man. “You’re the one who’s daft, Jenkins. Was a quake, I tell you. Ask the Wiffles’ boy if you don’t believe me.”

Emmitt shook his cane like an unruly snake. “You don’t think I know the difference between a water main and an earthquake? Let me tell you, I—”

“I have to go,” blurted Michael.

Mrs. Finche gasped and dropped her spade as he rushed past her. He didn’t stop to pick up the garden implement as he sprinted for home.

Smiley had known his name, and that meant he probably knew where he lived. He’d only been a block from home when Smiley stopped him.

In seconds, he was cutting across the Wiffles’ driveway and up the porch. Flinging open the door, he burst into the living room. “Mr. and Mrs. Wiffle? Is anyone here?”

Barbara stepped out of the kitchen, a dishrag in one hand and a bottle of glass cleaner in the other. “Karl’s still at work, dear. Dear you hear that crash? Was there an accident?”

Michael ignored the question, slumping against the door in relief. Everything was okay. Smiley and his goon hadn’t been here yet. He still had time.

Barbara gave him a puzzled look. “Are you all right, dear?”

Michael forced a smile. “I’m just a little winded, Mrs. Wiffle. The library was closed. So I decided to run back.”

“In this heat?” Barbara clucked her tongue. She seemed to have already forgotten questioning Michael about the noise outside, which was fine, since he had no good answer to give her. “You’re going to end up with heatstroke if you’re not careful.”

“Yeah, it was kind of hot today.” Michael reached behind him and quietly engaged the deadbolt. “I’m beat. I think I’ll take a nap, if that’s okay with you.”

Barbara waved her rag at him and went back into the kitchen. “As long as you’re down here for dinner, dear.”

“No problem.”

The time had come to leave Flintville. Smiley was coming for him, not the Wiffles. Michael wasn’t about to let them get hurt trying to protect him.

“That reminds me,” Barbara called after him. “I was planning on making my meatloaf tonight, but you didn’t seem to care for it much last time. Did you want me to make something else?”

Michael stopped at the bottom of the stairs. He still had to wait until dark before he left. “Meatloaf would be great, Mrs. Wiffle. In fact, how about I hold off on the nap and help you with dinner?”

Barbara’s surprised face popped out of the kitchen into the living room. “That would be wonderful, Michael. And call me Barbara.”

“Sorry, Mrs.…Barbara.”

He really didn’t like meatloaf, but he didn’t want to spend the time he had left with Barbara cooped up in his room. After supper, in the dark and whether the Wiffles were asleep or not, he was leaving. As he stepped into the kitchen, a crow cawed. The bird sounded close.

Barbara looked toward the patio door and grimaced. “Do you hear that? To tell you the truth, I’ve always hated those filthy birds. My grandmother used to call them the Devil’s eyes.”

The crow cawed again, and the stonesong twitched.

“Maybe she was right,” Michael said quietly.

“Heaven forbid.” Barbara wiped her hands on her apron. “Now, how about we get started on that meatloaf?”

Michael nodded and pretended not to notice the continued cawing outside. He was leaving tonight. He only hoped he was not too late.

During supper, Karl remarked on the broken sidewalk and made mention of Mrs. Finche’s earthquake theory. This provoked a lively discussion concerning flagging city maintenance, as well as the potential mental hazards of spending too much time around garden pesticides.

Aside from an occasional nod, Michael stayed out of the discussion. Mrs. Finche hadn’t mentioned seeing him at the broken sidewalk when she’d spoken to Karl. The old woman had probably forgotten about him completely in all the excitement. That was fine. Her senility kept him from having to give his own eyewitness account of the accident.

After supper, he helped clean the dishes and said goodnight to the Wiffles.

“Goodnight, dear,” Barbara said. “Thanks again for all your help tonight.”

Karl lowered the newspaper he was reading to give Michael an approving nod. “You should get out again tomorrow. Fresh air looks to have agreed with you.”

