Reaper (4 page)

Piotr turned away, choked up. Dora was gone, obliterated in the same explosion that had put Wendy in the hospital and destroyed the White Lady. Seeing her art in such an unexpected way was like a punch to the throat…and heart.

“Those on Nob Hill send their greetings,” the Walker said and, before Lily could react, slashed outward with sharpened fingertips. Yelling, Lily fell back. Elle, several feet away, spun on her heel to take the Walker on, but the creature fled through the closest thin wall, disappearing from sight with a flutter of grimy black fabric and a hollow, mocking laugh.

“They want ol’ Pete delivered up to Nob Hill,” Elle mused, plucking the drawing from Piotr's nerveless fingers and skimming it. “Hey Pocahontas, I'm having problems remembering, but ain't Nob Hill part of Council turf?”

“Last I recall the Council frequents the Mark Hopkins hotel, yes,” Lily agreed. “I have hardly had dealings with them but it is wise to know the lay of the land when possible, especially regarding those more powerful than one's self. Yet then the question becomes this: why would they seek Piotr? He has always kept to himself along the canal and has not aggravated them. Why seek him out? It makes no sense.”

“Petey? Hey, flyboy! Up'n at'em!” Elle snapped her fingers in front of Piotr's face. “You got a clue why the daddies and debs up Nob Hill way would want you floating on the Styx side of the Never?” When Piotr, frowning, didn't answer, she threw up her hands. “Useless.”

Piotr's frown deepened into a scowl and he waved a hand in Elle's direction, aggravated at the interruption. His vision was flickering wildly. One moment the Never was clear as a bell; in the next, the living world lay over it like a film of shining plastic. “I am thinking, Elle. Be patient.”

“Thinking like a glacier moves,” she grumbled, but dropped to the ground and stretched out, tucking hands behind her head and gazing up at the stars. “Ugh, you'd think with all these calluses that my feet wouldn't hurt so badly after just a little hoofin’ it.”

“Wendy,” Piotr said finally. “They mentioned that I stank of her still.”

“Well you're no sweet summer morning, but you don't exactly stink either,” Elle quipped. “Lightbringer, huh? Should've figured we weren't done with that dizzy dame.”

“Hush,” Lily said and was quiet for some time before approaching Piotr's side. “If you are in danger, Piotr, there is a chance that the Lightbringer is as well.” She bit her lip and eased in front of him, making sure she had his full attention before continuing.

“It would be a great disservice to Wendy to ignore this warning. They sent a half-score of Walkers for you. How many would they send for one such as the Lightbringer? We are here, at your side, to fight with you, but the Lightbringer is alone. Is she even aware that some Walkers escaped the skirmish with the White Lady?”

Abruptly, Piotr shook his head. “
Net
. Such thoughts are a waste of energy and time. Wendy is strong, capable. She can take care of herself, no matter who the enemy or the number sent. On this you have my word.”

He could see Lily struggling with the decision of whether to debate him further or not; after long moments her eyelashes drifted down and she nodded once, brusquely. “As you say, Piotr. You are familiar with the Lightbringer and her capabilities and I am not. For now, I shall follow your lead.” Frowning, she reached out and gripped his wrist until he winced. “For now.”

Lily stepped aside as Piotr, scowling and rubbing his wrist, moved to kneel beside Elle, still stretched out on the ground and flexing her tired feet. She raised one hand as if shielding her vision from the moonlight and winked at him.

“Hello Pete. Have a seat?”

He ignored her flirting and got straight to the point. “Elle, you are familiar with the Nob Hill,
da?
”

“I swung around the juice joints in that neck of the woods a time or two, sure.” She closed her eyes
and
grinned at the memories. “Alive and dead, mind you.”

“I believe I sense what Piotr may be contemplating,” Lily said, settling cross-legged next to Elle. “It only stands to reason that you are well known on Nob Hill, due to your familiarity with the Pier.”

“Pier's my turf,” Elle grumbled, opening one eye with a scowl in Lily's direction. “Was my turf. Whatever. Familiarity ain't even close. Those lollygaggers tried sending a mulligan down my way a time or two early on, before they knew who they were futzing with. I made ’em get a wiggle on,
toute suite
. But I hadn't heard hide nor hair of them in months, so I figured they'd skeedaddled when the White Lady started sniffing round. Apparently not.”

“Exactly,” Piotr said, encouragingly. “You are the perfect emissary for me, then.”

“Emissary?” Elle sat up. “You want me to crash a Nob Hill shindig? You've gone daffy!”

