Landing (6 page)

Gabe’s eyebrows knit together and
his energy flares enough to make me wince. They begin again. Faster. Without
warning, Gabe latches onto Tarren’s arm, pits his shoulder into Tarren’s
sternum, and, with a sharp jerk, sends Tarren sprawling onto the mat. Before
Tarren can recover, Gabe is on top of him throwing hard punches. Tarren takes
two in the jaw before he brings his arms up and twists from beneath the
windmill of Gabe’s arms. The brothers scramble away from each other to recover.

Gabe’s whole body vibrates with
anger. His aura is polluted with electrified hues of yellow and red —anger,
frustration, ferociousness. It’s more than a little terrifying. Gabe doesn’t
get angry. Gabe doesn’t lose his cool. Gabe’s energy is always waves of
beautiful blue.

Tarren stays crouched on the
ground. His eyes run over his brother’s face. The tides of his energy smooth
out, the colors flattening as he recalibrates. He gives a tight little nod,
accepting that their practice has turned into the real thing.

The adult class is over. The
fighters break up and meander off the mats. Gabe waits. Tarren stands up and
relaxes into his fighting stance. As soon as the adults are off the mat, Gabe
moves in, and suddenly my brothers are fighting. Really fighting.

No one leaves.

Gabe’s energy is bright, erratic,
and violent, like when he’s playing a really hard level in a video game.
Tarren’s energy is low; fluid and controlled.

The fight is not beautiful and
continuous like some choreographed movie caper. They start and stop and grunt,
grapple then disengage. They end up on the mat a lot, twisting around each
other in little knots; pulling limbs, wrapping legs, breaking holds, rolling
away, and jumping back up. Within the choppy rhythm of the fight, there are
bursts of synergy where they move in harmony with and against each other so
that it looks like a dangerous, violent dance. And sometimes it looks clumsy
and dirty, but even this, I know, is highly skilled.

I watch and absorb and lean back
against my hands because their auras, the collective cacophony of energy in
this room, is washing out all the other noise. It is the song. Only the song.

It quickly becomes obvious that
Tarren is offering no offense. Gabe goes at him again and again, but Tarren
blocks, dodges, breaks holds, and pushes away limbs. Red coals briefly flare up
in his aura when he absorbs Gabe’s blows into his forearms and shins.

“Fight!” Gabe commands, though the
word is muffled behind his mouth guard. A little spark, like a hidden smile,
responds in Tarren’s aura. The fighting goes on and on, all over the mat.
Tarren keeps ducking, keeps blocking.

The teenage class breaks up, and
the kids scurry off the mat out of the way and then watch with awe. The female
instructor stands in front of me, arms folded across her chest, and observes
the fight. Her energy is a smooth blue that hums swiftly. I wonder how she can
fight with such long, wicked-looking nails.

On the mat, the battle continues.
Tarren lets down his guard, and Gabe’s kick connects to his abdomen. Tarren
goes down, rolling backward with the momentum. Gabe presses his advantage, only
it isn’t Gabe’s advantage at all. I see the beauty of it all patterned in
Tarren’s aura, the luring, the trapping. As Tarren hauls himself to his knees,
Gabe kicks. Tarren catches the foot, swipes Gabe’s other leg out from under him
and uses Gabe’s momentum to slam him hard into the mat. I hear Gabe’s breath
whoosh out of his lungs and watch his energy pulse with wild reds.

Tarren snakes his legs around
Gabe’s stomach, pins him to the floor, and plants an elbow across his neck. The
teens break out into cheers. Tarren unwinds his legs and rolls off his brother.
Gabe sits up, ducks his head between his knees, and pulls in slow, shaky
breaths.

Tarren takes out his mouth guard.
“You let your emotions get in the way.”

“Shut up,” Gabe whispers hoarsely.
“For once in your life, just lay off.”

Tarren is quiet for a moment. “Are
you hurt?” he finally asks.

Gabe lifts his head, and his cheeks
are red. “I’m going home.”

Tarren offers his hand, but Gabe
ignores it. He hauls himself up and steps off the mat. I stand up quickly and
fall in line behind him.

“Leave me alone,” he growls at me.

