Call Out (12 page)

London stopped without warning, and I plowed
into him. He pulled me aside and took the tire iron from my hand.
The sound of something shattering joined the shouts coming from the
house. London took advantage of the noise to cover the explosion of
glass as he bashed in a front window with the tire iron. He looked
at the jagged shards left behind and hesitated.

“Give me your shirt,” I said. The words
didn’t seem to sink in right away, at least as far as London was
concerned, but Brian dragged off his t-shirt. He must have seen the
same movies I had, because he knew what I was going to do – he
wrapped the shirt around his hand for protection and pushed the
shards aside.

London handed me the tire iron and clambered
through the window frame to let me and Brian in the front door. We
turned together and headed toward the stairs; the sounds of
struggle were coming from above us. London’s mile-long legs had him
up the stairs a few steps ahead of Brian who was more than a few
steps ahead of me. I saw London gain the landing and freeze. Brian
came to a stop right behind him, and I couldn’t see past the two of
them. But I could hear just fine when a cultured female voice
spoke.

“Hello, London. So glad you could join my
little party,” it said.

I had no idea who the voice belonged to, but
it sure as hell wasn’t Dylan, or Vanessa. I crept up the remaining
stairs, switching my grip on the tire iron as I climbed so that I
could strike if the opportunity presented itself.

“I felt you calling the little whore,” the
woman said. “You’ve gotten stronger. Imagine how much more powerful
you’d be if you’d stayed in practice.”

I could only guess what the woman meant about
feeling London calling, but I was sure she’d just called my best
friend a whore, and you just don’t do that. Seething, I stepped
onto the landing and peered around the boys to see who I was going
to have to hurt.

The first thing I noticed about the woman was
that she was tall. Really tall. Amazonian, even. With the
high-heeled boots she wore, she could almost look London in the
eye. She was willowy, but not needs-to-eat-a-sandwich skinny. She
had curves.

Tall and built? Yet another reason to want to
hurt her. But it didn’t stop there. Oh, no. Fate had decided to
throw all my flaws in my face by presenting me with this woman.
Appearance-wise, she was everything I wasn’t. Tall, thin, perfect
skin, full lips, lustrous auburn hair down to her waist. About the
only thing we had in common was an over-expanded bust line.

Of course, she was also an evil psycho hose
beast, and there are some things you just can’t cover up with
makeup and designer clothes.

“Julia,” London breathed. “What....”

The Jessica Rabbit lookalike threw back her
head and laughed. “You should see yourself, London. You look like
you’ve seen a ghost.” She stepped forward to lay one leather-gloved
hand against London’s cheek. “I’ve missed you,” she said.

Jealousy hit me like a freight train. I
pushed past London and Brian, who seemed to be frozen in shock, and
stared up at the evil bitch. “You had your chance at him, Jessica,”
I said.

“Julia,” she corrected with a little
frown.

“Whatever,” I said. “The jig’s up, honey.
Give us Dylan, and we might let you walk away.” Damned if I didn’t
sound like the badass I was pretending to be. Go me.

“’The jig is up’?” Julia repeated. “Who talks
like that?”

“Besides,” a familiar voice said from behind
her, “It’s ‘the gig’ is up.”

I rolled my eyes. Vanessa always did think
she knew more than everyone else, especially when she had no clue
what she was talking about.

“No, fuckwit, it really is ‘the jig is up.’
You, we’re not letting walk away, not unless it’s to a loony
bin.”

Vanessa started to say something, but Julia
held up a hand to silence her. To my surprise, Vanessa actually
held her tongue.

“This is all very amusing,” Julia said, “but
it’s getting us nowhere. London, we have so much to talk
about.”

“I have nothing to say to you,” London
replied, “and there is nothing you can say that I want to
hear.”

I looked from Vanessa to Julia and back. The
two of them blocked the door to the room where Dylan was trapped. I
hadn’t heard a sound from her since we’d gotten upstairs, and it
worried me more than I dared let show. We had to get past them, or
through them, and soon. It would be easy enough for the boys to
overpower either one or both of the women, but they still seemed to
be in shock. Besides, I figured they’d have a little bit of a
problem overcoming the idea that it’s wrong for a guy to hit a
woman.

