Rising (21 page)

Francesca guides me as I gently flush
out each wound with saline solution from the med kit. The water plays in Tarren’s
wounds, picking up dirty ash and spilling down his sides in gray streaks. Every
time I look at Tarren’s back it seems worse. Those scars are such a blatant
ruination, and now the burns.

Because of me. He’s hurt because of me.
He’ll have new scars from this.

I assume that I’ll have to cut away at
all that charred fabric melted into his skin, but Francesca says this will come
later. Gabe buys an armload of water bottles from the vending machine
downstairs. Francesca isn’t happy – apparently filtered water isn’t the same
thing as sterile water – but with no other easy options at hand, she tells me
what to do next. I soak long lines of gauze in the water and carefully wrap it
around Tarren’s torso.

I don’t know how much time passes. I
don’t feel anything except the wet gauze in one hand and Tarren’s fevered skin
as I lift him to pass the gauze across his chest again. I don’t hear anything
except the guiding beacon of Francesca’s voice. Gabe and his fluttering aura
fade into the background, and even Tarren ceases to exist as a person. It’s
only this never-ending landscape of melted flesh that rises and falls with each
slow breath.

Inch by inch, the wounds disappear
beneath the wet gauze, and I follow with several layers of dry bandages. Then,
I’m taping up the last layer, wondrous and strangely exhilarated that it’s
actually over.

Thank God for Francesca. Thank every
single God in the known universe; the ones who ignore us and the ones who must
watch us from the heavens and laugh at our antics. She has to be as terrified
as the rest of us, but her voice never waivers. I sit back on the bed as she
explains a process called debridement, where we will need to scrape away the
dead tissue with a scalpel so that new skin can begin to grow. She also speaks
of IVs, catheters, and sedatives.

Gabe types notes into his laptop,
occasionally asking for a clarification or alternative drug options.

“He will be in a lot of pain. Unbearable
pain,” Francesca tells us. “You’ll need to keep him under general anesthesia
for several days, and then on bed rest with a morphine drip for eight to twelve
weeks. He shouldn’t be moved.”

Gabe and I look at each other, and I see
a ripple of panic in his face that must match my own. Tarren on bed rest for
eight to twelve weeks? I can’t even get him to sleep for more than four hours a
night. And we’re in fucking Peoria, Illinois, a room above a grieving family
whose daughter could decide to drop in for a murderous rampage at any minute.

“Alright, we’ll figure something out,”
Gabe says into the phone, his forehead momentarily etched with deep lines.

Francesca’s instructions wind down. I
gather the wet, stained towels from beneath Tarren and throw them in the tub for
later rinsing.

“Tell me where you are,” Francesca is
saying when I return to the main room. “I’ll come and take care of him.”

I remember the night of my birthday three
months ago when my brothers and I spent the evening at Dr. Lee’s house. Francesca
had stolen furtive glances at Tarren under her long, black lashes as wine
colors of lust glowed in her aura. I pray that Gabe knows nothing of that unrequited
crush.

“It’s better if you don’t,” Gabe says.

“Tarren’s life is at risk.” Francesca’s
voice finally loses its calm. “Don’t be stupid about this.”

Gabe cracks a brief smile. “Stupid is my
middle name. You gave us good instructions.”

Francesca starts to respond, but Gabe
cuts her off. “Thank you and sorry…” His voice softens. “Sorry for all the shit
we put you through.”

“Gabe,” Francesca says. Her pleas cut
out as he ends the call.

“And I love you,” Gabe whispers, holding
the phone in his palm. He flips open the back and removes the SIM card.

I ease off the bed on stiff joints and realize
how thirsty I am. I grab an extra bottle of water and chug it. Gabe approaches
the bed and looks down at Tarren. He is quiet for longer than he is usually capable
of remaining silent.

Finally, he speaks. “What happened to
his wrists?”

“Huh?” I put the water bottle down on
the nightstand.

“These are new.” Gabe points to the raw,
dark scars on the tops of Tarren’s wrists.

“He was…” The memory flairs up in my
mind.

Tarren screaming beneath the tape
covering his mouth, lunging against his restraints. Blood oozing from his torn
wrists. His aura, his beautiful supernova aura. Pure white with fear
.

