Reckoning (19 page)

Have you ever had your fingernails slowly torn off? It’s not fun.

I tensed again, everything focused on bending my arms. But I was tired, we’d run a long way, and the smell of blood wasn’t just taunting me. It was filling my head with smoky rage, hard to think, and my strength was bleeding away too.

I felt instead of heard the
skkkkritch!
as my claws slipped, and then I was plummeting like a star, eight stories passing in an eyeblink. Spinning catlike in midair, got my feet under me, and the
aspect
flexed, snapping like a rubber band over every inch of skin I owned.

Landed hard enough to jolt the breath out of me, but nothing broke. My hands were raw pieces of meatpain; I lifted them both to my mouth and got a faceful of bloodscent. It sent me to my knees on a drift of garbage, and I spun aside instinctively as flaming wreckage began drifting down into the alley.

What the hell?
But it was obvious. Someone had blown up the helicopter. With a
rocket
, no less. Just waiting for us to get there before they opened fire.

Hiro. Christophe. Nat. Oh, God
.

Nosferatu
hunting-screams rose like bright ribbons in the night. They jabbed through my head, iceglass spikes, and my back hit the brick wall of the alley. It was filthy down here, and the heat and humidity just made it worse. I heard muffled wingbeats, and Gran’s owl filled itself in. It soared down, dodging falling bits of fiery refuse as they cartwheeled silently into the alley. The bird was a charcoal sketch, its feathers just suggestions of paleness. It made a tight circle over me, kept gliding.

Can’t go back up there; they could have other guns to pick everyone off. Think, Dru!

My thinker sputtered like an old engine.
Houston. He said Houston. You’re in enemy territory, there’s mad hexers and a bunch of nosferatu roaming around, and you’re bleeding. You’ve just run halfway across the city and anyone who might help you is probably running for their life too right now
.

Yep. It was official. I ruined everything, I was a disease. No matter how bad shit got, there was
always
worse coming down the pike.

I braced myself against the wall. I didn’t have much time—the suckers were going to get here any second to mop up whatever was
left. Going up to rescue anyone was impossible, and idiotic too. But Christophe. And Nat . . .

Get the hell away from here. That’s the first step
.

I coughed, hard. Cleared my lungs. My hands were moving, flipping up the flap of my messenger bag. The
aspect
burned against my fingertips, soothing and repairing. I found the switchblade by touch and fished it out. It snicked open, and I suddenly felt much calmer.

This is a test, Dru. You don’t have anyone else to take care of now
.

Gran’s owl zoomed away. I bolted for the mouth of the alley, following it and dodging flaming wreckage.

And I vanished into the night.

It probably says
something for American cities that a teenage
svetocha
, covered in grime and soot and with blood streaking her arms, can pass largely unnoticed. Just what it says ain’t nice.

I wasn’t on autopilot, but I wasn’t quite myself either. The
touch
was a loosely waving anemone around me, steering me away from the edges of trouble. I crouched for a good fifteen minutes in a dumpster once, peering out between the lid and the lip of it, my feet slipping a little on greasy crud and my eyes watering from the stench. It covered up the thick aroma of cinnamon rolls boiling up from my skin, though. And while I watched, gagging every few moments and trying desperately not to throw up, I saw things.

Dogs built of smoke and fine hexwork, thin red and blue threads coalescing in steam vapor as they ran through the streets, searching. Little tiny flying things, that same red and blue hexwork, hanging from threads like puppet butterflies. And the black paper-cutout shadows of suckers, blurring through and trailing bright spangled streaks of hatred.

This is a lot of trouble for one little
svetocha,
don’t you think?
I held down my gag reflex by sheer will, again. My sneakers slipped in crud, and a thin cold finger of liquid touched my ankle.
Oh, gross. So gross
.

