Darkness Calls (27 page)

The creature inside me was quiet. My only weapon against Mr. King—receding, inexplicably so. Every other time it had possessed me, it had killed indiscriminately—and this, the one time I needed it . . .

It had become . . . thoughtful.

I managed to roll over. And found myself surrounded by dead people.

CHAPTER 16

I
had begun to keep a journal. Not for myself, but for the future. My bloodline. Every Hunter kept a record, meant to inspire and teach from beyond the grave. I felt sorry for the kid who inherited mine.

My grandmother had not been much of a writer. Just one slim volume, meant to describe an entire lifetime. No mention of Avatars or Jack. But as I lay sprawled in the hall and prison of Mr. King, I was reminded of a rough note written on one of the last pages; a scrawled afterthought:
The result of an act is always less damning than the thought that made it.

I did not agree.

The vast temple had vanished. I was back inside the club—which, I suspected, I had never left—disco ball swinging, music still rocking out with a beat that set my teeth on edge. I was ready to put my fist through the stereo system.

No one was dancing. No one was as dead as I had thought, either. Just unconscious, sprawled in loose-limbed heaps that smelled like leather and sweat. I listened to the quiet rush of breathing—more than a hundred bodies strong—and found the sound comforting, in an odd way. Until I considered what would happen when those men and women woke up.

I struggled to stand, but my knees gave out. My head felt full of holes. For one moment when I fell to the floor, I could not remember who I was.

Until I looked down at the tattoos on my hands. Red eyes stared back at me, glittering amongst obsidian scales and silver veins. I rubbed my hands, gently, and Raw and Aaz rubbed back. I covered my face, breathed deep, and shuddered.

All you can do is trust yourself,
whispered my mother’s voice. I clung to that memory though it hurt me. I had trusted myself, and failed. Mr. King was alive and gone, and now he knew more about me than was safe. I had lost the element of surprise.

Zee rumbled against my skin. I went still, and beneath the pulsing beat of drums, heard a muffled tapping sound. Felt, more than saw, a presence behind me. Someone reaching for my shoulder. I turned without thinking to grab that outstretched hand—twisting hard—and heard a masculine grunt that was impossibly familiar.

Too late to let go. A large man crashed down beside me, cushioned by an unconscious woman whose breasts had popped free of a skimpy halter top. An oak cane hit my leg. I leaned forward and snatched a fistful of flannel shirt. I used too much force, but fear was running through my veins: fear, shock, and relief.

“What,” I rasped hoarsely, “are you doing here?”

“What do you think?” Grant asked roughly, and grabbed the back of my neck—holding me still as he searched my face with startling anger. “Did you really think I’d let you walk away like that?”

“I knew what I was doing.”

“Liar,” he mumbled. “Jesus, Maxine. You tell
me
to stay alive, then disappear with that look on your face—”

“What look?”

“Like you’re marching to the firing squad,” he retorted, hauling me into his lap. “Don’t play dumb with me.”

And then he sank his fingers into my hair and kissed me so hard I stopped breathing. My eyes burned with tears. I held on tight.

He stopped, finally, but his arms belonged to a grizzly bear, and I could not see my way free as he hugged me tight against his chest. His bristled cheek rubbed mine, breath rag gedly warming my ear—and we could have been anywhere, anywhere in the world but this place, surrounded by lost men and women, with hard music hammering the air.

“Look at this place,” he whispered. “When I saw all the bodies, all the
people . . .
”

“I failed,” I whispered.

“You’re alive.” Grant leaned back to look at me, still holding my face as his thumb brushed over my mouth; and then, again, softly: “You’re alive.”

I stared into his eyes, grieving. I was alive, but had botched everything. Grant was in more danger now. All of us were.

“How did you—” I began to ask, and sensed movement behind me. I looked, and saw Jack picking his way around the bodies. Shadows bruised his eyes, and his white hair was wildly tufted. His face seemed incredibly gaunt, but I blamed exhaustion for that. And fear.

He gave me a long, steady look, solemn as the grave, and turned away without a word. I could not tear my gaze from him—in my head, trying to reconcile the old man with Mr. King. Both the same. Both so radically different.

Jack knelt. I glimpsed black cloth beside him. A pudgy brown hand.

I scrabbled to stand, heart lurching up my throat. Grant frowned, looking at me, and I pointed. “Father Lawrence.”

The priest was still alive, and lay on his back, unconscious. His breathing was steady, his pulse strong, but both Jack and Grant stared at the man as though he carried some terminal disease that was catching. I got down on my knees beside Father Lawrence and touched his hand. I could still hear his screams.

“Be careful,” Jack said.

I wrapped my hand more firmly around his. He looked the same, his face slack in sleep, but I knew that meant nothing. “How deeply was he altered?”

“Enough,” Grant said grimly.

My fault. I had stayed for nothing. I squeezed his hand and gazed around the rest of the club. I heard several faint groans, and glimpsed movement. Nephele lay nearby, sprawled on her face.

“Have they all been changed?” I asked the men.

“Most.” Jack turned slightly to survey the room, something very quiet and restrained in the way he moved. He was hurting, I realized. Sore. I remembered that he had been sick after transporting me. Grant was a bigger person, and the old man had been running for days, weeks, even months.

I reached up and grabbed his hand, my finger armor glinting against his tanned, wrinkled skin. Jack glanced down at me in surprise—which then shifted into something softer, sadder.

“They’re a danger to others,” I said. “I don’t know what to do.”

Grant tore his gaze from Father Lawrence, his eyes narrowing as he looked at the slowly rousing men and women. He reached over his shoulder for the golden flute sheathed in its dark case.

Jack grabbed Grant’s arm, stopping him. “You have to choose who’s more important, lad. Your resources are not limitless, no matter what you’ve done in the past.”

