Head Rush (34 page)

My heart pounds like crazy as we clop along down the promenade, and then up the main boulevard. I think Mercurious senses my high anxiety, but he doesn’t react; he just clops along. It’s what I’m doing, too, just clopping along. I pet his thick, rough mane. “We just go forward,” I say to him.

I look over to find Simon scowling. He leans in to whisper, “And kick ass on fate.”

And then I look over at my dad. All I can see are his eyes through the face mask, but I have this sense that he’s proud, and it means the world to me.

TV and news crews film us as we near the church. I smile and wave. The grand old structure with its soaring peaks and flying buttresses is surrounded by heavily armed guards and police officers, as well as men in their Sunday best who look a lot like guards in their Sunday best. For the thousandth time, I think about Packard out there. It’s way after three o’clock, of course, which means he’s no longer in danger from the highcaps who were hunting him. When the devices in the backs of their necks don’t explode, I suppose they’ll assume somebody delivered on Packard’s head. Or did a message go out extending their deadline?

We dismount, wave to the cameras, and head up the steps through metal detectors set up discreetly in the grand entrance. My bridal party beeps like crazy, thanks to Dad, but we’re given a free pass and ushered to the west side of the church, to an empty, echoey foyer area that’s been decorated and cordoned off just for us.

The church. We’re here.

Kit, the motherly stage manager for the ceremony, comes in and greets us. It’s clear she’s been warned that the father of the bride would be wearing a big metal spacesuit, but her lips form a grim line as she assesses Simon’s bruised and beat-up face. He flings his cape backward over his bare shoulders to reveal his shirt of leather straps and gives her a smile. She’s even more unhappy when we inform her that the maid of honor has not yet arrived. She disappears, presumably to stage-manage a wedding holding pattern. Organ music sounds through the richly paneled walls.

The five of us wait on benches in the foyer as the minutes crawl by. Simon’s more sprawled on his, and he requests a bucket of champagne and a bucket of cold sodas from one of the many people coming in and out. He seems a bit out of breath, actually, but then again, he often seems out of breath. Not like he would ever stoop to exercise or anything. An increasingly unhappy Kit pops in now and then with reports of the audience getting restless. “There are a good number of people who have fallen asleep!” she says. “Half the city council is asleep!”

“The entire city council is here?” I ask.

“Of course.”

The Felix Five is here, then. I wonder vaguely if the big thing has to do with them.

Dad is looking hot inside his suit. When somebody finally brings the beverages, I ask people to give our wedding party ten minutes of privacy in our little alcove. I want Dad to take his headgear off for a moment, but we can’t let anybody see him do it; that would blow his excuse for wearing it, which is a fear of germs.

When he gets his headpiece detached, I introduce him properly to Simon, Ez, and Ally. I suppose in any other circumstance they might have attitudes about each other, but there’s a good feeling here that makes me love everyone.

Simon’s produced a deck of cards from somewhere. He’s trying to get up a game, of all things.

I put a bottle of cold, bubbly water into Dad’s gloved hand, but he doesn’t drink it; he just looks at me, his gaze shrewd. “You seem so different, Justine,” he says.

“It’s a big day,” I say, taking a sip of fizzy water. It makes my gloved fingers moist.

“Not just a big day. I don’t know how to explain it.” He puts the bottle to his forehead. “I was trying to work it out during the procession. You seem more substantial. Like you’ve got some ballast.”

I almost want to cry at my dad’s insight, and the approval tucked inside. I hide it by quipping: “Are you calling me fat?”

His smile crinkles the edges of his warm eyes.

Ez announces she has a bad feeling. Simon takes off his top hat and downs another glass of champagne. Maybe
he’s
even starting to worry.

But I’m not. “This will all work out,” I tell them. It feels good to say it and mean it. It’s strange, this new sense of trust I have. I could never reach down and feel certain about important things like this before.

Now there’s no question of anything.

A voice from down the hall. “Knock, knock!” It’s Kit. She wants to come back in.

“I love you, Dad,” I say and he tells me he loves me too, and then he shoves his helmet back on.

Kit announces that she wants us to begin without Shelby. “If she misses the wedding, she’ll still get to be at the reception.”

Ally agrees. She wants us to start too.

“We’ll wait some more,” I say.

