The Gathering (12 page)

One Final, Fading Snippet

“H
is name is Agent Michael Bledsoe,” a familiar voice says. “According to his profile, he’s been working for the FBI for ten years. Married for eighteen. He and his wife have two daughters. Their oldest is seventeen.”

“Our age.”

The floor beneath me rattles.

I open one eye. I’m staring up at a metal ceiling. Sunlight filters inside the strange box, painting everything too bright. My body cries out in pain, the worst of which throbs in my ankle. Memories shift like bits of glass inside a kaleidoscope.

The FBI agent in Greeley.

Being chased by two German shepherds.

Sliding down a ravine.

The blast of mysterious heat.

Hopping on a train. Or rather, Luka hopping me on a train.

I spot him in the corner of the railcar, doing push-ups fast and quick, like he’s racing someone. Maybe he’s racing himself. Maybe he thinks enough exercise will chase away the things that haunt him. Or get back the things he’s lost.

“Hey.” Jillian sits up on her knees. “You’re awake.”

Barely, and I’m not sure I want to be. Never in my life have I wanted a dose of pain medication so badly. My head pounds. My ankle burns. Every muscle in my body aches. I try to push myself up, but a groan slides past my lips.

Luka pushes all the way up to help me.

Gritting my teeth, I lean back against one of the walls of the railcar. “How long have I been out?”

“A few hours.” He hands me a water bottle.

I twist off the cap and take a long drink. When my throat no longer feels like the Sahara Desert, I notice some things. Like how the dirt from the scrapes in my palms has been cleaned away, and ointment rubbed into the cuts. I push up the sleeves of my hoodie. My elbows are bandaged.

“I patched you up with Jillian’s first aid kit.”

Touched, I look into Luka’s eyes. They’re as green as clover and as deep as the ocean. Strands of dark hair stick to his forehead. I want to reach out and press away the furrow between his brow.
See
, I want to say,
just because you can’t throw a shield doesn’t mean you can’t protect me.
Somehow, I don’t think the words will bring him much comfort. So instead, I say a simple thank you.

Luka shrugs it off.

Across from me, Link peers at his iPad, deep in focus. Jillian sits beside him, clicking her lighter so the flame dances to life and dies, dances to life and dies, over and over and over again. I pull the dream phone off my belt loop. Jillian looks at me over the flame. “The light turned green after you passed out. Luka went in your place.”

I pull down my sleeves. “Did Cap have news?”

“Nothing, really,” Luka says. “He just wanted to check in.”

“Any word from Sticks and Non?”

“They arrived at headquarters.”

“Are they okay?”

“They’re fine.”

Then why is Luka avoiding eye contact? Did Cap tell Luka his theory about the ramifications? “What aren’t you telling me?”

“It’s nothing.”

“It’s obviously something.”

“Cap doesn’t want you obsessing over it.”

“Obsessing over
what
?” But as soon as the question escapes, I know. And the knowing has me sitting up straighter. “It’s about the Fighter, isn’t it? Sticks and Non heard something.”

“There’s been rumblings of another altercation.”

My skin tingles.

Link winks at me over his iPad. “Looks like Xena finally has some competition.”

*

The train rumbles along the tracks, carrying us south. I sit on the edge of the railcar, my feet dangling over the side. Sun shines through the pine trees rolling past, dappling shards of light across the pages of the journal in my lap.

Behind me, one of my sleeping teammates stirs.

I flip another page, skimming the familiar scrawl as if clues about the prophecy might suddenly appear. I search in vain. I’ve studied these journals extensively. There’s nothing but one vague reference.

Link scoots beside me and rubs his eyes. “Couldn’t sleep?”

“Not really.”

He runs his hand over the crown of his shaggy hair, momentarily flattening a cowlick. “Find anything interesting?”

I close the composition notebook and shake my head, inhaling fresh air deep inside my lungs. “Do you think we’ll make it to the Rivards?”

“Of course.”