The skin peels away from my palms
beneath the latex gloves. I take a step back from the bed. “He was fighting
against the cuffs while you were drained. He cut his wrists down to the bone
trying to get to you.”

Gabe looks at me and then back down to
Tarren. His eyes are wet and bright as he carefully pulls the sheet up and over
Tarren’ shoulders, hiding all those scars.

Beneath the layers of ash, I find
Tarren’s real face. The wet cloth in my hand reveals the smooth plain of his
forehead, those straight dark brows and long lashes pressed against each other.
The water turns a turgid gray as I rinse out the cloth and rediscover the
bridge of Tarren’s nose and the delicate skin beneath his eyes, slightly swollen
with exhaustion. The cloth takes the ash from his lips, and I feel the sturdy
edge of his jaw beneath the wet fabric as I scrub at two days of dark beard
growth. I’m hesitant about the scar, but Tarren’s breaths are slow and steady,
so I gently clean the left side of his jaw, feeling the raised, harden flesh of
the scar that travels from below his left ear, along his jaw, and then up his
chin, ending before it reaches his lower lip.

I hardly know this face at all. Too
often deep trenches of concern mar that forehead, and I hardly ever see those
lips free of a scowl or brewing discontent.

“And the tubing?” Gabe says as he paces,
phone glued to his ear. “Tubing,” he says again, louder. “Okay, okay. And how
many IV units? Uh-huh.” He laughs. “Mildred you’re a treat…no, I said treat.
TREAT. That’s not too many right? Okay, yeah, I don’t want to be taking them if
you need them. Yeah, so grateful. With the storm, Grammy’s supplies didn’t
show. The storm. Yeah, terrible. No, wasn’t alive in 68, but that one sounds
like a real doozy.”

I squeeze out the cloth and keep scrubbing
under Tarren’s jaw. This is definitely weird beyond weird. It is an immutable
law of Tarren’s universe that Thou Shalt Not Provide Care, Comfort, Or Concern
Unto Tarren At Any Time. Despite the fact that we’ve hardly been more than a
few feet apart from each other for the last two months, in all that time I only
ever touched him to wake him from the nightmares.

“No, no, we’re good on adult diapers,
but thanks Mildred,” Gabe says. He leans against the bed. “Compression socks?
No, I’m going to have to pass on those …Mildred, you’re a peach. Tell Florence
the same thing. I’ll be there in a…I said peach. You’re a PEACH. Alright. Be
there soon.”

Gabe hangs up, glances at the clock on
the nightstand, and holds out his hand. “Under an hour. Pay up.”

“Alright, so you really can find
anything on Craigslist,” I admit as I put away the cloth and hand over a folded
ten dollar bill from my purse. Who knew the senior citizen population were so
tech savvy?

A proud grin transforms Gabe’s face. Our
eyes meet. For a moment we’re back before he got injured and lost his happiness
to storm clouds and migraines.

Then the grin is gone, and the tepid
beginnings of my own smile with it.

“Not everything,” Gabe says as he wraps
himself in his duster and pulls the lapels up. “We don’t have much sedative left,
but I’ll work my magic on that problem when I get back. You good here?”

“How did you get your hat?” I ask
instead.

“Rescued a leprechaun named Patrick from
the claws of a mean old tom cat. Pat was so thankful that when I told him about
my hat, he sang a magical song. All the birds of the forest gathered on my
shoulders and lifted me up to the branch. It was pretty awesome. Should’a been
there.”

I roll my eyes. “This leprechaun didn’t
happen to mention a pot of gold, did he?”

Gabe shakes his head. “I asked about it,
but Patty got really pissed. He doesn’t like talking about the gold or what’s in
his pipe.”

“Of course not.” I’m stalling, and I
hope it isn’t obvious.

“Alright Nurse Jackie, I’ve got two very
eager dames awaiting my arrival.” Gabe flashes one more grin that is too
energetic for his weary face and then leaves the room.

