Malice (30 page)

“I can’t hold on much longer,” Lysander said desperately.

Sam found his eyes, and in them he saw she was defeated. “I love you, Lysander. I have since the very beginning. But you knew that all along, didn’t you?”

Small’s jaw unhinged for another go at Lysander’s hand when suddenly his eyes bulged from their sockets. His mouth fell open, not with sadistic delight this time, but in agony. A set of hands had closed around his neck. Alex loomed over them, free now from his body. Leaning heavily against the tidal forces, he hoisted the reverend up by his neck. Ripping his hands, finger by finger, off Lysander. But the reverend wasn’t done, not by a long shot. His arms and legs coiled around Alex’s frame like a boa constrictor, sinking his teeth into the fleshy part of the man’s abdomen. Alex crashed to the floor, writhing, the reverend clawing at him with everything he had.

Lysander tightened his grip on Samantha. “This is our last chance. You have to help me or we’re finished.”

Sam’s sleepy eyes met his. “Okay,” she whispered.

Lysander knew now that everything centered on how well he had learned to maneuver in this new environment. The lessons had already started in that very first moment, hovering in Hume’s living room. He would have to concentrate. Block out all of the turbulence; the fire raging all around their physical bodies, Alex’s bellowing as the reverend tore at him. Most important of all, he had to block out the sight of Samantha, as her soul was being devoured wholesale. He tried thinking of his dog Sandy and the strings of drool that dribbled from her mouth and how it had sent him into fits of laughter. Then he thought of Sam and how tightly they had held each other the night before. How warm her naked body had felt next to his.

“Lysander!” Sam squealed, excitement in her voice.

Lysander opened his eyes. The blackness had receded to somewhere around her hips. It was letting her go. From behind them they could hear grunting and groaning. A ferocious battle was going on and by the sounds of it Alex was losing. And why wouldn’t he be? They were operating in a reality where physical strength meant next to nothing.

The reverend straddled Alex and began sinking his thumbs into his eyes.

Samantha screamed, and with that the vortex shuddered and grew stronger.

Sam’s face contorted. She was slipping away again. “Hurry, Lysander!”

The light that went on in Lysander’s head felt brighter than all the suns that had ever lived. The realization was so sudden and intense that he had nearly burst out laughing. How had he not seen it before? The churning black hole wasn’t after their souls. It was negativity it wanted.

He turned to Samantha. “It’s the fear and the hate in you. That’s what it’s feeding on, the dark stuff you keep buried down deep. The poison that consumed Rebecca Goodman all those years ago. Clear it away. Clear it all away and think of something else. Think of your mother and how much you loved her. Think about you and me, Sam. Think about us. In the hallway at school when you pushed me against the locker and you kissed me. How nice it felt.” The black mass seemed to be throbbing.

“That’s right. Stay in that moment. Hold it and don’t let it go!”

The great mouth pulsated faster now, gathering more and more speed until it seemed to reach a kind of critical mass. At last it gave a final shudder and expelled Samantha clear across the room, past the table of seated corpses. Lysander rose, keeping his mind clear of as much negativity as possible. Because of that the torrential wind that had nearly killed him and Sam was little more than a stiff breeze. The reverend and Alex were struggling only a few yards away. Alex was screaming in agony and Lysander felt the wind picking up. Their hatred was still feeding it, he realized. It’s not over yet. Lysander hooked an arm around the reverend’s neck and bent his head back.

“You were right all along,” Lysander whispered into his ear. “It was coming. It’s waited all these years and it’s finally come. But not for me. It’s here for you.” With a half twist he sent him spinning across the room and straight into the vortex. Reverend Small landed as a man would in a vat of thick tar. There was enough time for Lysander to see Small’s wide-eyed face as the last of him was consumed. The expression on his face was one of astonishment and above all, terror.

Behind them, the vortex was already shrinking. The edges came together, closing back down to a single black speck on the wall. Then, slowly, with a flicker, the dot blinked and disappeared altogether.