I wish I could have some of his confidence. Honestly, it all feels a little hopeless. Between our faces everywhere on the news and my ruined ankle, I have no idea how we’re supposed to get anywhere, especially without Luka’s cloak. I can’t shake the feeling that this moment—right here—is one final, fading snippet of calm before the end. It doesn’t seem like we can climb out of this particular hole. But then I remember the blast of heat and the trail of light that chased the barking dogs away. “Hey Link?”

“Yeah?”

“What do you think happened with those dogs?”

The evening breezes past the open railcar, ruffling his hair. He folds his hands between his knees and gives me a telling smile. “Come on, Xena, you know.”

He’s right. I do. But sometimes it’s nice to hear the things I know verbalized. Sometimes it makes me feel less crazy. Or at least less alone in my craziness.

“We had help,” he says simply.

I scratch my wrist. “Why don’t you think we have help all the time?”

He gives me a light nudge with his elbow.

“What?”

“Just because we see supernatural things, doesn’t mean we see all of it, all the time.” I must look confused, because Link sighs and tries again. “Help might not always be as obvious as it was back there in Greeley, but that doesn’t mean it’s any less present.”

“So you think we have help all the time?”

“It’s just a theory, but yeah. I guess I do.”

His just-a-theory has memories wiggling to the front of my mind, one sharper than the rest. I’m back in Motel California with Luka, before I knew about Shields and Keepers and
anima
and prophecies. We were waiting for Leela, and I had some sort of vision. It wasn’t a dream. It couldn’t have been. I never fell asleep, and yet for a brief moment in time, I saw them—an army of light surrounding me. As soon as Luka touched my shoulder, the beings disappeared. But that doesn’t necessarily mean they went away. How else did we make it to Detroit and find the hub safely?

Someone moves behind us.

I press my hand against the metal floor and twist around.

Luka turns over in his sleep, his eyelids twitching. His head wrenches one way, then the other. He mumbles something incoherent. He jerks and groans.

My hands clamp over my ears. But before his groan can turn into anything louder, Link shakes him awake. The railcar goes quiet. My head does not.

The memory of Luka’s scream reverberates inside my skull. I’m not sure it will ever stop.

Expected

I
t’s time to jump.

The nighttime air is heavy with humidity. And also, the smell of dead fish. We’ve reached New Orleans. I stand on the edge of the railcar between Jillian and Luka, staring at the dark ground whizzing by. Twenty-five miles per hour has never felt so fast. But there’s no other option. If we don’t jump now, we’ll end up in a coal yard.

Luka takes my hand. My palm is sweaty. I’m too preoccupied with my racing heart and swollen ankle to care. He gives my hand a gentle squeeze. “You ready?”

I nod.

The train lets loose a loud, haunting whistle.

We toss our bags out into the dark, and on the count of three, we jump. I take the full brunt of the impact on my uninjured leg and fall into a roll. Pebble and rock tear through my jeans and bite into my skin.

For a second, all I can hear is the sound of my own heavy breathing.

And then, “Is everyone intact?”

It’s Jillian.

There’s a glint of black metal an arm-reach away. The gun. It must have fallen out when Jillian tumbled. I should pick it up and give to her. I don’t know the first thing about using it. Instead, I tuck the weapon inside the waist of my jeans as Luka pulls me up into standing.

He has both of our backpacks. “You okay?”

“I think so.”

“Link?” Jillian calls.

He hobbles toward us, brushing debris from his clothes. “That looks a lot cooler in the movies.”

No kidding.

The last of the train rumbles past. Behind us, the Mississippi River laps at the rocks. In front, another train sits unmoving on a set of parallel tracks, hiding us from view. And a little further ahead, music plays. A jazz band. I limp forward and peek through two of the unmoving railcars. A car-lined street ends in a T, with barricades blocking off the road of what appears to be some sort of festival.

“We should leave our backpacks here. We won’t stick out so much that way.” Luka shoves our bags beneath the railcar. “Hopefully one of the Rivards can get them for us tomorrow.”

Jillian and Link slide theirs beside ours.

