Heroes 'Til Curfew (Talent Chronicles #2) (19 page)

Maybe I could
. I thought fast. Maybe
I could say we’d been mugged, by the guys running away from the
record store. That could work.

But that would bring us a lot of attention
and questions. Too many questions, starting with why we were there
this time of night. And then there was the blood that was probably
on the statue, on the floor, and probably still running down the
back of Dylan’s neck. No good.

“Come on,” I ground out, literally dragging
him farther away from Vinyl Salvation. The fountain was closer now
than the shops on the other side, and, when we reached it, it was
all I could do to try to lower him in without dropping him. He was
nearly dead weight.

Dylan started to try to sit up, but I shoved
him back down to the tile as I fell in beside him. I had just
caught a glimpse of a pair of uniforms coming out the front of the
store.

“I need to get around to the other side of
this thing. Can you do that?”

“I think so,” he told me, but I could hear
the groan he was trying to hold back.

I didn’t wait for him, but belly-crawled it
around the pool of the fountain and knelt up behind the statue.
When I peered around, I could see Dylan slowly making his way
around to join me, keeping below the rim. Beyond him were the two
officers, shining their flashlights up and down the mall.

At the mall entrance that borders the
cross-street, there’s decorative iron fencing that reminds cars not
to turn onto the bricks. There used to be some flowerbeds there,
but at some point those became rock gardens, dotted with terra
cotta planters that sometimes have flowers and sometimes don’t.
Even though it was dark and far away, and I couldn’t really see it,
the rock garden was as clear in my mind’s eye as my kitchen. I
started picking up rocks and throwing them at the fencing. They
didn’t all hit, but enough of them did to get the cops’ attention
and send them scurrying in that direction.

“Okay,” I said to Dylan, who had just made
his way around to me, “let’s get to the other side. Then down an
alley to the next street and we should be home free.”

“I think I’m gonna hurl.”

Oh my God, he’s serious.
Because of
the shadows cast by the buildings, it was almost totally dark on
this side of the fountain. I searched around frantically, dumped
the trash out of one of the fast food bags and shoved it into his
hands just before he let loose.

“Toss that aside before the bottom drops
out,” I told him as soon as it sounded like he was done. Part of
what I’d dumped out was the obligatory giant stack of unused
napkins, so I shoved those at him next.

“Thanks. Ugh, gross. Sorry about that. Bet
you totally want to kiss me right now.”

“I’m trying to hold back. Feel better?”

“Yeah, actually. I think I can make that
dash now.”

“All right, hang on.”

They’d be almost done investigating the
rock-throwing incident, maybe on their way back already. I needed
to keep them busy over there, away from us. In my mind I could see
the huge, metal sign that hung over the fencing. “Get ready to
move,” I told Dylan as I envisioned one of the metal rings that
held it up. It wasn’t as clear in my head as the rock garden, and
it took a lot more effort than a little metal ring should take, but
I finally yanked it. The sign swung down and my stomach dropped as
I thought of the angel.

Cops yelled. Dylan and I scrambled out of
the fountain and finally made the other side of the bricks. I
wanted to take advantage of the diversion and our momentum, so I
kept dragging Dylan along, across the service road, down another
alley, not slowing until we reached the sidewalk of the next
street.

As soon as the pace slowed, I felt more of
his weight sag against me, but at least he was keeping his feet
under him.

“We need to go to ground, rest, clean that
cut on your head. The Warren’s way too far from here.”

“Who’s Warren?”

“That’s what Heather decided to call the
tunnels. Your place is closest. Is your mom home?”

“Noooo, not my house,” he slurred. “Let’s
just find a nice gutter. Or your house. We could go to your
house.”

“And have you take a header off the roof?
That sounds great.”

“Nah, I’m okay. You’d catch me.” With his
usual impeccable timing, he stumbled over a break in the sidewalk
and I had to keep both of us from going down.

“Just think about a safe location.”

“Are there tennis balls in the soup?”

“Come on, be serious.”

“A pear camping highway fire mask,” he said,
more intensely.

My heart rate, which had finally started
slowing, sped up again. Everything started to tilt. We were under a
streetlight, and even though I hated to be conspicuous, I leaned
him up against the pole.