“Elle,” soothed Lily, “if anyone can discover why the Council is sending Walkers after Piotr, it is you. You were born to affluence, you speak their language.”

“Hell, guys,” Elle groaned, “it ain't like you can drop a c-note on the ground and get that bunch of big cheeses to sing a pretty tune! There's
rules
up Nob Hill way! They don't just let any mook off the street up at the Mark Hopkins, and to them I'm just some wacky kid with arrows a'plenty!”

“All the better,” Lily interjected smoothly, “for they are wise to recognize your prowess in battle. Elle, you know as well as I that Piotr would be worse than useless in this scenario, especially if the Council truly does wish him harm. He needs you.
We
need you.”

“Thank you so very much,” Piotr snapped, not bothering to hide the bitterness in his tone.

She flapped a hand at him. “I speak only the truth, Piotr. There is no room for your false pride. It took you long enough to believe our words when your memories were lax. Believe me, as you are now you would be naught but meat for their dogs.”

“
Da
,” he agreed, sighing heavily. “You are right. But I do not appreciate being called useless.”

“‘Worse than useless,’” Elle quoted with a dark grin. “Get it right, Petey, or I might not get all dolled up and rub elbows with the high hats up Nob Hill way.”

“You will do this, then?” Lily touched Elle lightly on the knee, her expression concerned but cool. “Despite the potential danger?”

“What're a few goons to me?” Elle hopped to her feet and winked broadly. “Let's get a wiggle on. I've gotta be off my nut to wanna crash a Council brawl, but…for you two? I'd do anything.”

T
he sash of her window was stuck. Irritated, Wendy popped the side of the glass with the heel of her hand. It shifted with a shudder and she slid the window up without further problem.

Sliding one leg through the window and into her bedroom, Wendy paused to muse on how ridiculous she felt. Her father was out on assignment again—he was one of the best efficiency experts in Silicon Valley, sent in as a hatchet-man to strip down companies and build them back up again—but reorganizing behemoth megacorps usually took weeks at best and chances were that he wouldn't be home for another week. There was no logical reason why she should be sneaking home through her window like a thief again.

Since the death of her mother, her curfew had been lifted. Wendy could have stayed out until dawn and sauntered in at breakfast without earning herself so much as a raised eyebrow. Still, it just felt
right
to be coming in this way, no matter if it made sense or not.

“Just go with it,” she muttered under her breath as she closed the window behind her and drew her curtains down. The twins were both still up—as usual, she could hear them arguing about something in the kitchen.

Wendy had no more than sat on her bed and begun unlacing her right boot when thunderous steps pounded up the stairs and a fist hammered at her door.

“Yeah?” she called, making a face at the door and stifling a groan. She was exhausted. Couldn't refereeing Chel and Jon's bickering wait until morning?

Chel opened the door and stuck her disheveled blonde head through the crack. Wendy was amused to see that her sister had only slathered on part of a facial mask; half her face was fluorescent pink, the other splotchy with acne. “We need you.”

“You need me,” Wendy repeated dryly, glancing at the ticking cat clock on the wall. “Right now. At midnight.”

Narrowing her eyes, Chel thrust the door open the rest of the way. In addition to the half-done mask, she wore one of their mother's tattered old robes, once a vibrant red and now a washed out, streaky pink, and a much-mended pair of Wendy's old Hello Kitty PJ bottoms frayed at the knees. Jon's favorite yellow slippers were comically overlarge on her feet.

“Yeah, you sanctimonious butthead, now is when we need you.” Chel glared at Wendy, ignoring her older sister's smirk at her appearance. “You don't have to be an ass about it.”

“I don't care about whatever you two are arguing about, Chel,” Wendy sighed, unlacing her boots and toeing them off. She wriggled her feet in the carpet and sighed appreciatively. “I really don't. Kill each other, for all I care. I'm not getting in the middle of another fight.”

“Oh please,” Chel said, rolling her eyes and running a hand through her hair, pushing the bleached blonde back so Wendy could see the untouched red roots beneath. “Jon-shmon, we don't want you to judge a debate, this is important.”

“Fine. Fine!” Wendy stood, crossing her arms over her chest and resisting the urge to kick her sister in the shin. “What is it?”

“Lose the skirt, grab some jeans, and shut up,” Chel snapped and waved for Wendy to follow. Wendy stuck her tongue out at Chel's back but shimmied quickly out of her mini, yanked an old, grungy pair of jeans off the top of the mend pile, and, hopping on one foot as she donned the pants, followed her sister downstairs. Chel waited in the kichen with the heater on and the back door open. Jon hovered in the doorway, distressed, crossing and uncrossing his arms and shifting nervously from foot to foot.