I’m not sure the “no backpack” thing will help much. The four of us are a mess. After hiking fifteen miles and running for our lives and sliding down a ravine and jumping out of a train, our clothes are basically wrecked.

“Here, get on my back.”

I blink at Luka. “What?”

“It’s a party. Nobody’s going to notice if a guy has a girl on his back, but they will notice if you’re limping around.”

As much as I want to say I’m fine, his logic makes sense. And my ankle kills. With Link and Jillian’s help, I climb onto Luka’s back, trying not to think about my legs wrapped around his waist, or his warm hands on my thighs as we approach the noise.

The music grows louder. The smell of fried chicken and beer gets stronger. Once we reach the crowd, I don’t think we look too out of the ordinary. Nobody knows my heart is crashing inside of my chest. Except for Luka. I’m sure he can feel it between his shoulder blades. We weave through the bodies, carving a small path through the partiers. They wear beaded necklaces and funny hats, only it’s not Mardi Gras.

A woman with a cartful gives Luka a lewd once-over, calls him honey and hands him two cheaply made glittery top hats. He takes them without looking, puts one on his head and hands one back to me. I put it on eagerly, thankful for the extra cover. And just when I finally convince my heart to settle down—that we’re going to be okay—a very inebriated man bumps into Jillian. Hard. The force of the collision has her tumbling into a woman on her left.

I watch it all unfold in slow motion.

The woman’s bottle falls and shatters against the cement. Bits of glass and beer splatter her shoes. She shrieks. Takes a step back. Then looks up at Jillian with venom in her eyes, as though she’s going to tell her off with a whole lot of four-letter words. But the second she opens her mouth, something in her expression changes. The venom melts away. Her narrow eyes go round as they slide from Jillian to Link, neither of whom have hats.

Luka nudges Jillian forward. Away from the woman. Away from the splattered beer.

I glance over my shoulder. The woman grabs the attention of a nearby police officer and points in our direction.

My heart slams into my throat. I tighten my grip around Luka’s shoulders and yell for him to run. His pace quickens. He cuts through the crowd until we reach a narrow side street. I slide off Luka’s back and run for my life, the pain in my ankle a forgotten thing. My hat flies off. I don’t stop to get it. We sprint away from the music and the sound of a blowing whistle and I swear, barking dogs. But no. Surely that last one’s in my imagination. We run until there’s nothing but our heavy breathing and the dark, empty street and our shoes hitting pavement.

I have no idea where we’re going or what happened to Jillian and Link. We must have lost them in the crowd. All I can do is hope and pray they are okay as Luka and I keep going, straight ahead toward a crossroad, where a trolley filled with boisterous partygoers rolls past. When the trolley passes, we skid to a stop right in front of the curb.

My eyes go buggy. What I’m seeing can’t be possible. This has to be a dream. But when I scratch the inside of my wrist, it burns. Which means Agent Michael Bledsoe is really standing across the street from us, drawing his gun. “Hands in the air! Now!”

Luka shifts in front of me and puts his hands up.

Mine reach into the waist of my jeans and pull out the weapon. The gun. I grip the cold metal between my hands and point it at its original owner. I have no idea what I’m doing. I don’t even remember where that safety button is. If I pulled the trigger, I’m pretty sure nothing would happen. Thankfully, Bledsoe doesn’t know that.

A block away, a garbage truck turns onto the street and ambles toward us.

“Drop your weapon!” Agent Bledsoe yells.

My hands shake, my attention sliding left, toward the approaching truck.

“Right now. Gun down!”

But it’s too late.

The garbage truck passes in front of us. Luka wraps his arm around my waist. Grabs a handhold on the truck’s side. And scoops us both off the ground, onto a ledge. The sudden forward momentum gives me whiplash.

Agent Bledsoe shouts.

The oblivious truck driver turns down another street, picks up speed, and turns down another. Luka lets go of the handle and we jump off. I muffle a loud gasp. Fire rages in my ankle. Trying to ignore it, I slink into the shadows and tuck the gun back into the waist of my jeans.