Growls.

Gabe.

At me.

I don’t actually stagger back
dramatically or clutch at my heart, but it’s a strong impulse. Gabe grabs his
duffle bag, pushes the front door open too hard, and leaves. I turn to Tarren,
who has stepped off the mat next to me.

We don’t say anything to each
other.

Tarren works with the female
instructor. Her long limbs give her movements grace, and her hair is plaited in
many small braids that dance around her head as she moves. They drill each
other and then spar, but Tarren is holding back, just like he holds back with
me, slowing down his moves, blocking more than attacking. Now that I know what
he is truly capable of, I wonder if I can ever match him.

After a short while, a class of
adults filters in with a new instructor. My hour is up, and my muscles are sore
from clenching. For no discernible reason—there are a few empty folding chairs
in the spectator area—a woman sidles up next to me. I don’t know the color of
her hair, what clothes she’s wearing, how old she is. All I see is her energy.
A brazen cornflower blue with teasing threads of green.

“Gary just started. My husband,” the
woman beckons to someone in the new class.

I nod noncommittally and stare
straight ahead.

“But he’s no fun to watch. They’re
amazing,” she exclaims, meaning Tarren and the instructor who spar in front of
us.

“I’ve seen him and the other boy
practicing with the instructors,” the woman continues without an apparent need
for any acknowledgement on my part. “They’re both so good, but that one,” she
nods toward Tarren, “he should teach. Bet he’d bring more girls into the gym.”
The woman giggles like a hyena.

I clench my hands hard, feel the
press of my nails through my thick gloves, and look at the woman.
Blonde
hair,
dark roots
,
orange Halloween sweater, mid-40s
.

“Brother, right?” she asks.

I stare at the grinning pumpkin on
her chest. In ten pages or less?

“Yes,” I respond.

“I can always tell,” the woman
chuckles. “Same eyes. You must be proud of him.”

I follow her gaze and watch Tarren
move — the epitome of precision, grace, and confidence. When he’s in his
element his energy can turn such soft shades of blue. Tarren has moments of
beauty, I know this, but I still always see him as he was that first night when
he and Gabe rescued me—how he stood over me covered in blood, pointing a gun at
my head.

“Does he compete?” the woman asks.
She leans toward me just a little, and I flinch back.

“Excuse me,” I say and walk out of
the gym. Outside, I sit on the curb and roll up my pant legs to absorb the thin
stream of sun. Weak winter rays, and Gabe took all the rats with him.

Half an hour later, Tarren is done.
We drive home. He’s all sweaty and smelly, because he refuses to shower at the
gym, so I put my window down all the way and let the wind whip against my face.

Silence pervades, and it’s a heavy,
dragging sort of silence, like quicksand. I hate how Tarren always makes it a
point to control his energy whenever we’re together, how he hides his emotions
away lest I begin to understand any little part of him.

I consider turning on the radio to
some funky country station just to annoy him, but I’m not in the mood.

“Do you know why Gabe was upset?”
Tarren asks when we’re halfway to the house.

“Probably because you whupped him
in front of all those people.”

“No, before. He was upset when he
came in.”

“You should really loosen up
sometimes,” I snap back. Tarren looks at me. His mouth sets tight, and I can’t
help but follow the sweep of the broad, glossy scar that starts under his left
ear, traces his jaw, and curves up his chin, ending just below his bottom lip. It’s
not that the scar is even that bad really, it’s just that his face would be
perfect without it.

Tarren surprises me. “Maybe.”

He sighs. I sigh. We both stare
straight ahead out the windshield.

“Were you okay in there? With all
those people?” Tarren’s question is anything but casual.

“I didn’t go berserk and kill
anyone if that’s what you’re asking.”

“It isn’t.” Tarren’s jaw tightens.
We stop at a light, and he gazes at me. Could he tell that I was struggling?
What would he do if I told him the truth? How very hard it was, how loud the
song can get sometimes?

I know what Tarren would do; he’d
finish what he started that night they rescued me from Grand. I slouch against
the window and shrug. “I felt fine.”

The light turns green, and Tarren’s
eyes move back to the road. We don’t say anything the rest of the ride, and
that’s just the way it is between us.