“Dylan, do you understand what I’m saying?”
Questions or no questions I was going to have to get him to the
hospital.

His head lolled sideways when he looked down
at me. I couldn’t see his eyes in the shadows. “Right water cake.”
He reached out to stroke my cheek.

I grabbed for his wrist. There was nothing
coming out of the end of his sleeve. I groped for the hand I had
just felt on my face. It was there, I just couldn’t see it. I
pushed the sleeve back. He was invisible as far as I could see. I
dropped his arm and yanked up his t-shirt.

His stomach was mottled with patches of
clear.

“Dylan,” I said sharply, as though raising
my voice was going to help somehow. “Parts of you are invisible.
You need to phase back.”

“Flowers?”

There was no way I was going to start
crying. No freaking way.

Chapter 10

Joss

Dylan and his mom lived in one of the old,
brick apartment buildings downtown. Even if Dad and I hadn’t
dropped Dylan at home the other night, I wouldn’t have had any
problem finding it. You don’t crush on a guy this long without
knowing his address, maybe casually strolling by a few times to try
and figure out which window is his.

If that’s stalkerish, so be it.

Those were the kinds of thoughts I was
babbling in my head, trying to keep it together. The keys I’d dug
out of Dylan’s pocket got us through the front door without having
to try to use the intercom that looked as old as the building. The
stairs were narrow, steep, and sounded so rickety it seemed like
maybe it was only the countless layers of paint that were holding
them together.

We had to stop to rest halfway up. Dylan
wasn’t even trying to talk anymore. Exhausted and disoriented were
such understatements I wouldn’t even know how to describe him. Now
that we had some light, I raised his half-closed lids and checked
his pupils. They were uneven.

Oh shit.

I dragged him up again and hauled him up the
rest of the stairs to the third floor, fueled by fear and a
desperate need to get him somewhere safe. I’d get him home, and
then, somehow, everything would be okay.

When we got to the door, I pounded on it a
few times before fumbling with Dylan’s keys again. I wanted to give
his mom a little warning if she was home, but when I finally got
the door open, I almost hit her with it. She jumped back, and then
glared at us.

“He drunk again? Another fight? What’s he
done now?”

“No, ma’am, he’s not drunk,” I told her,
pulling Dylan over the threshold and into the darkened living room.
Most of the light came from a pretty big flat-screen TV on the wall
and a weak bulb hanging from the kitchen ceiling at the back of the
apartment. “He’s hurt, though.”

“Well go dump him in his bed and let him
sleep it off.” I must have looked at her blankly because she threw
her arm out in irritation. “Down the hall, on the right, like you
don’t know. Think I don’t know what goes on here while I’m at
work?”

I didn’t even know what to do with that. I
had expected her to rush forward and help me get him to the couch
or to his room. Or to stumble back in surprise and then start
scurrying around and do—I don’t know—mom stuff. But she just stood
there looking pissed at us. Clearly she didn’t understand.

I started moving toward the hallway. Dylan
was barely holding himself up now. “Mrs. Maxwell—”

“Felson. I don’t go by that name
anymore.”

Whatever.
“Dylan’s been hit on the
head. I think it’s serious, but it’s…complicated. I couldn’t take
him to the hospital. We’re going to need a first aid kit—”

“Do I look like a Girl Scout to you? We got
Band-Aids.”

At least she was following me. I got Dylan
into his room and lowered him onto the unmade bed as gently as I
could. I was starting to freak out again. Dylan’s mother wasn’t
going to do any mom stuff. She wasn’t going to make any of this
better. She wasn’t going to fix it. I fussed over Dylan a little
and kept my face turned away from her as I bit my lip and thought
about my mom. My parents. I needed help, damn it.

“What do you mean ‘complicated’? Why
couldn’t you take him to the hospital?”

She hadn’t noticed his missing hand yet. I
snapped on the lamp over the bed so we had more to work with than
the streetlight shining in through the uncovered window. I pulled
up his t-shirt and showed her the strange pattern of skin mottled
with the distorted image of the sheet underneath him.

“What the hell is that?”

“It’s…parts of him are invisi—”

“I can see that! Why?”

