Perennial (10 page)

“It’s
tempting, but you’re too dangerous.”

I
step out, close the door, and walk in front of the truck toward the sidewalk.

“Hey,
Alix?”

I
reach the sidewalk and turn.

Lewis
says, “Don’t forget.”

“About
what?”

He
smiles. “You have a knife in your back pocket.”

“You’re
right,” I say, patting my pocket, relieved the weapon is still there. “Thanks
for the reminder.” I remove the silver knife from its sheath and show it to him
before quickly tucking it back where it belongs. “Hey, Lewis?”

“What’s
up?”

I
smile. “Good luck explaining the truck to your grandpa.”

He
nods and gives me a wave. Then he turns the headlights on and drives slowly
away, leaving me with the feeling he’s one of those people who the more you
think you know them, the less you really know about them.

If
William is my Dream Guy Lewis is my Mystery Man.

I
stand there on the sidewalk, rubbing my warm lips and watching the back of
Lewis’s truck until the taillights fade to tiny red smudges in the dark street.

I
can’t imagine being with a better kisser than Lewis Wilde, and as much it scares
me to think about it, I really can’t wait to be alone with him again.

I step into my
house just before ten and sense danger as soon as I close the door behind me. Once
again I place my hand on my back pocket to double-check that I still have
Aruna’s knife. Satisfied, I flick on the living-room light and breathe a sigh
of relief at the sight of an empty room. The relief doesn’t last long, however,
because I suddenly have that same feeling I experienced behind Zeppelin in the
moments before Aruna made her appearance.

Somebody
is inside this house, and it isn’t my dad.

I
step cautiously into the room, hand on my back pocket, fear overwhelming me.

“Aruna?”
I say, now frustrated at the lack of a clear vision and suddenly hoping my
abilities return full force. “Is that you, Aruna?”

No
answer—just the sound of my heavy breathing.

I
decide to take Dad’s advice on this one. Since there’s a gun in Dad’s office
and the intruder might already have it (or one of his or her own), it’s too
dangerous for me to stay here, so I decide to quietly and quickly leave the
house to call the police.

And
I’m taking my first step backwards toward the front door when it happens.

A
dark figure is directly behind me, waiting. I see it in my mind, just like I
saw Aruna hiding behind the Dumpster before she made her appearance. Problem is
I’m too late this time. This person is too good. This person has abilities that
dwarf my own. At the same time, something weird happens with Aruna’s silver
knife. I feel it vibrating in my back pocket like some trapped animal trying to
break free. Then I remember London’s comment about the knife possibly coming in
handy.

It’s
some sort of warning, I realize. The knife is warning me.

But
it all happens too fast. The next thing I know, a muscular arm wraps around my
neck and I’m in a choke hold that could easily kill me in my own living room.

I
drop to my knees, unable to breathe as the pressure of the person’s arm
threatens to crush my trachea. A shiny, black, spandex-like material covers the
arm, but there’s disgusting slimy moisture on it that I feel against my throat.
The knife responds too, now vibrating with more intensity. It’s as if the knife
is struggling along with me and pleading for me to reach back and grab it.
Problem is I can’t take my hands off of this person’s arm. I’m using every
ounce of strength I have to get this anaconda off of me, but it’s no use.

I’m
on the verge of blacking out when I hear a male voice in my ear that goes
against everything good in this world. It’s a low, dirty, guttural voice—the
voice of evil. The sound of it sends the most intense wall of fire through my mind
yet.

Slowly
and calmly, he whispers the following: “I want the knife, Alix. It doesn’t
belong to you.”

He
releases his death grip and shoves me forward onto the wood floor.

I
land face-first, roll onto my back, and grab my aching throat, coughing and
crying as I struggle to get my wind back. A tall, muscular figure stands above
me, intense black eyes glaring at me with hatred. The strange black material
covers the man’s entire face and body, feet included. He wears no shoes. He
reminds me of a ninja who just emerged from a swimming pool.

“Who
are you?” I say, dreading the thought of another choke hold. “
What
are
you?”

The
knife continues to go bonkers in my pocket.

What
happens next confirms that London’s world of violent battles against demonic
beasts exists.

