Darkness Calls (38 page)

The old man held up his wrinkled hands. “See how transient is the flesh? How it passes from life to death? I have been reborn again and again. I have fallen into the wombs of human mothers, thousands and thousands of mothers—good mothers, bad mothers—from poverty to royalty to divinity—and I have done so without my memories. I have done this with all that I am, hidden from me. Because, if you are going to live as human, then you must
live
. Surrender yourself to the experience, unconditionally, so that you exist as you were meant to—in the moment, purely yourself, shaped and molded by experiences that are raw as mortality allows. So that when you do remember who you are, you remember humility, as well. Humility and compassion . . . and love.”

He closed his hands into fists, and shook his head. “He who called himself Mr. King, my brother, never understood that. Never understood that to be a true master of the Divine Organic was to become what we create, in every way. Not simply to ape it, like ghosts within puppets, but instead to learn, and become
more
.” Bitterness twisted his mouth. “Many still believe as he did. Simply to take and take, and nothing more.”

And they’ll be coming here next,
I thought grimly—though that was all I had time to consider. I heard a distinctive clicking sound outside the bedroom. Heat spread through my heart—my tugging, aching heart—and I struggled to sit up as the door pushed open, and golden lamplight spilled inside.

Grant limped into the bedroom, pausing briefly on the threshold to stare at me. He was pale, but not packed-on-ice pale, with a healthy look in his eyes that had been missing for days. He leaned hard on his cane, but the rest of him was straight and strong, and even from the bed, I could smell my shampoo on his damp hair. He wore loose black sweats and a dark green sweatshirt. Around his neck hung his mother’s golden pendant.

He stared, and a rushing warmth moved through me—between us—so strong, so real, I found myself touching the air in front of me, imagining I might find something solid linking our bodies. Grant smiled faintly, and a pulse flowed through my chest—the echo of his heartbeat.

“Hey,” he said, limping close. “Get back under the covers.”

A shadow appeared behind him. Mary. White hair wild, and dressed in another kooky dress covered in giant orange cats. Only this time, she wore a wide leather belt, the kind used to support someone’s back while lifting heavy machinery. It looked old-fashioned, perhaps found amongst the machinery in the basement, but it emphasized her slenderness; and the long white cardigan draped over her slender frame like a cloak. It should have been a ridiculous outfit, but on her, it was perfect. She looked like a fighter. I could not explain the difference; it was her posture, maybe, or her eyes: glittering wildly, as though actual lights danced through her pupils. It lent her a crazed intensity that seemed unpredictable as lightning.

“Bonded now,” she whispered, staring at me. “Rivers golden as the sun.”

“Bonded,” I echoed, pressing my hand over my heart.

“Between us,” Grant said, sitting on the edge of the bed. He laid down his cane and leaned in to tug the covers up to my shoulders. Zee peered over the flannel edge, red eyes glowing, while Raw and Aaz tumbled into the man’s lap, dragging their teddy bears behind them as they rubbed their heads against his arm like lethal, razor-armored cats. Dek and Mal chirped a low greeting, which slid into a harmonizing arrangement of Heart’s “Tall, Dark Handsome Stranger.”

“Golden light,” he went on, searching my gaze as he scratched small necks and chins. “You made a link between us.”

“It had to be done,” I said, unable to tell if he was displeased, but the moment I spoke, he leaned forward and grabbed the back of my neck—dragging me close, hard against his shoulder and chest. A jolt rode over my skin, and static sparks flashed between us in the darkness. I leaned against him, held so tightly I could hardly breathe. Letting him say everything words could not.

“You should have died a long time ago, lad,” Jack said quietly. “But you’re strong. You have good instincts. I thought you might not need. . . . someone else. Not for the small things you were using your gift for.”

“You play too many games,” Grant said. “You should have told me.”

“What do you mean, he should have died?” I asked Jack—though I knew the answer. I had seen it already. I had felt it, in my gut.

“Two hearts, stronger than one,” Mary whispered, closing her eyes and placing her hands over her sternum. “Antrea should have told him, too.”

Grant flinched, touching the pendant hanging from his neck—and I saw in my head that young, brown-haired woman, standing with an equally young, strong Mary.