A few minutes later, my phone vibrates. I reach into my silk bag and pull it out. A message from Shelby. One word: “Start.”

I loosen the fingers of my elegant gloves and yank them off. “Let’s do it!”

The relief is palpable. Audible, in the case of Kit.

Simon squeezes my hand. Kit sends word to the front and the organ music changes. We move to the entrance as a group, my dad all metallic and mechanical, my bridesmaids in black with matching black capes with fluffy white trim.

Dad and I wait together, just shy of the entrance, as Ally heads down the aisle, followed by Ez, then Simon. Slowly they proceed to the altar and stand across from Otto and his men and wait for me.

I used to say happiness was the absence of something—the absence of darkness, hate, fear. Especially fear. I thought, if I could get rid of my fear, life would be great.

But now, standing at the threshold of the church, my arm hooked in Dad’s, the rhythmic hum of his respirator faintly audible over the pipe organ, I see that I was wrong. Happiness isn’t about getting rid of my fear. Happiness is when something outshines my fear.

Like my love for Packard—wild and fierce and beating uncontrollably in my heart. And my love for my friends, and for my dad, being so brave, and even for scrappy, beleaguered Midcity. And fear isn’t going to stop me from doing this thing.

My pulse races.

I smile over at Dad. Then I take a deep breath and we march down the beige carpet, strewn with white flowers. Slowly we pass between the pews, all trussed up with ribbons, toward the flower-strewn and beribboned altar. My strange wedding party is assembled in front of a gleaming wall of golden organ pipes. Simon stands proudly as my temporary maid of honor in his belts and chains and top hat next to Ez and Ally, who are looking gorgeous in their black gowns. On the other side, Otto’s three men wear matching tuxedoes, and probably side arms. And in the center stands Otto, dashing in his red captain’s uniform, heavy with medals and insignias. Lights flash and cameras whir as we approach. The music booms triumphantly as we mount the steps.

I come face to face with Otto.

“My love,” Otto mouths, holding out both his hands.

The hush takes on strange gravity as I place my hands in his, observing the scene as if from the outside—Otto and I about to marry. I think about how I’d have felt a year ago if I’d known I'd be standing here next to the heroic Otto Sanchez. He’s not so heroic, I know that now. He’s a man full of dreams and desires just like anyone, but also a man full of fear, and that fear has driven him to do evil things.

Otto smiles into my eyes—a smile I can’t return. Is he happy? Does he think he’s home free? I feel a little bit sad. And more disillusioned than ever.

And I have to stop him. Where is Shelby? I need those glasses if I’m going to get through his force field to zing him. I don’t want him to die; I just need him to make things right. I marvel at how our mutual health fears give us great power to help each other, and great power to hurt each other, too.

The ceremony begins. The pastor recites the wedding prayer, which I barely hear; I’m focused on increasingly loud yelling from outside—the street? The church steps? Has Shelby arrived?

The pastor’s wedding lecture is interrupted by pounding from behind me. I twist around to see a guard opening a door that’s concealed in the side wall. Shelby, her bridesmaid’s dress askew, rushes through and leaps up the steps to my side. Applause sounds out from the pews. I’m still holding Otto’s hands, but Shelby clutches my shoulder and whispers in my ear: “He
knows
. Fawna is out there with him—she told him the prediction. He’s trying to get in to stop you!” Packard, she means. Packard knows if I fight Otto I’ll die. “They are detained, but not for long.” She jabs something into my back.
The antihighcap glasses
.

The applause is still going as I pull my right hand from Otto’s grip and take the glasses from her. Then I shove them onto my face and turn back to Otto, grabbing his hand again before he can get what’s happening. I look into his eyes as I burn the hole between our energy bodies.

He goes ashen. “What are you doing?” The applause dies in a swell of murmurs. The pastor continues, a quizzical look on his face.

With all my strength I grip Otto’s fingers, prepared for him to try and yank away, but he seems simply bewildered. I hadn’t expected bewildered. “Justine—”

The hole is burnt and I’m in. He could smash the glasses and jump off the altar now and I’d still have him. I open the floodgates between us, waiting for the heat in my fingertips that shows when my fear starts rushing out.

But there’s no heat. Nothing comes out.

Crashes from the direction of the front entrance.
Packard, trying to get in and stop me.

Otto furrows his brow, his face a mask of pain. “What is this, Justine?” he whispers fervently.

