Gateway (The Gateway Trilogy, Book 1) (7 page)

It was my turn to blush, which only served to fan the flames of my anger. “No, I do not have a birthmark! I have a few freckles, some scars from when I was a kid and a small mole that may or may not be located in a more private place, but other than that there are no marks on my body other than this, which I most certainly was not born with.”

I pushed my hair aside and tugged at the neckline of my t-shirt to reveal my left shoulder blade and the intricate tattoo I'd had inked there almost a year prior. Mom had taken it surprising well when she'd found out. It was always hard to tell what was going to upset her and what she would laugh off as harmless.

I dropped my hair and turned back to fix him with my harshest glare. Instead I saw that he was staring at me, astonished, not watching the road at all. Headlights flashed in our eyes and I grabbed the wheel.

“Look out!” I spun it just in time to avoid a head-on collision.

Taren regained his composure enough to pull to the side of the road, brakes screeching.

“What… Who did that to you?”  He spun me around and yanked at my shirt.

“Fat Tony at All Night Ink,” I said.

“And this design—it was Fat Tony's?” His tone was urgent, almost frantic.

“No, it was mine,” I said, shaking off his grip. “I've been drawing versions of it for years. What is your problem? My mother didn't freak this much when she saw it and she's a total head case.”

But Taren was lost in thought, clearly trying to process something. I waited.

He turned and studied me for a moment, his eyes sparking with recognition. “I knew there was something about you…”

My flesh pebbled and I wanted him to say more. I told myself it was strictly out of curiosity, not the idea that he'd spent time thinking about me.

Instead, his cell phone buzzed and skittered across the dash. I exhaled sharply, letting go a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding. With a glance at the screen, he answered.

“Did you hear?” He paused for the caller's reply. “There was at least one of them, but I'm guessing more.” He paused again glancing back at Callie. “Yes, she's with me, but she's not well. We're going to need a Retriever. But there's something… else happening…”

He didn't need to look at me for me to know who he was talking about, though I still had no idea why.

“I'll be back in a bit. I need to make a stop first.”

He ended the call without a goodbye, then started the car and eased back onto the road.

“You said you drew that symbol? That you have been for years?”

“Yeah, it started out as a few random doodles—”

“Like the one you drew the other day?'

I remembered the swirling lines I'd sketched in the rec room. “Right, like that. It started when I was a kid and then I began connecting them and then it just seemed… finished.”

“So I'm assuming you have some sketch pads, or paintings, or something to prove this?”

“Prove what? It's my
design. I didn't copy it from anyone if that's what you're implying.”

I was doing mental gymnastics, trying to track how we'd gone from sneaking around, to running for our lives, to an interrogation about my tattoo.

Taren ground his teeth. “That is not what I'm—” He took a breath and continued, his tone calmer. “Look, this is important. Do you have other copies of that symbol?”

“Yeah… in sketchbooks, like you said, on the cover of my algebra book, incorporated in a mural on my bedroom wall…”

Other than my tattoo, the one on my wall was my favorite. Mom had been on a high and awake for three days when I came home to find her stripping off the yellowing wallpaper that decorated my bedroom in our latest apartment.

“You're such a brilliant artist,” she had said, “it's about time you did a large installation!”

So together we painted—me sketching, her filling in colors. It took us late into the next evening, even with Mom calling me in sick from school. When it was done, we both collapsed into our respective beds and slept for hours. The next day I was in school by third period; Mom stayed in bed for two weeks.

“OK, that's good,” Taren said, “They'll want to see those. Where do you live?”

I gave him my address which he then punched into the GPS. I wanted to question him—it was absurd that he was so interested in my artwork, and who was 'they'?—but something about the intensity in his eyes and the speed at which he was driving kept me silent. A short while later we pulled onto my street, Taren cursing when he saw the patrol car in front of my house.

“I was hoping we would beat them here,” he said.

The living room was well lit, the drapes pulled back. My mother paced, gesturing frantically. The cops stood calmly, allowing her tirade.

“They're going to be here a while,” I said, knowing she wouldn't allow them to leave until she'd exhausted her fury at my disappearance. At least this tirade was legitimate.

“Is there anywhere else you'd have a copy of the design?”

“There's a coffee shop I go to, Buzz. They have a few of my pieces on the wall.”

“You've displayed it? In public?” He was incredulous.

“Well, why shouldn't I? It's my work.”

He didn't answer, just started the car and drove off.

***

This trip only took a minute or two. Buzz was less than a mile away, one of the reasons it was my favorite. The other was that it was open until 4 a.m. I'd become quite an insomniac in the past year and had started sneaking out around eleven, heading to Buzz to sketch. I'd stumble home too wired to sleep, and lie in bed until it was time for school. When I did sleep, it was fitful.

With no choice but to leave Callie in the car, we went inside.

“Em!” Clyde greeted me with a broad smile. His mohawk was blue today and he'd added a piercing to his eyebrow.

“Hey Clyde, how have you been?” I leaned forward on the counter.

“Can't complain. The real question is, where have you been?”

“Eh,” I hedged, “here and there. But I haven't been cheating on you, I swear. Buzz is my one and only coffee house.”

“I guess I can let it slide then. Here.” Clyde hit a button and the cash register popped open. “One of your pieces sold.”

“No way,” I said as Clyde handed me forty-five dollars. “Which one?”

Clyde pointed to the empty space on the wall behind me. My breath caught. Taren didn't need me to explain.

“Do you know who bought it?” I asked, trying not to let the coincidence unnerve me.