Something brushed at my mind, like mental
cobwebs, and I felt a wave of calm wash over me. I knew, then, what
Julia had meant about London calling out to Dylan, and I understood
what he’d wanted to try when we’d stopped outside the house. He
could project emotions as well as take them in. Creepy, but
useful.

“Brian,” I said.

“Yeah.”

“Time to play Prince Charming,” I said.

Julia seemed to know what I meant. She held
her arms up in front of her chest and face, expecting me to swing
the tire iron up at her, but I had other ideas.

One thing I learned from year of live-action
role-play games is to use my height – or lack thereof – to my
advantage. I pitched forward, grabbed her around the calves, and
pulled her shiny boots out from under her.

Around me, I heard sounds of struggle and
raised voices. Julia stripped off one of her leather gloves and
grabbed my face with her bare hand. Her face contorted in rage, and
then I knew nothing but pain. An electric shock ran through me,
more powerful than anything I’d ever experienced. I couldn’t fight.
I couldn’t get away. I couldn’t even scream.

Just as quickly as it’d come, the pain
vanished, leaving me weak and shaky. I forced my eyes open to see
London grappling with Julia. Either she wasn’t using the Taser
trick on him or he had some kind of defense against it. Either way,
they struggled hand-to-hand, though as the fuzz cleared from my
brain I began to realize their fight wasn’t physical at all. No
punches were thrown, no hair pulled, no chokeholds given or
received. Instead, the two merely circled, touching one another
when they had an opening.

I tried to pull myself to my feet so I could
help, but my muscles didn’t want to respond. I could move, but
standing was out of the question just then. Glancing around, I saw
the tire iron I had dropped, and I began to pull myself toward it,
inch by agonizing inch. Maybe by the time I had it in my hand again
I’d be able to use it.

Thumps and shouts came from the room beyond,
but I couldn’t spare more than a thought for Dylan and Brian right
now. Vanessa might cause a little trouble, but I knew who the real
threat was here.

A year later, my hand closed around the tire
iron, and I turned to check on London and his evil ex-girlfriend.
She glanced at me, smiled, and then stepped in closer to London.
She had him up against a wall; he couldn’t back away. She pressed
the advantage, stepping in closer to him and cradling his face in
her hands. She leaned in and pressed her lips to his, and when she
pulled away, his face was a study in anguish.

The bitch was using his own powers against
him, somehow. I was sure of it.

Brian appeared in the doorway, a glassy-eyed
Dylan leaning heavily against his side. Once again, Julia was
between him and where he needed to be. This time, though, I knew
how dangerous she could be to my friends. London still stood like a
statue, frozen with shock and doubt. I had no doubts.

I struggled to my feet, the tire iron
clutched in one hand.

“Get her out of here, Brian,” I said.

“You take her, and get out,” Brian told
me.

I shook my head. “I can’t. Go, Brian.
Please.” Praying for strength, I faced Julia again. She
laughed.

“You’re as weak as a kitten,” she said. “You
can’t fight me. But lucky for you, I don’t want to fight. All I
want is London. If he stays, of his own accord, the rest of you can
do whatever you like.”

I didn’t believe her, but London did.

“I’ll do whatever you want,” he said. “Just
let them go.”

I rolled my eyes. Obviously, London hadn’t
watched the right movies. The bad guy never means it when she says
she’ll let people go free. It just doesn’t work that way.

“Fuck the dumb shit,” I muttered. It was as
good a battle cry as anything, I guess.

I staggered across the landing and swung the
tire iron. Julia caught it on her forearm; I doubted she’d even
have a bruise. The swing had served its purpose, though; it bought
Brian time and space to get Dylan safely past.

Julia snatched the weapon from my hand and
sent it sailing toward Brian’s head. Accurate aim was not one of
her superpowers. In fact, she threw like a girl. The iron missed
its mark by more than a foot, falling short to bounce harmlessly
off the banister.

For a moment, Julia stared after Brian and
Dylan. Then she turned toward me, her face twisted with anger and
hate. She reached for me with her gloveless hand, and I
backpedalled, trying to get away. My muscles were still sluggish,
though, and she caught me easily, sending me back into a world made
of pure pain.