Chapter 9

My rats and clothing purchases are
waiting for me on the kitchen counter when Tarren and I get home. Tarren
retreats to his lab, and Gabe won’t emerge from his room, not even when I put
in his favorite movie,
Forced Vengeance,
and turn it loud. I’m left to
watch Chuck Norris roundhouse kick his way through the flimsiest of storylines
on my own.

Later that night I’m in my room
downloading my first book onto my Kindle,
Principles of Energy
,
a beginner’s
guide
, when I hear Tarren climbing the stairs. He pauses, and his aura
flickers. I put down my Kindle and wait. He knocks on Gabe’s door.

“Go away,” Gabe says. I can feel
his energy too, strong and angry, through the walls.

Tarren stands in front of Gabe’s
door for a full minute. Just stands there. Finally, he turns and goes to his
own room.

I decide that I need to fix this.

Gabe stays up half the night, and
his energy is all fritzy and angry. I read, and I wait, and I try, really try,
not to stare at the bathtub. Finally, Gabe turns everything off and goes to
bed. It takes another hour until his energy calms into the even cadence I know
so well.

Knocking is a sacred rule of the
house. I paid a heavy price for ignoring it once before, but I flaunt it again,
just this one time. I don’t expect Gabe’s door to be locked, and it isn’t. My
enhanced vision cuts through the thick darkness, and I see Gabe curled up on
his bed on top of the rumpled covers.

I tip-toe over his scattered shoes
and hat and acknowledge Keira Knightley’s pouty expression on the wall with a
short nod. Sir Hopsalot is huddled next to Gabe’s chest, and those black eyes
track my progress. He’s managed to wriggle out of his blue “no kill” bandanna,
but Gabe has made the rules clear. Sir Hopsalot is family. As I approach, the
rabbit scurries down the wooden plank Gabe made and takes shelter under the
bed.

Gabe’s aura hums in gentle tides,
encasing his body in an ethereal cloud of blue and casting a soft glow across
his features. The sirens play their poisonous harps.
Blue as blue, true as
true
.

There is a memory I keep lashed to
the front of my mind as a warning, a terrible secret that pits out my lungs.
The night that Amber fell out of the tree with Tarren’s bullet in her pale
forehead; when he wrapped her roughly in tarp and took her away into the
darkness. That was the night I almost killed Gabe while he slept. Monster Maya
leaned over his bed, stretched out her hand toward that beautiful blue…

This was a bad idea. I should just
hang the coat on the back of Gabe’s chair as I originally intended, but the
room is chilled, and I can tell from Gabe’s energy that he’s not dreaming well.
No fine fantasy dates with Francesca tonight.

I drape the coat over Gabe—and he
snaps awake, his energy flaring.

BLUE, BLUE, BLUE all around me.

My hand is frozen just above his
shoulder. For a moment I am in free fall, hands open, bulbs out, mind so poised
and quiet. I press my eyes shut so hard that tears prick at the edges. A deep
shudder runs through my body, squeezing my spine all the way down. But then
it’s over, and it’s only been a second, because Gabe is still scrambling to
find the gun under his pillow.

“It’s me. It’s me,” I say hoarsely
as I take a shaky step back.

“Maya? Is something wrong?” Gabe
sits up, pushing the coat off. “What’s this?”

“It’s stupid. I didn’t mean to
scare you.”

“Eh, well, I’m incapable of fear,”
he manages, but he is capable of fear. It turns his energy swirly and dark,
like right now. “Is something wrong?” he asks again. “I can’t see a damn
thing.”

“I wanted to…”

Gabe switches on the lamp next to
his bed, and I wince at the surge of light.

“Whoa.” Gabe holds out the coat in
front of him. “I get it.” He looks up at me. “Aww, that was kind of sweet of
you.”

“Shut up.”

“No, no, this is, wow.” Gabe gets
up out of bed, and I quickly step away from him. He shrugs on the coat, opens
the closet door, and admires himself in the mirror. “This is, like, this is
cool Maya. I’m a brown coat now like Cap’n Reynolds.”