“Didn't get his name, but he came in yesterday. He nearly choked on his bagel when he saw it hanging there. Wanted to know all about you, asked if you had any other pieces here. I showed him the two small ones upstairs, but he wasn't as interested in those. Sorry.”

“That's OK,” I said, my mind reeling.

That painting had hung in the same spot for months, and now two people were interested in it—Taren to the point of obsession—in one week.

“You said he wanted details about Ember. What did you tell him about her?” Taren asked.

Clyde shrugged. “Nothing. Not much anyway. Said you were a regular but you hadn't been in in over a week. He got your name, of course, that was on the card next to the painting. He took that with him, too. Did I do something wrong, Em? You did want to sell it, right?”

“Yeah, Clyde, I did. You didn't do anything wrong, don't worry.”

“We've gotta go.” Taren pulled me by the arm.

“Hey, is everything OK?” Clyde wasn't used to seeing me being manhandled, however slight. He straightened, showing his full height and bulk.

If Taren was intimidated he didn't show it. He pulled me along without a backward glance.

“Everything's fine, it's just been a really weird night,” I said, trying to diffuse the situation that Taren wasn't even aware was developing. “I'll see you soon, OK?”

Clyde's response was cut off by the swing of the door. I yanked my arm from Taren's grip.

“You need to start telling me what is going on, like now,” I said. My head buzzed with the effort of trying to put all the pieces of the evening together. Pieces that Taren now seemed convinced included me.

“I will. Get in,” he said.

“Not until you start talking. And something tells me this time you're not going to threaten to leave me behind.” I folded my arms in front of my chest, daring him to call my bluff.

Headlights flashed in our eyes as a car rumbled to life behind us. The windows were tinted and in the dark of the alley I couldn't make out a shape behind the wheel. I wondered if anyone had been sitting in the car when we'd pulled up. The thought made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Slowly, the car backed up and swung wide as if to leave, but instead came to a stop, blocking the only way out.

Taren and I exchanged a look over the roof of the car, and simultaneously got in.

“What do they want?” I said.

“I'm beginning to think they want you,” he said quietly.

I knew better than to ask why—that would have to come later—so instead I asked, “How do we get out of here?”

“We're about to find out,” he replied, gunning the engine.

He fastened his seatbelt and I hastened to do the same.

With what I hoped was skill and not dumb luck, Taren spun the car. It skittered wildly for a second and then came to a screeching stop, the other car dead ahead about a hundred feet away.

“Hang on,” was all the warning I got. With a burst of speed we barreled ahead—straight at the other car.

I knew I was screaming, but the sound of the engine drowned out the noise. The impact was sudden and violent. Despite bracing myself against the dashboard to prevent it, my neck snapped forward and back painfully. I coughed, choking on the acrid smoke that poured from the engine. Taren continued to gun the engine, tires squealing, the car in front of us only budging by inches.

A large man with pupils that blazed red calmly exited the driver's side and strode toward us. In one motion, he punched through the glass of Taren's window and grabbed him around the neck.

Taren's eyes bulged as he struggled for air, but stayed focused on moving the other car. I clawed frantically at the man's hands not sure if I was doing more harm than good.

With a jolt, we broke free, barreling onto the main street. Taren didn't slow, ignoring the horns honked in protest at being cut off. The man removed his hands from Taren's throat and clung to the door, the color of his bleeding hands matching that of his eyes. Taren held the wheel with one hand, the other jerking open the glove box, which contained an impressive cache of blades. He grabbed a knife and sliced into our pursuer's hands. The man cried out and let go, his scream fading as our speed put distance between him and us.

I was panting, taking air in huge gulps. I was beginning to suspect that this was somehow a normal day at the office for Taren but it wasn't for me. I grew cold, icy fingers wrapping around my spine, my teeth chattering violently.

“You're going into shock,” Taren informed me. “Put your head here and elevate your legs.”

The aforementioned shock kept embarrassment from getting the best of me and I did as instructed, resting my head on his thigh. I propped my legs against the door and stared at the ceiling, not really seeing it. Taren rubbed my arms briskly, trying to keep me from shivering.

“Hang on, Ember. It's not too far,” he said.

I wasn't sure if I should be comforted or scared that he was finally treating me like he did Callie.

The minutes stretched and eventually I stopped seeing streetlights zip by in a blur. Whatever road we were on was sparsely lit. Taren drove at a more reasonable speed and my shaking began to cease.

We came to a stop and I sat up too quickly, causing my head to swim. We were parked in the driveway of a modern two-story house jutting out from the hillside.

“Do you need help walking?” Taren asked.

Although I was still struggling for composure, I eyed Callie's limp form and said, “Not as much as she does.”

Callie had made it through the crash intact and I envied her lack of awareness. If I could have, I would have erased the entire night from my memory. I felt changed, soiled by the brutality of all I'd witnessed. Something had finally replaced teenage girls on my list of things most heinous, and I didn't even know what to call it.

I followed Taren as he carried Callie up the stairs that led to the house.

He opened the door, revealing the most exquisite living room I'd ever seen.

“Where are we?” I asked.

“This is where I live,” he said, for the first time seeming self-conscious.

There were no lights on, yet the space was bathed in an ethereal glow. I looked up and saw two skylights letting in the light of the full moon. I stepped into that light and felt a sense of calm wash over me. Emergency rooms might dread the full moon as the night when they saw the most casualties, often of a bizarre nature, but for me it had a calming effect. I closed my eyes and drank in the feeling, knowing I would need it for whatever else was to come tonight. When I opened them, I stepped toward the wall of glass that looked out over the city. The lights of Los Angeles glittered below.