Grant shook off his arm, but did not reach for his flute again. He looked from me to Father Lawrence, and his expression was guarded. Behind him, Nephele groaned, fingers twitching. More people were moving. I could not stop them all, but I stood slowly.

“Old Wolf,” I said. “If they go free, as they are—”

“What they are can’t be easily changed,” he interrupted, staring into my eyes. “And you can’t imprison them. If you kill them—”

“Stop,” I said.

“If you kill them,” he persisted, “you might save some lives, but you’ll be condemning others whose only mistake was believing in the lie of an easy life, the life of one who is . . . special.”

I stared at him, torn. Still able to feel those hands at my throat, that knife slipping between my legs. Violent tendencies would not remain inside this club. Nor did it matter that most normal people would be unprepared for any kind of physical violence, regardless of whether their attacker was superenhanced, or not. It was not just innocent lives at stake. Eventually, inevitably, one of those cat-eyed men, or women covered in scales, would end up arrested or in a hospital. The physical differences would not go unnoticed.

I looked at Grant. “What do you think?”

He surveyed the room, leaning hard on his cane: a man as out of place in that club, surrounded by those bodies, as a wolf might be in a cement block. I wished I could see through his eyes. I wished I knew with certainty the truth in the hearts around me.

“I think you have little choice in the matter,” he finally said, grim—and gave Jack a hard look. “I think you have to choose your battles.”

At any second we would be noticed. The pounding music and wail of synth guitars made me dizzy. I glimpsed spines rocked with hard bone protrusions, and pointed ears tufted with fur. Nearby, a young woman with a sweet face was sitting slowly up. Small iridescent wings, like a drag onfly’s, drooped from her shoulder blades. They looked useless, merely cosmetic.

Magic,
Mr. King had said.
Lives less ordinary. You would be amazed at how many crave such simple things.

I missed dealing with demons.

I stooped beside Father Lawrence and grabbed his wrist. Held up my right hand to Jack. Grant stepped close, his fingers strong on my shoulder.

“You know how to use this thing better than I do,” I said to the old man, as his hand closed around mine, his thumb briefly caressing the sliver of armor running from my ring finger to the bracelet cuff.

“But it likes you better,” he said.

In moments we were gone.

WE did not return to Jack’s apartment. We slipped free of the abyss and found ourselves inside a dark stairwell made of cracking cement and peeling plaster, the air thick with the scent of exhaust. An open doorway was beside me. I saw a parking garage on the other side—and nearby, Grant’s Jeep.

“We’ve been busy,” Grant said, trying to help me as I grabbed Father Lawrence under his arms and dragged him toward the Jeep. Jack moved ahead of us, watching the rest of the garage.

I gave him a brief wry smile. “So much for coming to save me first?”

Grant’s jaw tightened. “Jack couldn’t find you. Not in the beginning. And the apartment wasn’t safe.”

“We can be tracked anywhere.”

“But it takes time,” Jack said, over his shoulder. “And we need time, if only to rest, and plan.”

I didn’t bother asking why we had traveled here first—why the men had driven to a second location before coming to find me. The mechanics of cutting space were a mystery to me—less science than magic—but I assumed there was something in the act that drew the attention of those looking for it. Like Mr. King.

Grant drove, his cane resting in the passenger seat, beside Jack. I sat in the back with Father Lawrence. His brown skin had an ashen tone, and there were lines around his eyes that had not been present before. I thought about peeling back his lips to look at his teeth but was too afraid of what I would find.

We exited I-5 at Port of Tacoma Road, then swung right on 509 until it turned into Marine View Drive. Grant drove toward the ocean, and I smelled fresh sap and wood chips. Lumberyards were all over the place, along with steel and chemical facilities. Farther along, buildings began drying up, and we passed designated tidelands.

I saw the ocean. A marina.

Grant parked the Jeep at Chinook Landing. Across the waterway, behind expensive sailboats and small yachts, I could see the major cargo terminals and lumbering, fat ships that resembled steel boxes slogging through the sea. There were a lot of boats. Personally, I was no fan. I had issues with fear of drowning.

None of us got out of the car. I peered through the windows, searching for witnesses. No one appeared to be out, but dragging an unconscious man to a boat in broad daylight seemed like an invitation for trouble. It was only the afternoon, though, with hours still until darkness. We could not sit here forever.

“He’s drunk, right?” I said, as Jack closed his eyes. “That’s the backstory if anyone asks why I’m hauling around a priest.”

“I’d be convinced,” Grant said dryly.

Jack rubbed his temples and opened his eyes. “No one is here. We should move quickly.”

I moved. Ignored the sensation of having a target painted on my back as I dragged Father Lawrence’s deadweight from the gravel parking lot, down to the dock. No rain, but the air was cold in my lungs. I was grateful for it. The priest was heavy. I doubted even Grant, with two good legs, could have managed him.

Jack led us to a yacht—some white fiberglass cruiser, almost sixty-five feet long, with a fully enclosed bridge. I could see nothing behind the tinted windows, but sensed someone watching us. Sure enough. Byron slipped outside, the wind blowing dark hair over his eyes. He stared at me and the unconscious priest at my feet.

“Hey,” I said awkwardly, unable to imagine what he was thinking.
Don’t do this when you grow up,
I wanted to tell him.
Don’t be like me.

Killy appeared behind the boy. I was, once again, surprised to see her. Her black hair was tousled, her clothing rumpled. A deep line had formed between her eyes, which still looked pained. When she saw Father Lawrence, her expression did not improve.

“Shit,” she said, and ran for the ladder.

It took all of us to get the priest on board. He began to wake as we pulled him to the deck, and Killy—who had one arm hooked under his—went very pale. I was beside her. No one else noticed, not even Byron—who stood on the dock, pushing up the priest’s foot.