Darkness Calls (22 page)

“Overseas was convenient. I could get away with more.” She tapped her forehead, almost absently. “Dress up, mix drinks, act a little cheap. Men with money never look too deep. Don’t notice you picking their brains.”

Who
would
pay attention? If I could live unnoticed with demons existing on my body, being a psychic should have been a breeze. “You can use my credit card to buy a ticket. Anywhere you like.”

Killy gave me a sharp look. “Most of my money was tied up in that bar. I can’t pay you back.”

I had never stayed long enough in one place for anyone to return anything. “Not necessary. You shouldn’t be involved in this.”

She stared at me like I had beans for brains. Maybe I did. But I didn’t like it when people looked at me as though I was stupid. I dug into the back pocket of my new jeans and pulled out my wallet. Grabbed a credit card without looking and tossed it at her.

“Keep it,” I said. “Run it up to the limit, then burn the damn thing. Start your life over, but get out now while you can.”

“What—” she began, and glanced down at the card. “Anne Jovi?”

“I think we’ve got another problem,” Grant said, behind us. I had not heard him crossing the room, but he stood by the kitchen counter and had the phone pressed to his ear. Rex was with him, watching me thoughtfully.

“What?” I asked carefully.

“We have messages. From the police. Social services.” Grant’s jaw tightened, something cold flickering through his eyes. “Byron is gone. And so is Mary.”

TWO days. We had been gone for two days, out of touch, and a man had come asking about the boy.

He had been here before, some of the volunteers told Grant. A tall skinny man, a priest, who spoke with an Italian accent. He claimed he had reason to believe that the boy was being abused, and he wanted to ask some questions. Social services had arrived with him, on a related issue: underage children were not supposed to live in adult homeless shelters.

But Byron had already left the shelter.

I stood in his room. It was located in the private wing of the warehouse complex, which had been set aside for some of the Coop’s permanent residents: individuals and families with special needs, who needed a place to call home. Only a handful lived here. It was a special privilege that Grant could not afford to give everyone.

I had been in Byron’s room only a handful of times in the past three months. His bed was unmade, surrounded by stacked books and paper. Movie posters hung on the walls:
Lord of the Rings
,
Hellboy
, and
Blade Runner
. Clothes were piled on the floor. He had not taken much with him, if anything.

“The police got involved because Mary attacked Antony,” Grant said quietly, standing in the doorway with that gold pendant flashing against his chest. “She tried to claw his eyes out.”

I fingered Byron’s sweater. “When did that happen?”

“Early this morning. No one’s seen them since.”

I nodded, chewing the inside of my cheek. Cribari had been in bad shape, but it was possible. And China was only seconds away if you knew someone who could cut space. “Police want to question you?”

“Eventually. But they’re not here right now.” Grant dangled his car keys over my shoulder. “You drive.”

We left the Coop. Scattered sunlight warmed my face. I did not see anyone watching us, and the boys were quiet. I could not relax, though. We were running on borrowed time. Everything, falling apart.

I felt like a moving target as we crossed the parking lot. My car was still somewhere near Pike Place Market, if it hadn’t already been towed, but Grant had a Jeep.

We found Killy leaning against its back door, arms folded over her chest. Blood dotted her nostrils. She was too pale to be wearing so much black. Made her look like death warmed over.

“So I was thinking,” she said, watching us carefully. “I was thinking about what that . . . thing . . . told me in the bar. That he had my scent. And it occurred to me that getting away from the two of you wouldn’t necessarily make me safer.”

It was not a question, but she seemed to want an answer I had no interest in giving. I shared a quick look with Grant, found a similar reticence on his face, and turned from the woman to unlock the Jeep’s doors. I said nothing when she climbed in behind me. Not
Get lost
or
Run like hell
.

All I did was drive.

John Parr played on the radio. Some acoustic version of “St. Elmo’s Fire.” I liked the song, but it did little for my nerves. I drove into downtown Seattle, and near the museum found a parking spot outside a narrow brick building faced with a glass display and a delicate door, upon which had been etched the script: SARAI SOARS: ART GALLERY
.

The gallery had been closed since its owner’s death—or long vacation, depending on whom you spoke to—but I had a key. So did others. I went in, and found myself in another world: bathed in shadows and cool, filtered air, light with the scent of orchids. Paintings hung on the walls. Massive, intricate masterpieces of an incongruous subject: unicorns, lost in scenes of human battles, medieval and modern—covered in blood and sea foam, surrounded by swords and guns. Innocence, in the heart of murder. Purity in death.

There were stairs at the back of the gallery, behind a carved wooden screen. I marched up, footsteps loud, making no effort to hide my approach.

The second-floor landing had only one door, and it stood open, contents spilling into the hall. Books, everywhere. Beyond the door, a maze of them. Piles and stacks, surrounding packed shelves shoved tight against the walls, and tables that overflowed with reams of paper, rocks, and open crates filled with packing materials and glimpses of odd artifacts. Lamps burdened with stained-glass shades perched precariously atop leather-bound encyclopedias—power cords buried, presumably connecting somewhere, somehow, to the walls. I saw empty teacups scattered similarly around the room, placed haphazardly along the only path through the mess: a clear, narrow, and winding trail.

Jack’s home. His shadow, still warm over all his belongings.

“Byron,” I called softly. “It’s me.”

I heard rustling. Byron appeared on the other end of the room, leaning out from behind a bookshelf. He wore jeans, and a long-sleeved gray shirt. His gaze was piercing; dark and old, and very tired.

“I’m glad,” he said. “I wasn’t sure you’d remember I had a key.”

I remembered clearly. Months ago, after Jack’s disappearance, I had told Byron to come here if he was ever in trouble. I had reason to believe he might be one day. Not just because of his association with me.