The door closes. I look over to Sir
Hopsalot. The gray bunny nestles in the plastic tub of hay that Gabe set up
under the table. His eyes, shiny as black marbles, stare at me a moment. Then
he nudges into the hay, finds a piece that meets his fancy, and chews loudly. I
try to concentrate on the crunch of the hay in his jaws, the anemic cough of the
heating system, anything but the unceasing sobs from the room below.

***

The minutes are slow to yield, and worries
fill my head.

I hear a sharp knock on the door below where
Raven’s family is still residence. I look out the window into the parking lot,
and the squad car puts me on instant alert.

Fuck a horse.
The cops are looking for Raven just as
Tarren predicted. What happens if they start knocking on doors all over the
complex, taking statements, and doing room searches? Do they need a warrant to
search a motel room? I should have looked this up at some point. Tarren would
know. I glance at my unconscious brother on the bed. Drinking binge. I’ll tell
them he’s passed out from a drinking binge. Guns will go under the bed. And the
rabbit? Hell, what can they do about a rabbit?

“Did you find her? Is there anything?”
Raven’s mom starts asking questions even as she swings open the door. Hope
bleeds through every word.

“We’re sorry Ma’am,” one of the officers
answers, his voice clipped and professional. He and Tarren could be poker
buddies in another life. “No sightings yet. We still have officers keeping a
look out. Have you had any additional contact from her?”

Additional contact? I sit cross-legged
on the floor using my sensitive hearing to pick up the conversation below.

“MOOOM!” a child’s voice competes for
attention.

“Go. Sit. Down!” Raven’s mom says to her
young son in automatic mother mode. “I’m talking to the police officers.” After
a pause, she continues, “No, she hasn’t called again. Are there more places you
can look? It’s so cold out there.”

“Mrs. Marks, it’s very common for teens
to run away for a few days to blow off steam,” the officer says, that same
no-nonsense tone. “Maybe she met someone at the mall? Decided to crash as his
place for a while?”

“No!” The woman’s voice rises. “Raven
wouldn’t run away. Something’s wrong. Someone’s taken her, or…or…something
happened. There wasn’t any reason. She was mad about the move…about leaving her
friends, but…but…she wouldn’t…” She dissolves into sobs.

“We’ll keep looking,” the second officer
speaks up. He sounds young, etched with compassion. “Please let us know if she
calls again. And…,” he pauses as if a little unsure, “do your best not to
worry.”

Yeah right,
I think. Raven’s mom doesn’t respond.
The officers say their goodbyes, and the door closes below. I watch out the
window as they get into their squad car. The short one with the buzz cut and
military gait is definitely the hard-nosed Tarren cop.

Interesting. Very interesting. Raven
called her family. Did she tell them she was running away to protect them? At
least the police are considering her a runaway and not a missing person. Huge
relief. If they think she ran away at the mall, they won’t have any reason to
question the motel residents.

Thank you Raven,
I think even as I listen to her mother
weep below. The father is not in the room, maybe out looking for his daughter
on his own. The TV is on, and I hear Raven’s brother making car sounds for a
while, but his play is muted and joyless.

I get up from the floor, sit on the edge
of the bed, and pick up the wet cloth again. The cake of ash on Tarren’s hands
is stubborn. Blisters stand out against the red, raw landscape of his burned
palms.
From grabbing the chain,
I think as I apply Neosporin and aloe.

While I keep my hands busy, worries
crawl all over my brain like a colony of ants. I try to line them up in an
orderly fashion so I can concentrate on them one at a time, but they aren’t
having any of it. They shout over each other, jostle, and push.

Gem. I need to worry about Gem. He knows
me now, knows everything, and I have no reason to trust him beyond a few
feelings of guilt and sadness that I felt from his side of our mental
connection. The more I think about it, the more I realize that I should tell my
brothers about him, at least prepare them. We’ll have to go underground
permanently, completely sever our connections with Lo, Dr. Lee, Francesca.
But
he could have killed us if he wanted,
I think to myself.
He let us go.
Would it be any good trying to run from a mind reader?

I pull a comb through Tarren’s dark
hair, collecting the soot and bits of debris that come out. His hair smells
like fire, and it’s getting long, at least by Tarren’s strict standards.

