Reaper (27 page)

“No,” she said and cupped his cheek. “Accept the gift I gave you, Eddie, and speak of it no more. We have much work to do and time is wasting.” Then, glad he was not the type to press, Lily knelt down and gathered up her end of the travois. She could feel that she was much weaker than she was previously, but she considered her temporary weakness worth it to help both Piotr and Eddie. James, she knew, would have been proud of her sacrifice.

“Let us continue our journey.”

Lost in thought over what had just transpired, Eddie was unsure how much longer it took to get where they were going, but when they reached Piotr's floor, he knew it.

Perhaps it was the sense that, not too long before, someone had lived and loved in this space. The walls of the offices were papered with immature but effective drawings and sketches of the landscape glimpsed through shattered windows, peppered occasionally with pictures of Piotr, a towheaded toddler, or a gangly boy with glasses. Or perhaps it was just the fact that this floor was debris-free and what few day-to-day items could be seen were well-organized, stacked neatly against walls and covered with threadbare comforters or tattered tarps.

Touched and vaguely creeped out at these remnants of a family as threadbare as the scavenged supplies, Eddie brushed a finger against a yellowing page, old enough to have curled up at the bottom corners. Piotr, smiling, knelt on one knee with a jumble of fabric grasped loosely in one hand, a dagger pressed between the floor and his other palm.

“Piotr's pallet,” Lily said suddenly from behind Eddie. Eddie jumped, painfully aware of Lily's presence as she brushed by him. “Bring Piotr here.”

Beneath one of the few windows that still boasted intact glass, Piotr's pallet was larger than the others, the sleeping bag rolled and secured with rope at the foot of the stained mattress. There was no pillow but Lily gathered several from another corner, stacked haphazardly beside a tumbled pile of paperbacks and a cracked camping lantern.

“How do we—”

Without a word, Lily took the poles at the end of the travois, lifting Piotr up abruptly. Eddie scrambled to grab the head of the stretcher as together they lifted Piotr over his pallet and then, under Lily's silent guidance, tipped him gently on his side onto the mattress. He slumped onto his back, one arm flung over the edge of the bed.

“Nice,” Eddie said approvingly. He followed Lily away from the corner, glancing back once at Piotr and wondering what they were going to do now. The gulls might still find them here, but at least no one else could be caught in the crossfire if it came down to a fight. Wendy would worry, though. Eddie wished he'd taken the time to leave her a note. Wendy was smart, he told himself, trying to reason away his concern. She would figure it out.

Making sure Lily's attention was elsewhere, Eddie wrapped his own hand in the edge of his shirt and cautiously held up Piotr's hand to the light, eying the blurriness at the edges of his fingers. The smear of Piotr's flesh was more pronounced than it had been before Lily had run him so hard to get them there.

Dropping Piotr's hand, Eddie took a deep, calming breath. He was glad of what Lily had done for him, confusing as it was, but he was beginning to feel a little nauseous. Between he and Piotr, Eddie didn't think Lily would have it in her to help him or Piotr again. Eddie shook his head and tried to ignore the worry gnawing at his own gut.

It didn't matter. Lily would be fine because Wendy would get to the bottom of it and that would be that. They'd both be completely healthy and happy in a matter of days. Wendy would figure it out. She always did.

She had to.

S
ome time later, Piotr roused. He felt marginally better, though the ceiling still appeared to be made of filthy water, waving and drifting in slow arcs. The malevolent faces and wild women were nowhere to be seen.

Groaning, he sat up. This wasn't Wendy's room; her ceiling was speckled with green glow-in-the-dark stars. This ceiling was…Oh…he'd sat up too fast!

Piotr flopped back onto the bed. His head was spinning, his stomach churned, but at least he'd figured out where he was.

“Oh Specs,” he murmured. “Dora, Tubs.
Zhal. Zhal, zhal, zhal
.”

He could remember the tang of fear in the back of his throat, the remorse at having to leave their nest and venture out into the city. Elle had taken his Lost into the safety of her haunt as Piotr had known she would, but it had pained him to leave them with her nonetheless. He'd sworn to protect them, even if he couldn't even recall how he'd met them. He'd been their Rider, they'd been his Lost. They'd been family.

And now they were gone.

“I should have just taken you,” he whispered, resting his forearm across his eyes. “We should have just left. Gone to Santa Cruz, there are hardly any spirits there. Or headed east, perhaps. But instead…” he broke off and trembled. Instead Specs had been sent into the Light by Wendy, Dora had been obliterated in the battle with the White Lady, and Tubs was long gone, taken to safety by the remaining Riders along with all the Lost who hadn't been kidnapped in the last White Lady raid.

But…if they'd left when the Walkers had begun sniffing
around, if they'd left as a group rather than Piotr leaving them with Elle while he planned to scout out a new haven for them, then he never would have met Wendy.

Bitterly, Piotr laughed. “I should have left.”

He loved Wendy. With all his heart, he knew they were connected. She was like no woman he'd ever met before—dead or alive—and the fact that she'd seen something special in him was mind-boggling. Yet, despite that, Piotr knew that they weren't any good for one another.