If something happened, if I disappeared, or Grant could not help him—this was a good place.
Come here to the studio,
I had said.
Come to this apartment.
I had hidden money, left cans of food. For my own use, too. I had other safe houses, in other cities. Inherited from my mother.

But this place was no longer safe. No such thing, anymore.

I picked my way through the narrow path, my legs brushing the spines of books. The boys were quiet. Dreaming, sweetly. Maybe the only calm thing about me. I was holding together, but just barely. Seeing Byron helped. Maybe this was what being motherly felt like. My own mother would have called it a weakness. Affection was dangerous business. People did not last, no matter how much you wanted them to. People caused trouble, people distracted, people could not be trusted.

Wrong people,
I thought at my mother. Nor was there any point to saving the world if I felt no love for it—if I was not
in
love with the people in it. Some of them, anyway. I wasn’t a hippie, or anything.

The kitchen was not nearly as packed as the rest of the apartment, though the sink was full of dishes, and crumbs covered the counter. Mary sat at the table. I was surprised to see her. Giant daisies had replaced the poodles on her potato-sack dress. The hem barely covered her knobby knees, and the oversized blue sweater swallowing her frame was patched and holey. Her white hair would have made Einstein proud.

Byron stood beside her, pouring hot water into a large mug filled with three tea bags and five old-fashioned cubes of sugar. Mary’s hands trembled around the thick white ceramic, and her gaze was fixed on the floor.

“Tea helps keep her calm,” said Byron, as though it was perfectly natural for a fifteen-year-old street kid to be taking care of an elderly, somewhat insane and otherworldly drug addict. And for him, maybe it was. He was not a normal boy.

“You did good,” I said, as Grant crowded in behind me, awkwardly navigating the narrow trail between books. Killy was with him, frowning, fingers pressed to her brow. Her frown intensified when she saw Mary.

“You okay?” Grant asked Byron.

“Fine,” he said, staring past him at Killy. “I saw Mary attack the priest. I found her after she got away. Took her with me.”

Very good kid. I ruffled the boy’s hair. Mary lifted her gaze, from the floor to her teacup, then Grant. Like watching the sun come up in her face. She beamed when she realized who was standing in front of her; she glowed, and bristled with a smile.

“Grant,” she whispered, standing—reaching for him. But her hands stopped just before she touched his shoulders, and hovered instead over the pendant glinting soft and golden in the lamplight. She stared, lips moving, wrinkled skin growing paler, something wild in her eyes that reminded me of Mr. King’s creations—while being in every way their opposite.

Mary had drawn that design in ink upon her palm, but it was faded now, almost gone. She laid that hand over the pendant and shuddered, drawing in her breath through clenched teeth. Grant stood frozen, like he was suddenly afraid to be so near her. Byron was tense, as well, but this time his attention was fully on the old woman—and I wondered, briefly, what he had seen to make him want to keep her calm.

“Mary,” Grant murmured, saying her name like a song. “Mary. Do you know this? Have you seen it before?”

Killy made a small, pained noise, and closed her eyes. Mary swayed.

“Mary,” he said again.

“Antrea,” she whispered, and closed her hand around the pendant.

All the color drained from Grant’s face. I caught him as his bad leg buckled. His grip on my shoulder was so strong the boys wiggled beneath his hand. “How do you know my mother’s name?”

“Your mother,” Mary breathed, blinking sharply. “Your mother was beautiful.”

Killy cried out, gripping her head between her hands.

“Your mother,” Mary said again, louder, her knuckles turning white around the pendant. “I lost your mother.”

Killy began to sit down, but there was no chair, nothing to catch her. Byron grabbed her arm, but she yanked away from him as though burned, and fell hard to the floor. She hardly seemed to notice. Pain wrinkled her face.

Mary tugged hard, yanking Grant close. “I had her, like
this
, and she was pulled away.”

Killy screamed. Byron stared at me, helpless. I reached down and grabbed the woman under her arms, hauling backward, pulling her away from Mary—who was becoming even more lucid, more wild-eyed.

“Byron,” I snapped, and the teen grabbed Killy’s legs. We knocked books over, stumbling.

“The Labyrinth took you both,” Mary said, but I was no longer looking at her, focused solely on holding the sobbing woman who seemed to be dying in my arms.

“Mary.” Grant’s voice broke through my concentration. “Mary, calm down.”

The old woman’s voice quaked. “The others were dead. All of them. The babies—they took the
babies
—and you were the last; you were—”

“Mary.”

“—I promised to protect you—”

“—but I
failed
her.”

Byron and I managed to get Killy in the hall, but she was still screaming, clutching her head like it was going to explode. Blood trickled from her nostrils.

“Hit her,” said the boy grimly. “Knock her out.”

I stared at him. Then turned, slamming my fist into Killy’s jaw. It was a careful blow, but a good one. Her voice cut off with a choke, and she went slack. Unconscious. Still breathing, heart racing, but safe from the pain she had been suffering. Her sudden silence was deafening.

“Stay with her,” I ordered Byron, and ran back into the apartment.

Mary stood nose to nose with Grant. She was not a tall woman, but she was raised up on her toes, and had used the gold pendant to yank the man down until he stared directly into her eyes. Foam flecked a corner of her mouth. She looked at Grant as though he was her lifeline, her reason for breathing. Nothing crazy about it. The old woman was as sane in that moment as I had ever seen her.

“I lost you,” she breathed.

Grant grabbed her hand. “You found me. You’re safe now.”

“No world is safe.” Mary turned her head, and looked across the apartment at me—staring into my eyes with clear, striking intensity. “You. One of theirs. I can see it. Blood-spun, grafted. Slave.”