With
inhuman speed, the “man” hunches forward onto all fours. His back arches like
that of a cat. I hear a series of disgusting popping sounds that remind me of
tree branches snapping in half. He’s getting larger, I realize, and his arms
have become his front legs. Wide-eyed, I watch in horror as his black eyes turn
into yellow slits. At the same time, long silver claws protrude from the four “feet”
that now resemble gigantic black paws.

It
finally occurs to me that the spandex-like material isn’t fabric at all. It’s
the creature’s skin.

His
slimy, eel-like face is now twice as large as its original form. The beast
reminds me of a steroid-bloated hairless cat without ears or a tail.

The
monster launches itself toward me, stopping inches from my face, its head moving
slowly from side to side. The yellow eyes seem to stare right through me. Terror
paralyzes me. I’m unable to respond to the knife’s continuing protests in my pocket.

The
voice again: “Give me the knife, Alix, or you won’t like what I do to you.”

The
creature has no mouth, I realize, just those awful eyes and hideous face. The
words simply emerge from it somehow.

This
is impossible. It can’t be happening. But it is. This thing is all too real and
from someplace I want nothing to do with.

“Will
you go away and leave me alone if I give it you?” I ask, finally managing to
muster some words.

The beast’s
mouth suddenly appears like a new fault in the earth’s surface. A dark,
horizontal crack forms across the lower middle part of its face. Black ooze
seeps from the crack as the creature opens its mouth, revealing a set of sharp
yellow teeth that look as if they could slice me in half with ease. Each
dagger-like tooth is nearly the size of my head.

What
happens next nearly makes me vomit.

A
thick, slimy, blood-red tongue uncoils from the back of the beast’s mouth and
protrudes several inches beyond its teeth. The creature then runs the tip of
its grotesque tongue down the side of my face and neck, leaving behind a trail
of yellow ooze that smells like rotten garbage. All I can do is close my eyes
and try not to go insane from the terror.

“You
taste good, Alix,” the monster hisses, running its tongue over my nose and glasses.
“Now, give me the knife and I’ll be on my way.”

I
manage a deep breath and, eyes still closed, think back to my reading on
London. As those awful battle images danced through my mind, London told me to take
it all in. She said it was real. She said I was becoming part of it.

As I
again recall her tip about the knife coming in handy, I realize that right now
it’s official. I’m part of London’s world, and as awful, violent, and unreal as
her world is, this is happening, and I need to summon the courage to deal with
it.

Courage.

Again,
London’s words come to mind.
There’s nothing wrong with being scared. I’m
scared every day. Vagabond says courage is being scared to death of something
but confronting it anyway. Trust your abilities, but don’t trust anything or
anybody else.

My
mind somehow clears, and although I’m still lying on my back and experiencing
intense pain from the choke hold and fall, I know exactly what I have to do. As
the creature’s wet tongue explores my forehead and hair, I keep my eyes closed
and carefully slide my right arm behind my waist, where I manage to grasp the
handle of the silver knife. The knife continues its odd behavior and settles
into my grip as if my hand is a high-powered magnet. I lie there a few moments,
fear building again as the beast raises a front leg and brings one of those
nasty silver claws dangerously close to my throat.

“Here’s
your knife!” I yell.

My
words surprise the beast. It lowers its leg and begins to withdraw its tongue,
but not before I grab that disgusting tongue with my outstretched left hand. I
get an excellent hold on it too, the tongue feeling like warm raw meat as I use
it as leverage to pull myself up to a seated position. The beast squeals like a
wounded pig, fighting me hard as I raise the knife high over my right shoulder
with blinding speed I never knew I had. I close my eyes and scream as I plunge
the knife through the thick center of the monster’s tongue. The blade cuts through
the skin as if it’s warm butter and embeds itself into the wood floor. A warm,
putrid liquid sprays my face. When I open my eyes, I see a geyser of yellow
ooze erupting from a fist-sized hole in the trapped creature’s pinned tongue. The
monster shrieks like mad and begins shaking violently. I grab the knife and
pull it out of the floor and through the mangled tongue.

“Go
to hell!” I yell, wiping hot, stinky yellow ooze from my glasses and raising
the knife for another strike.

But
I don’t have to strike again. Instead, I feel an intense heat emanating from
the wounded creature. I see the explosion in my mind just before it happens.
Knowing what’s coming, I grip the knife tightly and roll backwards as far as I can,
watching from the entrance to the kitchen with a morbid sense of fascination as
the crawling, skinless, demonic cat-beast explodes into a brilliant blue,
yellow, and orange fireball the size of a large boulder and vanishes before my
eyes.