I found a residential section, and it took me a good hour to find a car worth stealing. It was a Jeep Wagoneer, spare ignition key left under the front floor mat—don’t ask, some people
are
just that dumb—and this time I didn’t stop to see if there were insurance papers in the glove box. Because the hunting cries were still rising all over the city in crystal chill columns of hate, the more frequent the closer dawn came. The eastern sky held a faint tinge of gray, but not nearly enough to suit me.

Gran’s owl circled overhead, and with it floating in front of me I penetrated a tangle of side streets and—luck or the
touch
, I’m not sure—found a freeway on–ramp. 75-86 South; that would take me to 65 South. Then I’d cut west, and I’d be in Houston in a couple days if the car held out, less if I pushed it and drove the whole, what, fourteen hours or so?

Just get clear of the blast zone, Dru. Then hole up somewhere and do some thinking. I’d say this requires some heavy thought, at least
.

I jammed the accelerator down. The Jeep picked it up, and the sound of the freeway filled my ears because I had the front windows down. I was never stealing a car without power windows again, dammit.

I wiped at my cheeks, but I found out I wasn’t crying. It was some kind of occasion—everything going to hell and a vampire attack, and for once I wasn’t leaking.

Hooray.

There’s a town near Mobile called Daphne, which is a really pretty name if you don’t know the legend behind it. On the outskirts there’s an abandoned house, set back from the Gulf and slowly sinking into sandy soil. Something underneath the small white frame house is giving way an inch at a time, and the development it was a part of way back in the sixties is a ghost town. Nobody thought that the ocean would start taking nibbles off beneath this particular piece of the shore, but I guess the sea had its own ideas.

All the houses are crazy cockeyed by now, roofs slumping and walls buckling. The whole neighborhood is condemned, and I guess the developer who went out on a limb to convince people this was a great idea ended up shooting himself in one of the homes. Which one, Dad and I never found out.

Sometimes the dead
do
just leave. It happens.

Johnny Cash’s mournful voice shut off when I cut the engine. The Wagoneer was filthy with dust from the little bit of offroad needed to get here, and for once the Gulf smelled fresh. Just before noon, the sun was up, it was hotter than hell, and even the breeze coming off the water didn’t help. Salt smell filled my nose, I blinked and rubbed at my eyes. Unbuckled my seat belt.

This particular house was familiar. The freshening breeze moaned through half-open windows and whispered through sea grass, and I inhaled deeply. No trouble anywhere, the
touch
loose and quiescent like a sleeping cat. Gran’s owl had faded out with the dawn. I was grainy-eyed and still smelled of soot and ick, but at least I’d washed the worst of it off at a gas station once the sun was safely up.

It might not even be here
. I bit gently at my lower lip as I studied the house.
Don’t rush it, even if you think there might be nothing there. Take your time. You’re on your own, no safety net. Do it right
.

Same white house, sloping to one side, same broken windows.
Same cold breath against the nape when you approach it, your feet crunching on sand and bits of shell scattered from the walk that used to be snow-white. The pavement is cracked; the streets have gaping potholes that could break an axle. I was kind of surprised I’d found it—I’d been navigating on memory and gut instinct alone.

I almost expected to see Dad in front of me, walking soft and easy like he was heading into enemy territory, gun drawn but down. He never approached a cache without gun in hand.

Because if you’re coming back to a cache, things might be bad, and if things are bad, the chance of someone waiting there for you had to be seriously considered. Still, he and I were the only people who knew about this place, right? And two can keep a secret if one is . . .

. . . dead.

Don’t think about that. Get in, get the cache, get out
.

I supposed I should be grateful we’d spent so much time below the Mason-Dixon. At least I knew what I was about down here, and I would be in comfortable territory even over into Texas.

Of course, I’d been in comfortable territory at Gran’s, too, and still managed to screw that up hardcore. I didn’t even know
how
I’d messed up so bad. It’d just happened way too fast to take back.