“I wasn't sure you were home,” he said apologetically as Wendy, grabbing a pair of their father's old sneakers from beside the door, turned the corner. “But Dad said you were in charge and…well, you just seem to be
better
at this sort of stuff than we are.”

As Wendy joined him in the doorway, he shifted his bulk out of the way, and Wendy bit her lip to keep from mentioning the fresh plate of cookies on the counter. Jon was supposed to be on a diet, but he was a stress-eater and the last few months had been stressful as hell. She ought to say something, she knew, but Jon was so mournful about bothering her and edgy in general that Wendy didn't have the heart to get on his case about it.
Besides
, she reasoned,
maybe they weren't for him.

“What sort of stuff? And shut the door, you're letting all the warm air out.” Curious now, Wendy glanced around the kitchen. Nothing, besides the cookies,
seemed
out of the ordinary.

Blocking Jon from shutting the door with her arm, Chel shook her head. “Can't you
hear
it?”

“Hear what?” Wendy froze and listened, but she couldn't understand why Chel was so agitated. Everything was still and silent.

“Deaf as a post. Come on.” Chel grabbed Wendy by the wrist and dragged her into the black backyard. Jon shut the door behind them, blocking the light from the kitchen and leaving them in chilly darkness. He tripped heavily following them down the stairs.

Allowing her sister to haul her across the yard, Wendy shivered. It was uncommonly cold out, even for Northern California, and the air smelled like a mixture of sharp ice shards and the last of the rotting, unplucked oranges drooping from their neighbor's citrus trees.

They had reached the back shed before Wendy heard it. Soft, muffled keening sounds. Pain, very clearly pain.

“It's a raccoon,” Chel whispered, fumbling in the robe pocket and coming up with a palm-sized LED flashlight. She passed the light to Wendy. “Look.”

“A raccoon?” Wendy took the light but didn't turn it on. “You dragged me out here for a raccoon? Can't you call Animal Control or something?”

“This close to New Year's?” Chel's voice dripped derision. “We tried that already and the automated system thingy said no one will be in the office for another three days.”

Startled, Wendy shook her head. “Isn't that illegal? Aren't they supposed to have someone on call for crap like this? What if it's rabid or something?”

“I don't know if it's rabid, but it's definitely hurt. Look, already. Use the frickin’ light.”

Nervous now, Wendy pressed the face of the flashlight into her palm to dim the brightness and slowly turned the body of the light until she heard a click. It was a powerful light for being so small; her palm lit up pink and she could make out the veins in her hands easily.

“I don't want to piss it off,” she whispered to Chel.

“I think it might be past the point of getting pissed off,” Chel whispered back.

Jon touched her shoulder and Wendy almost yelped out loud.
Stupid, stupid, stupid
, she berated herself savagely.
You can face down a bunch of Walkers with their faces rotting off with hardly a blink but you come across one hurt animal and you jump like a little girl? Seriously? You big baby, get it together!

Gingerly, expecting the raccoon to leap out at her like a chest-burster from a horror flick, Wendy lifted the light to the filthy shed window. What she saw broke her heart.

The raccoon, so far as Wendy could tell, wasn't the huge grizzled veteran of forest and highway she'd been expecting. It was younger, a juvenile, and twisted into a ball in the corner of the shed. Half of its body was black with dried blood; one forearm had been torn nearly off, and half of its face was matted with clumps of missing fur and jagged, weeping gashes. The stump that had once been a perky ear waved weakly as Wendy lit the shed; Wendy turned her face away, heart pounding.

It was still alive.

“Oh, poor baby,” she whispered, handing the light to Jon and slumping down the side of the shed to bury her hot face against her knees.
Don't cry, Wendy
, she thought fiercely,
don't you dare cry.
“What happened?”

“Dog? I don't know.” Chel's voice quivered. “It doesn't have three days to wait for help, Wendy.”

“At this rate it doesn't even have three hours,” Jon said. “Not in this cold.” He twisted the flashlight until the LEDs flicked off. “What do we do?”

“I can call the 24-hour vet,” Chel suggested, rubbing her hands up and down her arms. “Mom's rolodex is still in the cabinet, right?”

“I don't think they take wild animals,” Wendy said, wracking her brains for the right course of action. Why did Dad have to be out of town? Why now, when they needed him?

“Then what do we do, Wendy?” Chel knelt beside Wendy and pushed a hank of Wendy's hair off her face. “Because we're out of ideas over here.”