Raven is another big concern. She’s out
there, alone, newly changed, unable to control the hunger. I shiver, thinking
about my first few days after the change. If my brothers hadn’t been there,
coaxing (Gabe) and threatening (Tarren), I know I would have slipped, would
have stolen someone’s life energy and enjoyed every moment of it. I am only a
hybrid; for Raven the hunger will be much worse. Despite the phone call, she
could come back here looking for her family. I have to be vigilant, ready to
act if she shows up. But act how? Does she really deserve to die for being
something she never asked to be?

The comb hits a matted patch and goes no
further. When I gently scrub at it with the cloth, it comes back red. I gently
probe Tarren’s scalp with my fingers and find a small, swollen contusion.
Another injury. Another sacrifice for me.

“I know what you’d say about Raven,” I
tell my brother, as I apply Neosporin to the cut. “A threat is a threat no
matter the circumstances. But I’m a threat too.” Tarren made an exception for
me, but it wasn’t voluntary. Gabe literally put himself between me and Tarren’s
gun the night I was changed.

War and Heather, I need to worry about
them too. Their bodies weren’t on the front lawn of the mansion. They’re still
out there, and they know my face. War is crazy enough and stupid enough to do
just about anything.

I move down the bed, pull aside the
blanket and sheets, and unlace Tarren’s boots.

The Totem move to the front of my mental
worry line. They’re amateurs running around trying to hunt angels unsupervised.
They’ll get themselves killed. Rain will get himself killed

I cup Tarren’s ankle and gently pull off
his left boot. I stare at his socks. Not just any socks. The thermal socks I
bought him. The thermal socks, which are a clear concession to practicality and
comfort.

Maybe he just ran out of clean socks,
I think. But maybe not.

Pegasus.

The word suddenly washes away the
cacophony in my brain.
Pegasus.

According to Rain, that was the last
message Tarren texted to my phone. It’s a code word, part of the system Diana
created to keep her children safe in the field. If one of us is pinned down,
injured, or needs backup, we text
Bellerophon. Pegasus
is the responding
message, it means a rescue is coming.

I pull off Tarren’s second boot, lay my
fingers on his socks, and feel his toes beneath.

“Why?” I ask him again.

I hear the familiar hum of the jeep’s
engine pull into the parking lot. A minute later, I feel Gabe’s aura with that
deeply embedded sixth sense of mine.

The door to the room below opens, and I
hear small feet trotting down the sidewalk. They pause.

“Hi,” Raven’s brother says.

“Hi yourself,” Gabe replies.

“I’m getting candy from the machine. Mom
said I could have some.”

“That’s boss.”

“What’s your name?”

Both my brothers have been trained
extensively in the art of subterfuge. Gabe, in particular, has a golden tongue
capable of making up an entire life of lies in a moment.

“Gabe,” Gabe says. “And who might you
be, little man?”

The boy laughs. “Our names rhyme. Gabe
and Abe.”

“Abe? Your parents went old school with
that one.”

“I’m named after Abraham Lincoln,” Abe
says, pride evident in his voice. “He freed black people.”

“So he did,” Gabe says warmly.

“I’m black,” Abe announces.

“Hmmm, you sure about that? You look
mostly brown to me.”

“Not-uh, I’m black,” Abe insists.

Gabe chuckles. I hear him shift. “Why
don’t you go get that candy now before the machine runs out.”

“Yeah, okay.” Abe’s voice is suddenly
shy. “Do you, uh, want to see my Batman later?”

“You got a Batman?” Gabe sounds
impressed. “Sure I would. I just got some sh..stuff I gotta’ do first. Enjoy
the sugar high little man.”

I open the door just as Gabe makes it to
the top step and staggers in. I take the plastic grocery bags off his arms and
nod to the table where I’ve already set out a protein shake, three power bars,
and a bruised apple.

“I’m not…” he begins. The look I give
him is as explosive as a landmine
.
His words falter. “Yes ma’am,” he
sighs and sinks into the chair.

“He okay?” He looks toward Tarren as he
unwraps a power bar and shoves an impressive proportion of it in his mouth.

“No change.” I open the first grocery
bag and wrinkle my nose. “What are these?”