His mother. Filthy and covered in blood. Concerned only with his safety.

Remembering that vision was little easier than recalling a fading dream. I wanted to tell Grant, but I did not know how. Not here. Not yet.

Jack did not look particularly pleased. “Energy is not available simply when one needs it. If already present, it can be manipulated, altered—but to effect greater changes requires something stronger. And Lightbringers draw from themselves to use their gifts. Draw too much, and they die. So they make bonds,” he said, studying Grant and me. “To draw from others the strength they need.”

“Can you break the link?” Grant asked. “Jack. Will this hurt her?”

“You need me,” I protested.

“I don’t know,” said the old man. “There is no precedent for your bond, no way to know how it will affect you both. Lightbringers always attached themselves to humans. And Maxine . . . is not normal.”

I pinched Grant’s side. “Maxine is right here.”

Mary made a slow choking sound, carefully pushing back her sleeves to stare at the fresh scars on her arms. “Not normal. Right here.” She closed her eyes, and whispered, “I remember death. I was sharp. Sharpest of my sisters. We protected. We killed.”

Assassin,
I thought, remembering what Mr. King had called her. Recalling, with perfect clarity, all he had said. About Jack, too.

I did not look at the old man. I felt the pendant between Grant and me and stared into his eyes. Found him staring back. He carefully brushed a strand of hair from my face and leaned in to kiss my mouth.

And then he turned, ever so slightly, and gave Jack a warning look. “Is there more you haven’t told us?”

“Yes,” replied the old man, but he sounded distracted as he stared at Mary, an edge of melancholy in his voice, and something deeper: real grief, and uneasiness. I did not think it had anything to do with us—not in that moment. Instead, it felt as though some notion had just occurred to him, a memory, something terrible. I studied him, seated so still in the shadows on the edge of the bed: my grandfather, afraid to move, lost in thought.

“Old Wolf,” I whispered. “What is it?”

“I hated him,” Jack said quietly, with both wonderment and grief in his voice. “He who was Mr. King, and my brother. But he was one of us, and I knew him as long as I have known myself. We have no other children. We cannot make children in our true forms. When one of us dies, there is nothing left. And we feel it, in ourselves. We feel it as though we are missing pieces, and the ache will never leave us. It will dull, but never die.” A grim, bitter smile touched his mouth; ghastly, more like a grimace. “I suppose absence becomes another kind of immortality.”

“I thought you wanted him dead,” Grant said.

“I did,” Jack replied. “But there’s always a price.”

“Others will come,” Zee rasped, peering over the covers. Raw and Aaz sat up, as well, rubbing their eyes. “Meddling Man. Even now they feel what you feel.”

I pulled the pillow over my head. “Rock and a hard place. If we hadn’t gotten rid of Mr. King, he would have destroyed us.”

“And now that we’ve destroyed him,” Grant said, “all we’ve done is buy ourselves time.”

Time. Time for the prison veil. Time for Avatars. Time to live, time to fight, time to die.

Zee grabbed my hand, peering into my eyes. “We are strong,” he whispered, as Dek and Mal rumbled with purrs. “Sweet Maxine. We are strong.”

Strong as our hearts will let us be,
my mother had once said. Grant took my other hand, pressing his lips to my palm, but it was less a kiss than a benediction.

“Again, we are remade,” Jack murmured.

I heard footsteps approaching the bedroom, and Zee ducked under the covers. Raw and Aaz vanished. Byron appeared, just outside the door. Backlit by the golden light of the living room, slender and silent, he seemed more like a ghost made of shadows than a boy. But his eyes glittered, and he looked at me and no one else, and when I smiled there was no smile given in return, but his gaze was solemn and old, and unflinching.

“You’re okay,” he said softly; and then: “There’s something you need to see.”

It was not as difficult to move as I had thought it would be. I was not weak, merely tired, and Grant tugged on my hand as I scooted out from under the covers. I wore sweats and a tank top. My arms were pale and bare, and my right hand glittered. I took a moment, staring. The armor had grown again. A third vein of quicksilver curled from the wrist cuff to my ring finger, but tendrils of it seemed to lace out like roots, ending halfway across the back of my hand.