Back in the room, the fire was raging out of control. Lysander went to Sam, but when he got there, she had already rolled back into her body. He turned to help Alex and knew at once there was a problem. Alex’s body lay slumped on its side. Lysander could see he was trying to slide back in. But it wasn’t working. Every time he rose up, his body remained on the ground.

“Something’s wrong,” Alex said, confusion registering on his face.

Lysander looked at Alex’s prone body and a well of emotions sprung up from within him. In spite of everything Alex had done, he couldn’t bear seeing him like this.

Lysander crossed to help him.

“There isn’t time for that now,” Alex barked. “We gotta pull Sam free. Don’t worry about me, Lysander, just go. Get out there and get us out. That’s our only chance.”

Lysander hesitated. He wanted to say thank you. Alex had saved them.

“Go!”

Reluctantly, Lysander went to his body. A moment later he sat up into the physical world with a violent jerk. He was squinting like a newborn baby, half expecting the raging fire to trigger the first signs of a seizure. It didn’t happen. The top three-quarters of the room, however, had filled with a thick cloud of black smoke. His eyes stung as he crawled on the floor toward Samantha. Her boot was on fire. He pulled her along the floor. Through the open front door he could see flashing lights racing down the dirt road. He pulled her several feet from the house. Blood from his nose dripped onto her forehead. His face was pure agony, but he had no time for that now. He staggered back inside and emerged a minute later with Alex. Dragging the deputy the same way he’d done with Samantha.

Sheriff Crow and Jeff were coming at a full run, guns drawn. They had come after a neighbor had reported seeing a police cruiser barreling down the street on four flat tires. On his way from the police station, Alex had twisted the rims of Jeff’s cruiser completely out of shape.

“We need a doctor!” Lysander shouted. They stared at his face in horror. “Hurry! Call for help,” he shouted again. His plea finally registered with Jeff, because he bolted back to the cruiser and fumbled for the radio. Lysander studied Alex’s supine form for a moment. Neither he nor Sam was breathing.

Lysander tilted Samantha’s head back. He clamped her nose shut, ignoring the blood that trickled through his fingers. His other hand he slid under the back of her neck. Her lips parted and he blew deeply into her open mouth. With laced fingers he began pumping her chest rhythmically. He blew air into her lungs again and then pushed against her chest, trying to kick-start her heart.

“Lemme try!” Sheriff Crow shouted. “She’s my daughter, for God’s sake.”

Lysander moved aside. Steve wiped Lysander’s blood from her mouth with the sleeve of his uniform and continued trying to revive her.

Lysander gazed down at Alex. His skin looked almost translucent. Sheriff Crow had done his best to revive him, Lysander could see that. He would keep going until the paramedics arrived. Even though a growing part of him knew it wouldn’t do any good.

Behind him, Sheriff Crow was chanting, “Come on, Sam! Come on, girl, you can do it! Wake up, Sam. Wake up!”

A big, slobbery tongue licked Lysander awake. He came to, talking to Sandy, certain that her large head and sad eyes were resting on his stomach, only to find himself alone. They had given him a tranquilizer at the hospital. A deflated-looking Sheriff Crow had come by, but he had been too drowsy to answer any questions. He wouldn’t have known what to say anyway. Many questions of his own were left unanswered. Not long ago, a fat nurse, her hair done up in tight ringlets, had fed him something intravenously and it had helped him forget what had happened, but it hadn’t taken long for those memories to begin elbowing their way back in. Samantha was foremost on his mind. She hovered before him, a stinging reminder that he had lost the love of his life, again. The first time around, as Parris Locke, his thirst for power had blinded him. And now, as Lysander, his conquest of Summer had nearly landed him in the same boat. But, in the end, he had seen that vacuous path for what it was and he had found Sam at last.

He dared to wonder if she was still alive. The last time he’d seen her, she was sprawled on the ground, paramedics swarming around her like tiny insects.