Wendy had given up so much for him: school, friends, even her job as a Reaper, as the Lightbringer. She'd nearly abandoned her search for her mother's spirit once they'd met. Piotr had been just as bad. He was supposed to have been hot on the trail of whomever had been taking the Lost, but instead he'd spent all his spare time in Wendy's room, talking about what it was to be the Lightbringer, trying to dimly recall what it was like to be alive.

Her touch had been fire and ice, though. Her lips had been sweet. Piotr had tempted fate every single time they touched; he could have drained her dry and Wendy, lost in his arms, might have let him. Likewise, when they were together her hold over her powers was much weaker; she could have lost control at any moment and blasted him into the Light without even realizing it.

Leaving her in that hospital room, alone and thin and freshly roused from her coma, had been one of the hardest things Piotr could remember doing. If he'd been smart he should have left town then. Yes, Lily and Elle wanted time, a few days, a few weeks, to tie things up, to scavenge and scrounge and prepare for their trip, but he could have gone without them, waited for them in some appropriate place. Route 66 might have been nice; the Grand Canyon might have been better.

Now, facing his illness, feeling the cold pouring off him, icing his pallet to the floor below, Piotr was finally willing to be honest with himself. He'd stayed behind for Wendy.

It would have been madness for her to accompany him on his trek.
He had no idea of where to even begin, much less of a plan or a manner of travel or any logical, sane, reasonable way to discover his roots.

Despite that, however, he'd foolishly asked her to go with him. She would have been fresh from the hospital, and she would have had to find her own food and lodging, a safe place to rest her head at night, a way to travel in the living world that didn't involve risking herself by thumbing her way down the interstate. She would have been alone. Her mother had just died; she would have had to abandon her family in their time of need. She would have been insane to agree.

And yet…

And yet…

Piotr had hidden his disappointment at her decision well. It had only made sense, after all, to turn his wild goose chase down. But he'd lingered. He'd stayed. In the weeks following their separation he'd wandered near Mountain View in the hopes that he'd bump into her on patrol, that perhaps she might even seek him out, that she might have changed her mind.

He was a fool.

Exhausted, Piotr closed his eyes, meaning just to rest them a brief moment. He knew he slept, just not how long. When he opened them, Wendy sat by his side, her legs crossed primly and ankles dangling over the edge of the mattress.

“What is this?” Piotr asked, disbelieving the proof of his own eyes. He reached out to touch her, graze her elbow with his fingertips, and Wendy proved to be solid, firm, there. “Wendy?”

“Shhh,” Wendy said, pressing a finger to his lips. “The others—even Eddie—they don't know I'm here yet. It took me forever to track you down and I wanted to see you first. How are you feeling?”

“Ill,” he admitted. “So very, very cold. But…better. Now that you are here, much, much better.”

“Flatterer,” Wendy said, smirking. Then her smile faded. “Ada is really gone?”

“
Da
,” Piotr said. “The gulls, the Lady Walker, took her. We do not know where.”

Frowning, Wendy threaded her fingers through his. Her touch was warm, reassuring. Unlike Lily or Eddie, Wendy was unbothered by his chill. Perhaps the heat of the Lightbringer offset it, or perhaps she could feel it but simply wasn't showing the discomfort. “She wanted to go to Alcatraz. That's as good a place as any to start.”

“Ada…your mother…she did these things for you.”

“I know.” Wendy brushed hair off her face and smiled wryly. “Mom sure knew how to get around, huh? It seems like there wasn't a ghost in this town she didn't have some sort of backroom deal with.”

“She was certainly persuasive,” Piotr agreed. Then, smiling wickedly, he added, “But not nearly as lovely as you.”

“Oh really?” Wendy poked him in the side. “Remembering what my mom was like before she became the White Lady, huh? You finally starting to get your memories back?”

Piotr grabbed her poking hand and caressed the back of her knuckles until Wendy's fist relaxed. He pressed her palm to his cheek. “I do not know. What do you think?”

“I think you're a mystery even to yourself, Piotr,” Wendy replied seriously, brushing the pad of her thumb against his cheekbone. “She took your memories. They all did, even me, though I didn't know I was doing it at the time. Over and over and over again. Don't you ever wonder how? Or why? There has to be some beginning, right? You haven't been like this…forever. Right?”

“I…”

Piotr closed his eyes. Dreams and dreams and dreams again. Snow. Ice. He was so cold, so sick, so cold. What had those Walkers done to him? What was this terrible poison, to bring such horrible, icy visions dancing between the spaces of worlds?

“I do not know,” he admitted. “Even now, I do not know.”

“That's okay.” Lying beside him, resting her head in the crook of
his shoulder, Wendy pressed her palm against his chest. “It's okay to not know.”

“Can you feel a heartbeat?” Piotr asked her, curious.

“No,” she whispered, craning her neck and pressing a soft, sweet kiss beneath his jaw. Her breath tickled the fine hairs at the nape of his neck. “You're dead, Piotr. Rotting in the ground. Remember?”