I don’t know who that is, so I say,
“Glad you like it.”

“Do I look bad ass?”

His hair is flattened on one side
of his head, and the sleeves of the coat sweep his knuckles. Gabe could easily
be mistaken for a teenager.

“Sir Hopsalot is trembling under
the bed in fear. His poor heart just can’t handle your magnitude of bad ass.”
My voice is still shaking, but I don’t think Gabe notices.

“Thanks Maya.”

“You’re welcome. Sorry to wake you
up.”

“Nah,” he waves away my concern.
“Not tired anymore anyway. I’m working on something.” Gabe sits back down on
the bed.

I have to keep refocusing on Gabe’s
face through his aura.
Gabe’s elf eyes, Gabe’s nose, the little freckle on
Gabe’s cheek.

Sometimes I wish he wasn’t so
trusting. Like right now when he looks at me with no fear in his aura, just
those teasing threads of green that he hardly ever loses. Those greens are so
painful sometimes, though I don’t even know why.

“Building a new website?” I manage.
Gabe’s minor empire of niche dating sites covered in Google ads is what keeps our
family financially afloat.

“No, just a hunch. I’m trying to
dig up some more angels.”

We don’t dig them up, we bury
them
, I think. What I say out loud is, “Well, good luck.” I start for the
door.

“And Maya?”

I pause, but don’t turn around. I
can’t look at his energy anymore.

“I’m fine,” Gabe says. “You and
Tarren don’t have to worry about me.”

“I know,” I say, but this is a lie.
All we ever do in this family is worry like crazy about each other.

“Goodnight Maya.”

“Night.”

I close his door then turn to
Tarren who leans against the wall next to me. We stare at each other in the
darkness for a long time. There are no warm threads of green in Tarren’s
energy, just a dark, muddy blue that ticks up and down in sharp, angry
undulations. He tucks his Glock into the waist of his jeans.

“Am I the only one in this house
who understands the purpose of pajamas?” I say for no reason.

“Don’t ever do that again,” he
says, then turns and walks back to his room.

***

The next morning, Tarren and I go
for our run and pretend last night never happened. Tarren is a champion of
denial and, living with this family, I’m quickly picking up this particular
dark art.

It is a beautiful, crisp October
morning, and I’m in the mood to burn my muscles. Tarren doesn’t disappoint.
We’re both panting and shaky by the time we break out of the woods into the
backyard. Inside the house, Gabe is sitting in front of his three computer
screens. Sir Hopsalot is draped over his shoulder in a way that would seem
really uncomfortable for the rabbit, except the he apparently enjoys it.

Gabe’s fingers drum along the
surface of his desk, and his energy is bright at the tips, jumpy. I hitch my
breath.

We’re leaving again.

“What did you find?” Tarren asks,
because he knows what those drumming fingers mean too.

“Obvious, huh?” Gabe pauses, and we
all pretend we’re not swallowing back yesterday. “Well, it could be nothing, or
I could be a mad genius.”

“You want to clarify that?” Tarren
steps behind Gabe to review his data.

There’s no room for me in this
little grouping without things getting awkward. I still haven’t figured out
what to do with myself when the Fox brothers get into their intense mission
review mode. I drop down onto the couch in the living room and listen.

“Here’s the thing,” Gabe leans back
in his chair and scratches Sir Hopsalot behind his silver ear. “The last set of
wings, Patel, got me thinking. We usually catch our angels because they make
rookie mistakes—cluster their kills or leave a clear body trail. Easy enough
for my algorithm to pick up. Patel was different. He jumped all over the
country. There was no easy way to tie his kills into a pattern except that they
were all young college kids, which eventually raised a flag.”

“So there may be more hidden
patterns,” Tarren says.

“Yup, and that’s where the fun
begins.” Gabe turns back to his monitors and frowns. His energy is picking up
speed even as Tarren’s calms. I hate this part. From a universe away, I watch
as their auras sync.