I glanced at Jack and Grant, and found both men staring at the armor. Neither said a word, but the old man seemed especially thoughtful. I closed my hand into a tight fist.

“Oh, what the hell,” I muttered, and got out of bed.

There was a small crowd in the living room. Killy and Father Lawrence sat on the couch. He and the woman were not touching, but they were sitting close together and looked exhausted. Rex leaned against the arm of the couch—in his human body, red knit cap askew. His aura flickered when he saw me, but except for a brief, knowing nod, he said nothing, and went back to watching the television.

I had little time to feel relief that everyone was together, in one piece. The late-evening news was on, and the newscaster cut to a fuzzy video that seemed to have been captured on a cell-phone camera. Hard to see details, but the picture was clear enough to show that it had been taken from inside a vehicle. People were screaming as a skinny man in black repeatedly charged at the car, crashing into the door and window with such strength the glass cracked. His mouth was full of teeth. His eyes were crazed.

He gave up after several seconds and ran away, in silence, with incredible speed.

I stared, breathless, hardly hearing the newscaster as he laughed weakly, and called the creature a vampire. Police, he said, were on the alert for someone playing a prank. And then he laughed again, clearly creeped out.

I did not laugh. It was not a prank.

Killy closed her eyes. “Change the channel.”

Father Lawrence grabbed the remote, hitting the buttons until he found a rerun of
Cheers
. Norm was sitting at the bar, and Sam was making googly eyes at some blond chick. Mundane, normal, and everything I wished life could be. My brain felt dirty from seeing the news clip and all those sharp teeth.

“We killed all of them we found,” Rex said, giving me a hard, careful look. “None escaped.”

“He would have set some loose. Other creatures, too. Just because.” I looked from Jack to Grant. “What about those who were imprisoned in the ice?”

“I made some calls,” Father Lawrence said quietly, his single red eye burning crimson and sharp. “They’ll be cared for. With Cribari dead, there won’t be any trouble. Not for a little while.” He looked from me to Jack and frowned with such uneasiness my skin crawled.

Killy twisted around, staring at the priest, who was no longer as round or bumbling as I remembered; his stomach tauter, his cheeks not as soft. Her eyes narrowed with displeasure. “And you? What kind of trouble will you be in? You can’t go back there, not to the Church.”

Father Lawrence hesitated, again tearing his gaze from her face to glance from Jack to Grant—and then to me. He started to speak, and Killy made a small, exasperated sound, shaking her head. “No, that’s stupid.”

The priest sighed. “Stay out of my thoughts, please.”

“Stay out of mine,” she snapped, though her ire crumpled into pain. “Jesus, my head.”

Father Lawrence stared helplessly. He began to reach for her—stopped, staring at his hands—and pulled back. Or tried to. Killy grabbed his wrist—just for a moment—and then let go as though burned. Both of them, burned. Byron, standing beside me, watched the young woman with his dark, quiet eyes. I ruffled his hair, and he tore his gaze from Killy to look at me.

“It’s only just starting, isn’t it?” asked Byron softly, and my hand fell from the boy’s head to his shoulder—my right hand, covered in armor—my heart filling with both grief and resolve. I started to tell him it would be okay, and stopped, swallowing hard. I fought for words—anything, anything to give him. Until Byron, gently, reached up to touch my hand. As if he was the one who needed to reassure me.

“You’re not alone, either,” he said.

My breath caught. Byron pulled away from me and walked to the couch. He plopped down between Killy and Father Lawrence, and the young woman, after a moment, patted his hand with a sigh.
Cheers
played on.

I needed some distance. I went into the kitchen, leaned on the counter—staring into the living room at all these people in my life. My nomad life, setting down roots.

Grant joined me. Mary stayed behind, watching him—and Jack watched her, in turn. Her, and the others, his fist pressed against his stomach, as though he hurt. He looked very old and alone, and it broke my heart. Pained me even more to think of my grandmother with that same look on her face—sitting in a bedroom in Paris. Time, I realized, was a thin veil—the thinnest of them all—but it did no good to know that. My grandmother and Jack would never see each other again. He would live on, as he had lived after her death, and his daughter’s. And mine, when it was time.