An eternity later, the pain vanished, just as
it had before. I could hear shrieking, tinny and hollow like voices
over a cardboard-tube-telephone. Another hollow, echoing voice
sounded near my ear. After a minute, I realized it was London,
begging me to be okay.

I forced my eyes open, but they didn’t want
to focus. Somehow, London got me to my feet and moving. Vision came
to me in jumbled bits that made no sense: stucco walls, a gilded
banister, hardwood flooring, a woman with flames dancing over her
skin.

I shook my head and turned to look behind.
The woman was real. So were the flames, though they didn’t act like
normal fire. Though Julia lay on the floor, beating at the flames,
they didn’t go out. Neither did they spread to the floor or even to
Julia’s clothes. They just danced over her skin, first reddening
then blackening it.

London turned me away, and I let him. But
some things stay etched on your brain. Some things you can’t
forget, no matter how many brain cells you kill with whiskey or
weed or prescription drugs. I had a feeling this would be one of
them.

I don’t know how London got me down the
stairs, or out of the house, but we stumbled to the street just as
Brian pulled up. They got me into the backseat, where I lay with my
head in London’s lap. Not the safest way to travel, but I didn’t
have the strength to sit up.

I slipped in and out of reality for a while,
but soon enough the fog began to clear. I heard Brian say
‘hospital’ and forced the word ‘no’ out of my mouth.

“How you feeling, hon,” Dylan asked, turning
to look back at me.

I’ve seen a lot of beautiful sights in my
life: Caribbean waters and Texas sunsets, white sand beaches and
purple mountains, newborn babies and sex-god rock stars. But none
of them could rival the sight of Dylan’s face there, in that
moment. She was okay. We were all okay.

“How do I feel?” I croaked. “Like a million
fucking bucks.”

Chapter Twelve

In the end, Dylan and I convinced the boys we
didn’t need to visit the emergency room. I was recovering from
whatever the hell it was Julia had done to me, and Dylan swore up
and down she was okay, despite having a knot the size of a golf
ball on the back of the head where Vanessa had hit her with a
ceramic Mickey Mouse.

“I could really use a fucking cigarette,
though,” she said.

“I thought you quit,” Brian replied.

Dylan turned to look at him, and even though
I couldn’t see her expression in the near-darkness, I knew she was
giving him her death glare. Or what passes for a death glare in a
cute, petite blonde.

I laughed. With a little help from London, I
sat up and got buckled in. My muscle response still felt sluggish,
but at least I could see and hear okay again.

“Fine,” Dylan said. “I could really use some
caffeine, though. And food. And some clean clothes. And a shower.
And a bed. And....”

“And we get it,” I said.

After very little discussion, we drove back
to the well-populated tourist area, near Disney but outside of the
resort itself. We stumbled into one of the few all-night
restaurants around, where everyone probably thought we had just
come from one of the clubs, still drunk. We looked like we’d just
been through a bar brawl: Brian’s shirt slashed from the window
glass; Dylan in three-day-old clothes with unwashed, unbrushed
hair; me, barely able to walk upright; and London, his eyes sunken
and his face pale. If I was them, I’m not sure I’d have let us
in.

The whole time we were there, Brian and Dylan
touched. One of them always had a hand free to lay on the other’s
leg or arm. On our side of the table, London kept his distance. I
wasn’t sure if it was an after-effect of all the magic or of seeing
Julia again. I almost didn’t care.

Almost.

We avoided the big pink elephant in the
middle of the room. Instead, we talked about mundane stuff: the
menu, the decor, the other diners. Dylan bitched about having lost
all of her luggage and demanded to be taken to Wal-Mart – the only
thing open this late at night – for a change of clothes and a
toothbrush. Brian suggested that she borrow my clothes for the
night and get a toothbrush from the front desk at the hotel. The
suggestion was met with another of her ineffectual death glares. Or
maybe not so ineffectual, since Brian caved in and agreed to take
her shopping. He offered to drop London and me off at the hotel
first, and we didn’t argue.

I stumbled getting out of the car, and London
steadied me, pulling away as soon as I regained my balance. We
walked through the hotel side-by-side in silence, London watching
me out of the corner of his eye in case I needed help. I
didn’t.