His hope turned to dread and Lysander’s face contorted painfully.

Bandages were wrapped around his face, save for his eyes, and his hands were bound. Burned in the fire.

He had made the decision not to think about Samantha anymore when a muffled exchange between a doctor and a nurse drifted in from somewhere outside his room.

“… Crow’s gonna need 10 milligrams of Trizioline. Twice a day and …”

“Yes, doctor …”

“Oh, and nurse. Go ahead and leave her in 3B for now …”

“All right, doctor …”

Lysander’s heart surged. He unplugged the IV and swung his legs off the bed. The tiles were cold on his feet. He stood up and nearly fell over again. He stumbled out of his room, aware that his left leg wasn’t dragging behind him.

A young doctor materialized before him. He asked him where Room 3B was. The doctor pointed down the hallway and told him to make a right at the corner. He then asked if he knew anything about Alex Morgan, Deputy Alex Morgan and the doctor’s expression changed at once. Lysander understood the implication well enough.

He shuffled down the hall and turned as the doctor had told him to. Ten more steps and he was before Room 3B. The door was open. A nurse was inside, injecting a syringe into an IV.

“I’m sorry, but this is a private—”

“She’s my girlfriend,” he said awkwardly, the idea still feeling somehow foreign.

Girlfriend. I have a girlfriend?

They had never discussed their status, but his love for her was so overwhelming, he could not refer to her any other way.

The nurse slipped past him and out of the room.

Samantha lay perfectly still. Bandages covered her face and chest and hands. Tubes curled from her mouth and nose. Her chest rose and fell in a steady, delicate rhythm. The heart monitor beside her showed a steady pulse.

Lysander pushed a chair next to her and slowly sat down. He reached out and took her hand into his. Her skin was cold. He brought it to his lips and kissed her knuckles, her fingers, the palm of her hand.

“Samantha,” he whispered, “I know you can hear me. I want you back. I want you back more than anything. I’ve made mistakes, I know that, but you and I have a second chance now and I can’t lose you, not again. What was it you tried to say to me in the hospital that time? You better come to, or I’m gonna beat you back into consciousness?” His face broke into a smile and somehow he could feel her smiling back at him.

The moment was broken by a faraway sound. An alarm clock was going off in the distance, and for a split second he thought he was back in his bedroom. Then he understood that that was impossible. He had smashed that damn clock months ago. He peered through the bandages that covered his face. Someone nearby was sobbing. He kissed Sam’s hand again, laid it carefully at her side and left the room. The crying grew louder.

The sound was coming from down the hall. He followed it until he found the source. He could hear the gasps of the people there as he entered. They were gathered around the bed. His mother’s eyes blood red. Glenn was beside her, his face the color of old linen. At the foot of the bed, two nurses worked feverishly on a baby. His mother’s baby, he realized distantly. His little sister. Judging by her current condition, he might never get a chance to meet that little sister.

A third nurse came in and whispered to his mother. His mother’s face was washed out and labor-worn. The baby deathly silent …

“Little angel just stopped breathing,” one of the nurses was saying as they plied their skills.

His mother’s mouth was bent open at a queer angle, on the verge of wailing again, when a tiny noise brought the room to a screeching standstill. A low gurgle, barely audible—a noise that could just as easily have come from the back of his mother’s throat. But this was most definitely not his mother. Lysander was certain because her eyes grew to the size of dinner plates. Her lips parted with hope and surprise. The baby coughed and started crying. Lysander’s mind suddenly filled with a horrible, unthinkable thought. Was that really his baby sister, or had something else snuck inside during that brief vacancy?

His mother held her arms out, and in them the nurse placed the baby. She was red and squirmy and wrapped in a little blanket. Tears were streaking down Glenn’s face and spilling over his smiling lips. He was laughing now, as though this had all been some terrible prank and the pranksters had come clean.

“This kind of thing does happen,” one of the nurses was saying. The others stood by, beaming, careful not to leave for fear of a relapse.