“Our last guy had a long run
because he traveled for his job,” Gabe says as he plays the computer keyboard
like a concert pianist. “Most of the angels we clipped in the past were
wealthy, but we all know that the demographics have been changing for years.
Membership is trickling down past the blue bloods. So, I was thinking, hey stop
that.” Gabe tugs his hair away from Sir Hopsalot’s mouth. “We’ve talked about
this,” he says sternly to the rabbit. “Anyway, so I was thinking, what do these
less fortunate angels do? Hard to stay in one place when you’ve got a body
count stacking up, but you also need to make a living. Come on, throw out some
guesses.”

“Salesman?” Tarren offers.

“Can’t track that yet.”

“Angel rock band,” I call out.

“Bingo, Yahtzee, and Connect Four
to the lady on the couch,” Gabe says. “There are tons of shows that crisscross
the country. Things like the circus or bands or amusement parks—the really
crappy kind that employ ex-convicts. Those I can track.”

“Did you find something?” Tarren
prods.

Gabe’s fingers pause over his
keyboard, and he frowns up at his brother. “You need to appreciate the
process,” he says. “This isn’t easy.”

“I realize that, but we’re wasting
time.”

“Alright.” Gabe combs a hand
through his messy hair. “It’s weak as fuck, and this thing is a mess, but...”
he pulls up a new map. Red pins are scatter shot over the entire country, but
they’re barely visible beneath a thick webbing of black lines.

Gabe explains how somewhere within
that mess of color are suspicious deaths from the last five years and all the
shows that were in the area at the time.

“And yes, this took absolutely
fucking forever,” he concludes. “You don’t have to hold back your applause. I
also accept tips in the form of cash, beer, and dates with Keira Knightley.”

“Bravo,” I call from the couch,
earning a grin from Gabe.

“Keep going,” Tarren says. The
smile falters on Gabe’s face, and he turns back to his screen. Tarren notices
and his voice softens. “This is good.”

Gabe shrugs, but happy greens
infuse his aura. It’s actually a little painful to see how much those few words
mean to him, especially because Tarren’s praise is such a rare commodity.

Gabe clears his throat and explains
that he found three possibilities that each overlapped at least a few of the
suspicious deaths. One is a small wrestling outfit, the second a high-end
acrobatic show, and the third…

“No, not Miley Cyrus!” I
dramatically throw an arm over my eyes. “She would never go dark side!”

“Some of the bodies match up to her
tour dates last year,” Gabe says. “I mean, Miley’s probably cool, but she’s got
a crew right? Hair dresser, roadie, that dude that goes ‘check, check, 1, 2, 3’
into the microphone before each show…”

“Where do you suggest we start?”
Tarren cuts his brother off. His energy is already tempering into smooth,
liquid-steel mode.

Gabe turns back to his computer and
pulls up yet another map. “The rinky dink wrestling group is going to be in
Phoenix tomorrow night.”

“Alright,” Tarren says, and it’s
decided. “Twenty minutes and we go.”

“What about the acrobatic show?
What about Miley?” I ask.

“Acrobats next. They’re in Texas
for two weeks,” Gabe says. “Miley isn’t touring, so that could get tough.”

“No, I mean, why don’t we split up?
We have three different possibilities and…”

“No,” Tarren barks.

“But why not? It doesn’t make...”

“We stick together so we can
protect each other,” Gabe says softly. “It’s safer that way.”

“Oh.” The way they’re looking at
me, it’s like I’d suggested that we all chug paint thinner just to see how it
would taste.

“Twenty minutes, Maya.” Tarren
says.

“Yep.” I spring off the couch and
try to pretend I’m in total gear. No point in letting my brothers in on the
fact that my heart is clobbering in my chest, and I’m suddenly itchy in random
little patches all over my body.

The Fox brothers are totally ho-hum
as they go about packing to hunt down and kill something. Me? I tell myself
that this is what I want as I pull my traveling rat cage and duffle bag out of
my bedroom closet and check that everything is in place.

This is what I need to become hard
and cold enough to face Grand, to fight him, to cut his heart out of his body,
and possibly even laugh while I do it.

I shrug on my new nylon jacket and
grab some extra tampons from the bathroom. No telling how long we’ll be on the
road. My brothers are already waiting below as I make my way down the stairs. I
grip the banister to keep my wobbly knees in check.

If only cowardice could be cured by
violent wishes.