Now, up close to the shed, Wendy marveled that she hadn't heard the raccoon before. Its pain was whisper-bright, like silvery bells chiming in the Never, audible in an unexpected way, like slivers of ice against the back of her neck.

Wendy remembered her mother's cat Jabberwocky, how he'd hung around after his death and kept Wendy company in the lonely months after her mother had been hospitalized. Jabber'd been spying on her for the White Lady but Wendy hadn't known that at the time; she'd been grateful for his ghostly presence, no matter how touchy he could get at times, and even if it was weird to hang out with a dead cat. According to Piotr, animals could communicate in the Never, she remembered. Hopefully this one wouldn't be the exception to the rule.

“Go see what Google has to say,” Wendy told Jon, holding her hand out for the flashlight. “See if there's any other company we can call.” She pushed off the wall to stand and looked at Chel. “You phone the vet. See if they're willing to take him. It. Whatever. I'll stay here for a minute, see if I can figure something out.” She waved her hands at her siblings. “Go. Shoo.”

Silently they followed orders, slipping inside the house like ghosts themselves. Wendy waited until she saw Chel's shadow moving around in her bedroom upstairs to call upon the Light and slip through the thinnest side of the shed in the Never rather than waking the neighbors by risking the noisy, rusted squeal the shed door usually made. Once inside she coalesced back into her living shape, eyes open to the spiritual realm.

The spirit of the raccoon huddled in the same corner as its body. Thankfully its incorporeal body was in much better shape than its physical one. The physical shell hardly twitched at her approach; up close Wendy could see the narrow gap in the back of the shed. Where the shed pressed against the overgrown hedge and honeysuckle at the back of their yard, some animal—perhaps this raccoon, perhaps something else—had carved out a sizeable tunnel to allow easy passage from yard to yard, making their shed a nice, cozy haven.

“Hi,” Wendy said nervously, kneeling down. “Do you understand me?”

The soul of the raccoon sniffed at her hand and Wendy
felt
what it meant to convey rather than heard what it was saying.

It was like a waterfall of images, nothing like what she'd expected after discussing animal communication with Piotr. He'd described it as words in your head, but this was more like a rapid-fire slideshow shot directly into her brain, accompanied with tastes and smells that left Wendy momentarily shaking and overwhelmed.

Moldy bread. Apples. Open bags of Cheetos, jagged Sonic bags with hot dog remnants. Carrot tops and onion roots and dead squirrels and half a garden snake. A bent can of tuna fish. Cold, salty fries out of greasy cardboard cups. Licking days-old sauce off of In & Out wrappers.

“No, I don't have any food right now,” she apologized, stunned by the depth of the raccoon's expression. “I'm sorry. What happened?”

Separated from its mother, from its family. Tried to follow the smell but found a cat. Big cat. In the hills. Dog. Smelled the blood. Chased the raccoon. Sleep. Exhaustion. Pain in face, pain in ear. Another dog, this one bigger, meaner, no shiny around its neck. A stray. Big. Black. Teeth, nails, pain. Then…people smells
.

Not supposed to go to people smells, stay near woods, stay near shiny cans with good food at edge of woods, but never people. People are mean. People hurt with big sticks. But pain. Dog won't go into people places. Run, limp, hide. Pain in neck. Pain in face. Pain. So thirsty. Front leg hurts lots. Paw doesn't work. Back leg doesn't work, drag it. Found old tunnel. Thirsty. So thirsty, but finally found good smells, this people house smells like tunnel, like woods. This people house smells like peace. Rest. Sleep. Quiet. Safe.

Slowly it dawned on Wendy what the raccoon was trying to get across. She knelt down beside him, swallowing deeply, and fought the tears pricking the corners of her eyes.

“You came here to die,” she whispered. “You can smell…you know what death smells like?”

The raccoon's spirit ears flicked and Wendy got a clear image: the raccoon's father crawling away from the highway, back legs crushed and covered with the blood-rust-salt smell of death, one of the raccoon's sisters—only a pup—clutched in his mouth. She tumbled safely down the embankment into the rich loam at the edge of the woods, stinking of death, and then, after a long, long time, their father died, curled on the side of the road while the people sped past.

The others went into the woods but this raccoon didn't; he waited until his father died to rejoin his family. He sat vigil. He waited. Anger, helplessness, frustration, sorrow. But most of all, the overwhelming feeling of
want-to. Want-to-help. Want-to-fix. Want-to-make-the-pain-stop. Want-to-want-to-want-to.