Twisting in her arms, Piotr yanked Wendy close and kissed her. No, if he were honest with himself, he did more than just kiss her. He punished her. For her smartass quip, for her refusal to go with him when he'd asked, for kissing Eddie, and for being better than someone long dead—someone like him—deserved. It was the moment she revealed herself to be the Lightbringer all over again; Piotr hated her and loved her and loathed himself all over again for not being able to walk away.

He was brutal and fierce and not gentle in the slightest. He pulled her hair back at the nape, he ground his lips against hers, his fingers curved cruelly into her hip as if he would bruise and punish and hate her for all the darkness in the world, in the Never. As if it were all her fault.

Wendy, after a brief moment of shocked stillness, growled in the back of her throat and then, unexpectedly, gave as good as she got. He felt her nails rake his back red and raw beneath his shirt. There was a billow of steam where her nails cut and her heat and his chill mingled. Her knee jammed between his legs, pressing painfully into his thigh, her thumbnail gouging the hollow beneath his ear as her teeth tore at his lips, her tongue forcing between them. He could taste her hate, so like his own, and knew that as he punished her, she punished him—for not being alive, for not saving her mother, for walking away without a glance back. She loved him and hated him and loathed herself just as much, if not more, and Piotr helplessly felt his skin begin to blister under her palms.

Piotr couldn't breathe beneath her onslaught. Gasping, he pulled back and was both relieved and disappointed when she let him go.

They were both left damp and shaking from the steam. Wendy took his jaw in one hand and twisted gently until she could see the extent of the damage along his neck. She brushed the pad of her thumb along a stinging ridge. “I was mean to you.”

“We were mean to each other.”

“I should've been a little nicer, huh?”

“I started it.” Back stinging with each tiny movement, Piotr relaxed against the mattress, closed his eyes, and luxuriated in the counterpoint warmth of her, the oranges and smoke perfume that clung to her hair and cinnamon-mint that scented her breath.

“Did you?” Wendy curled into his side again and rested her hand on his chest. “I lied. I can feel your heartbeat.”

Smiling, eyes closed, Piotr pressed his palm against her chest, waiting for the comforting thump. “Da? Well, I can…can…” Piotr drew his hand away and sat up.

Wendy was gone.

Frantically, Piotr's head whipped left and right, desperately searching the room. Had she hidden in a corner? Had he fallen asleep again and she'd gone to find a private spot to take care of living nature's business?

His bed was still rimed with frost. Piotr ran a hand under his jaw; there were no scratches. The flesh on his back, on his face, didn't protest even slightly when he shifted. His blisters were no longer there.

A dream, Piotr realized. Wendy's visit had been nothing but a wonderful, terrible, agonizing dream.

“Such a fool,” he whispered, contrite and aggravated with himself. “I am such a stupid fool.”

“Piotr?” Lily peered around the doorjamb, black hair dappled grey and silver in the remains of the dim light. “We heard you call out. How do you fare?”

“Tired,” he said. “I had a dream.” He glanced around the room. “
Spasibo
, for watching over me, and for bringing me here. It was a
wise choice. We shall be…should be…safe here. Momentarily, at least.”

Lily tilted her head in silent acknowledgement. “Do you wish to continue resting?”

Though he knew now that the kiss was all in his mind, Piotr wanted to see Wendy again, even if it were nothing more than his own fevered imagination. “For a while,” he said and curled on his side as Lily retreated.

Freed to dream, Piotr slumbered, drifting easily into sweet dreams and sour, tasting Wendy on his lips, feeling her fingers curl through the nape of his hair, the tips of her nails experimentally brushing against the twisting scar from temple to jaw. Piotr shivered under the onslaught, willing himself to hold perfectly still. If he roused she would be gone again. He would be alone.

Time passed, possibly minutes, probably more, before Piotr woke again from his dreams.

He'd dreamed of ice floes, of snow banks, of pressing on through drifts as high as his hips, leaving his heat in a red trail behind. He'd dreamed of the Reaper again and he hurried. He hurried. He hurried and when he woke Piotr knew that…

…knew that…

Knew that this place had once been his. The bare soles of his feet recognized every board, every creak, each thin space in the Never so that he could pass unseen through walls and find those others huddled below.

He felt alert now, rested, but as he stood, Piotr left ice in his wake, not just in the Never, but on the mill floor in the living lands, small pools of ice in spreading circles each place his bare feet touched.

He hunted in complete, effortless silence.

Kneeling in Pandora's room at the end of her pallet, Lily struggled to keep her eyes on Eddie as he spoke. He ought to have her full
attention, she knew, but resting here brought back uncomfortable memories of not just Piotr's young charges, but her own Lost as well. Her heart ached at the emptiness of the room, the walls papered with Dora's sketches and the warped door resting on cinderblocks as a makeshift desk, bare save for a few curls of colored pencil and faded paint splatters.

“I still think Piotr needs a doctor,” Eddie urged. He gripped the back of the folding chair Dora had left tucked beneath the desk until his knuckles turned white. “You can't tell me that
every
dead doctor goes right into the Light.” Behind him Dora's pictures flapped on the walls, caught in a suddenly chill breeze. Shivering, Lily rubbed her arms and considered shaping the essence she'd draped into a simple shift into a longer-sleeved garment, one that would protect her from the clammy air of the Treehouse.