I toed the door open, a
malaika
in one hand. A razor-sharp wooden sword was hardly the worst weapon to have around, I guess, but I would’ve preferred a gun. I’d had to unbuckle the leather harness before I got out to pump gas, for God’s sake, and my back wasn’t too happy even under the
aspect
’s smoothing heat. Driving with a pair of
malaika
strapped to your back is one way to end up feeling like an arthritic old lady.

The door creaked. The floor rolled in rotting humps, and the white noise of the ocean filled my head.
Come here’n take a look at
this, Dru-girl
. Dad’s voice, calling through the shaky halls. Sharp rotting tang of mildew, each inch of wood swelling, drifts of paper trash in the corners. Looked like nobody had crashed here for long, thank God.

Even normal people can sometimes feel the creepy-chill. And stay away.

I cased the entire house, moving ghost-quiet, working the sightangles like Dad had taught me. Sometimes he had me sweep a house with him, sometimes on my own while he timed me and offered pointers afterward. I’d never really considered it not normal. I mean, I knew other kids didn’t do what I did, but no kid ever thinks their home life is weird. It’s just . . . there. Like your breathing, your heartbeat.

Like gravity. Only all my gravity was gone and I was spinning.

You’re a disease, Dru. You’re bad luck
.

My sneakers tracked in the sand, and when I finally made it up the tottering stairs a second time memory filled my head like gasoline fumes. Dad showing me again how to move quietly on steps, how to test each board, how to walk only where he did and the signals to use when I felt something weird. Of course, he could usually tell just by looking at me—I guess I got
that look
, the one that gave him the singing willies, a lot.
You go white as a sheet and your eyes . . . well, they look like your ma’s
, he’d told me once. I think he’d had a little too much Beam that night.

He generally had to have a little sauce before he would talk about Mom.

Upstairs in the smaller bedroom, the closet was propped open. The carpet in here was rotten clear through, probably black with mildew underneath, but the day was hot enough that it didn’t soak my knees with yuck when I went down cautiously and felt around
inside the closet. It smelled truly ferocious in there, and by the time I found the notch I was halfway to throwing up again. I was glad I hadn’t eaten anything.

The slice of flooring was swollen from the morning damp, but I got it worked up. And hallelujah, the ammo boxes were still there. Four in a row, neat as you please. Which meant I was now armed, had some extra cash, and probably had some ID, ammo, and MREs in there too.

“Oh, thank you,” I whispered, not sure who I was thanking. God, maybe, or Dad for laying down the cache in the first place. There was another cache on my way to Houston, but this one meant I could breathe and I wouldn’t have to stop to gather liquid resources. “Thank you. Holy . . .”

I stopped, my head coming up. Was that a soft footstep? The
touch
unfolded, swept out in concentric ripples, little waving fingers combing the air, searching for danger.

Nothing. The sooner I got out of here, though, the better. I didn’t stop to look inside the ammo boxes, just loaded them in the Wagoneer’s trunk and piled in, spun the wheel, and left only footsteps and a roostertail of dust as evidence.

By the time
I reached Biloxi I was about ready to lay down and die from exhaustion. The second time I almost veered out of my lane after blinking, I decided it was time to find a hotel. My eyes ached, the rest of me wasn’t far behind, and my mother’s locket flared with alternate ice and molten heat.

Plus I felt like I could eat every trashy bit of fast food I could lay my hands on. With the cardboard it was wrapped in.
And
the bag. Extra fiber, yum.

I should have driven further. But really, wrecking the Jeep was
so
not an option. The sun was westering, dipping behind an inky veil of clouds, weather moving in from the Gulf on indigo wings with furnace underlighting. Looked like a storm, and a doozy too. But it would probably make things fresh and clean in the morning. I found a Walmart and used up some of the cash from the cache—the bills smelled of mildew but were otherwise all right—to buy jeans. Panties. T-shirts, a couple tank tops, a couple sports bras I was sure would fit me now, and a couple pairs of cheap sneakers. And, finally, some
elastic bands for my stupid hair. If I could just stop losing all my luggage things would be swell. Or at least, better.