Her hair was the same color as Dylan’s, and
starting to gray. Her eyes were the same color blue, but somehow
completely different.

“He took a really hard blow to the head. At
first he seemed okay, but then he started to have trouble speaking,
and then I realized he can’t control his Talent.” I was trying
really hard to keep my voice steady. I was so frustrated with this
woman, cosmically disappointed, terrified for Dylan and that I was
all he had right now. “I’m worried that’s a sign of a brain injury,
but I don’t know—”

“And you brought him
here?
”

“It was the closest, safe place.”

“Safe for who? How am I going to explain my
half-invisible son if—if something happens? I was supposed to turn
him in. There’s a law, you know.”

She can’t help you. Ignore her and take care
of business.

“I’m going to need something to clean this
with.”

“Go look in the bathroom,” she snapped at
me. She tapped a cigarette against the pack a few times, lit
it.

Oh no, that’s fine, I’ll just find it
myself.

I found some rubbing alcohol, but nothing in
the bathroom looked particularly sterile. I was lucky to find an
unopened roll of paper towels on top of the refrigerator. I’d get
this cleaned up, see what there was to see. Then I’d call Kat, make
her look up first aid stuff online, tell me what I needed to know.
I’d get her to bring me whatever we needed. If she was still pissed
at me, she could just get over it. And if it was too bad, I’d call
my dad. He’d take care of us.

I had a plan.

When I came back, Dylan’s mom was sitting on
a desk chair, well away from the bed, ashing into an empty soda
can. I tried to ignore her as I settled in on my knees to clean
Dylan’s wound. At least it seemed like it had stopped bleeding. It
would probably start again when I wiped the dried blood away, but I
didn’t think blood loss was the worst of his problems.

I thought about easing his jacket off,
cleaning off the blood that had run down his neck and back. I could
see the neck of his t-shirt was soaked in it. But that would be
stalling. I told myself I was trying to be gentle with the dampened
towel and my fingertips, gingerly trying to part his hair, clean
away the blood, find out exactly where he was hurt. But really, I
was just so afraid to touch him. I tried to refocus, depersonalize,
just get in there and do the work.

And then I felt it, felt a give where it had
no right to be.

The first sob leapt up out of my throat
before I could stop it. I clamped my hand over the one behind it,
choking on grief and fear.

“What
is
it?”

“I think it’s a skull fracture.”

“What were you kids doing?!”

I held up a hand. I couldn’t deal with her;
I needed to think. But I couldn’t think. I couldn’t do anything but
relive the feeling of softness where there should have been bone
and drown in the panic swirling inside me, all around me, dragging
me under.

I was caught in a loop.
I don’t know what
to do. I don’t know what to do.

I think his mother was still talking at me,
but I’d tuned her out. I reached out and brushed back a lock of
hair that had fallen over his face.

He could die. Don’t let him die.

I don’t know what to do.

“Who the hell’s gonna fix this mess?”
Dylan’s mother asked. She probably wasn’t even talking to me
anymore.

I can’t fix it. I could have stopped it. If
I had been paying attention. If I had never gone into that store.
If I hadn’t let him come with me.

I heard myself, back in the storeroom of
Vinyl Salvation,
“I can take these guys.”
I was so sure that
my Talent was—

“My Talent…”

“
Your
Talent? So you’re one of them
too.”

I yanked my phone out of my coat pocket. I
was still using the one Eric had given me, and I’d never deleted
any of his numbers. I scrolled down to Rob Grayson’s and hit
SEND.

“Eric?” He sounded sleepy. “What’s going
on?”

“It’s Joss. Dylan’s hurt. I need you to find
a healer Talent for me. His name’s Lakota. His sister—”

“What happened? Is he okay?”

“No, he’s not. Listen! I need Lakota. I
don’t know his last name. His sister goes to our school. Raine. I
think she’s a sophomore.”

“All right, hold on.” I heard some moving
around. “Okay, Joss,” Rob said calmly, soothingly. “I’m doing a
search. This isn’t going to take a minute.” I imagined Rob holding
his hand out over a computer, a blue glow between his hand and the
equipment, the way Dylan had described it to me.