“Thanks, Mr. Wiffle. Goodnight.”

Michael left the kitchen and hurried upstairs. The dark had come, and though he had no money and no idea where he was going, he was leaving.

Once in his room, he pulled his backpack out from under the bed and began to remove his sheets. There was a long drop from the window to the deck, but tying the sheets together would make a serviceable rope. A shadow moved across his mattress.

“Take it out,” someone growled behind him.

Smiley!

He dove across the bed, but something snagged his collar, jerking him back and throwing him to the floor. A dainty foot pressed down on his chest, pinning him in place.

Michael’s jaw dropped. “Lina?”

The green-eyed girl from the park glared down at him. “You remember my name. That’s peachy. I remembered yours, too. Did you think I wouldn’t find you?” Dressed in a sleeveless blue hoody and blue jeans, she looked paler than he remembered, almost sickly, and there were long streaks of silver in her coal-black hair.

“Are you crazy?” Michael pushed at Lina’s foot, but she didn’t budge. “What are you doing here? How did you get in my room?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Well, I’m kind of in a hurry. Could you let me up?”

Lina shook her head. “Not until you tell me how to get it out.”

A crow cawed, and Michael looked fearfully toward the window. The Ven would be coming soon, them or Smiley. To keep the Wiffles safe, he needed to be gone when they got here. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. And I don’t care. Just let me up.”

Lina shoved her palm an inch from his nose. “I’m talking about this.” Covered in a lattice of silvery metal, a clear jewel glittered in the center of her palm. “I’m talking about your stupid necklace.”

“The waystone,” Michael breathed. He looked closer. The pendant seemed to have fused with Lina’s skin. “Oh man, this can’t be good.”

Lina’s foot pressed down on his sternum, and his ribs creaked. “Tell me how I get this thing out,” she said.

Michael groaned and pushed up against her foot, but the skinny girl weighed a ton. He couldn’t move her. “You’re hurting me, Lina.”

“Then tell me how to get it out.”

“I don’t know how,” Michael said. “You weren’t even supposed to have the waystone. Arghh!”

Lina leaned closer, pressing harder on his chest. “Take it out.”

Unable to move, Michael felt panic welling up inside him. Slight as she was, Lina might not even realize she was crushing him. He tried to tell her, but he couldn’t breathe. A creeping darkness closed in on his vision.

“Release the Awoken, thief,” said a gravelly voice. “Or this one shall kill you.”

The suffocating weight abruptly lifted from Michael’s chest, and he gulped in fiery breaths of air.

Her gaze locked on the window, Lina backed toward the bedroom door.

“What is that?” she asked.

Crouched upon the windowsill like a pale gargoyle, a dollman glared at her with gleaming mercury eyes. “You shall not harm the Awoken, thief. This one will not permit you.”

Lina swallowed nervously and looked down at Michael. “What is that thing?”

“Relax.” Michael sat up. He paused to cough and clear his throat. “Relax, Lina. He’s just a dollman.”

“A what?”

Michael rubbed his aching chest with the flat of his hand. “A dollman, one of the good guys…I think.” He sighed and pushed himself to his feet. “I swear it’s frigging Grand Central Station in here tonight.”

“Does he bite?” Lina asked nervously.

“Only cats, that I’ve seen. Sounds like he’s willing to make an exception in your case.” Michael rubbed his chest again and gave her a sour look. “To tell you the truth, I just might let him. You could have killed me.” He turned to the dollman. “What took you so long? I thought you were coming back when things were safe.”

The dollmen hopped down from the sill. His claws scritch-scritched against the floor as he trotted over to the bed. “This one followed the thief, Awoken. The Fallen are near. The People must retrieve the waystone and flee.”

Lina began to look more confused than afraid. “What’s he talking about, Mike? And why does he keep calling me a thief?”

The dollman bared his glassy fangs at her. “Return what was stolen, thief. The waystone is of the People, birthright of the Awoken.”