“You know what it is.” Frantically, I try to stoke up my fear.

The pastor eyes us warningly as he continues on about the sacredness of marriage. I try again and again. I even visualize a photo from one of those fashion-magazine disease articles I so loathe and fear. Why isn’t it working? A car alarm sounds from somewhere.

Otto pulls his hands from mine. “Justine—we’re a team!” he says under his breath. “Get those glasses off! Talk to me.”

“About you killing Avery?” I whisper.

“Packard did that! You saw it.”

I grab his arm. “I didn’t see it, and you know it.” I struggle to call up my fear, but it’s lost its aliveness, its
charge
.

The fact that I haven’t zinged him yet seems to give him hope. “See?” He grips my arm now and pulls me close. “You can’t bear to do it because you love me. Because you can’t betray us. We’re in this together.”

Thump
s against the far door.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” I whisper back. “You are going to let Sophia and the disillusionists go.” I try to stoke as I talk but my weapon is gone. What will I fight him with?

“I love you.”

“No you don’t!” I whisper furiously. “You just need me. And I love Packard, and you’ll never take that away again.
Ever
.”

Otto regards me with repulsion as a few camera bulbs flash. Then, with a jerk, he shoves me backward, into my bridesmaids; we stumble as a group. Simon holds me up by the upper arm.

“Somebody get those glasses out of this church. Now!” Otto points at me. “Now!”

More camera lights flash as plainclothes police emerge from either side of the altar, and I realize, with horror, that I have not yet fought Otto. If I don’t fight Otto at the ceremony, Packard dies. I try to use this terrifying realization to stoke the old fear. Still nothing.

But there’s more than one way to fight Otto. I rush at him, haul off, and hit him with my bouquet. He looks stunned. Murmurs and shouts go up from the audience, a sea of camera flashes, but I don’t care. I punch him with my other hand as a cop tries to pull me off, but still I fight him—furiously! I’m fighting him at the wedding. Nobody can say otherwise. The prophecy didn’t say
how
I would fight him, just that I would fight him.

He grabs my wrist—eyes wide, color high—and he shoves me back into the cop, who clasps my upper arms with an iron grip. They all think I’m crazy, but it’s okay because I fought Otto. I fought him at the ceremony. I fulfilled my part of the prophecy.

Otto points at the glasses. “Get those things out of here!”

The pastor retreats. The cop tries to take the glasses, but I grab onto them, hold them tightly. The confusion mounts as the camera flashes multiply.

“Now those glasses really
will
be wiped from the earth,” Otto says to Shelby.

With a scream, Shelby launches herself at Otto, flies at him, knocking him backward against a podium. The impact—Otto’s head on the sharp corner—is hard. Loud. I gasp.

Otto’s hit his head. Really,
really
hard.

A cop yanks her off, but Otto stays down. There’s commotion in the audience, banging of people outside trying to get in. The officer finally gets the glasses.

“What have you done?” Otto sits up on his elbow, puts his hand to his hair, comes away with blood. A shout goes up for a doctor.

Otto looks like he’s having trouble focusing on his hand; he moves it in, near to his face, then away. “Is there blood?” He looks wildly around. “Somebody turn on the lights!” He can’t see. He’s gravely injured. His man Fancher grips his shoulder.

Screaming. Something’s going on in the pews, but I can’t look away from Otto.

“I’m a doctor.” A man kneels beside him, tries to calm him. Another doctor comes. I try to twist away from the cop who’s holding me. Screams sound out from the pews.

There’s fighting down there—guards, guests. People seem to be wrestling on the floor. A gunshot is fired and the screaming loudens.

Dimly, I’m aware of Dad, threatening the cop who has me. He lets me go and joins the fray. At the foot of the stairs two people seem to have piled onto another, the three of them struggling wildly. Then one of them looks up, and there’s blood around his mouth.

Cannibals! A shot rings out and the cannibal who stuck his head up flies backward, shot in the head. I scream. The other starts lumbering toward us. It’s Henry Felix! A guard knocks Felix out with the butt of his gun. But there are lots of other cannibals—I can tell now from the way they’re lumbering around. The cannibals seem to be attacking guests. The guards and cops have left the altar to pull them off the people who are mobbing the doors, which are apparently locked. More sleepwalkers come at us from the side.