I
sit up, heart pounding as I look around the now-silent room. It’s as if the
whole thing never happened. The knife has stopped moving, and I somehow know
this means the danger has passed. I pocket my valuable weapon and sit there on the
wood floor in a daze, reaching up to wipe leftover monster ooze from my face
only to discover there’s no ooze to wipe. Weird. I’m not even sweating. I touch
my throat. It’s not the least bit sore from the choke hold. All evidence of
what just happened has disappeared. I’m bewildered, confused, and convinced I’m
going mad.

“Go
away,” I whisper, breaking into tears and burying my face in my hands. “Please,
God. Just make it all go away.”

For
the next few minutes, I cry harder than I have since the day Mom died. One
moment I think I have everything figured out and I’m confident I’ll bust Face for
William’s murder and destroy Oval City. The next moment I remember I just
destroyed a shape-shifting monster with a magical knife I have no business
carrying. In between I think about my overwhelming feelings for Lewis but face
the fact I still have serious questions about his sudden presence in my life.

“I
need help,” I say through the tears. I’m sitting on the living-room floor, face
still in my hands. “I’m alone and I need help.”

Knowing
I’m all out of tears, I dry my face with my hands, remove the knife, and stare
at it, examining it closely for the first time and noticing a series of wedge-shaped
designs etched lightly into one side of the solid silver handle. But upon
closer examination I realize the markings are more than beautiful designs. They’re
symbols, dozens of them, a series of small triangles with vertical and
horizontal lines connecting them. The history student in me feels a strong urge
to go upstairs and research the markings, and I’m getting ready to stand and do
that when I again experience the sensation that somebody is in the room with
me.

Moments
later the white light erupts inside my head and I see an image of a
well-dressed man with piercing blue eyes and a freshly shaven head. His dark
suit is impeccable. He’s handsome but older, more like a father figure. Grandfatherly
even. I open my eyes, drop the knife onto the floor, and stare at it, unable to
garner the energy needed for another fight.

“I
give up,” I say, shaking my head. “Whoever you are, just do what you have to
do. Take the knife. I give up.”

Nothing
happens, but I know the man in the suit is close by.

“Take
the knife!” I yell, pushing it across the floor as if it’s a hockey puck.

The
weapon hits something five feet away and stops with a dull metallic thud. I
raise my gaze slightly and see a pair of immaculate dark-leather men’s shoes.

A
voice: “That’s a shame, Alix. Because overall you’ve shown great promise thus
far.”

I
close my eyes and refuse to look up. He speaks quickly but calmly, his accent
falling somewhere between Australian and English. The aura he gives off is one
of pure white light. There is no fire to this man, and there’s no need for an
introduction. William warned me I would not like this man, but I know he
represents good.

Right
now though, I don’t care what he represents, because I’m done with this.

“Vagabond?”

“Hello,
Alix.” I hear him kick the knife. The weapon slides across the floor and stops inches
from my knees. “You’re allowed to feel sorry for yourself on occasion, but
don’t you ever voluntarily relinquish that knife. You’re only beginning to
understand how special that weapon is. Now, please stop being so submissive and
rude. You look incredibly sad and weak at the moment. I despise those two
qualities, so stand up and open your eyes. We have a lot to talk about.”

I do
as he says, opening my eyes and standing across from him, but I make a point of
leaving the knife on the floor. Vagabond looks exactly as he did in the vision,
a walking male model for some high-end suit store catering to men aged sixty
and up. He folds his hands in front of his waist and studies me with eyes so
blue they’re hard to look at.

“Say
it,” he says.

“Say
what?”

“Exactly
what you’re feeling.”

“I
just did,” I say. “I quit. I’m done. I can’t handle any of this. I never asked
for it. I don’t want it.” I pause. “Okay, maybe I wanted it at certain points,
but not after what just happened with that … that thing I just killed.”

“Nobody
asks for abilities like yours, Alix,” he says, glaring at me. “What you and
certain other humans can do is incredibly rare, a combination of luck and
genetics, but mostly luck.”

“Lucky
is the last thing I feel right now.”

“I
understand,” he says. “What you’re feeling—that roller coaster of emotions—it’s
normal and expected at this stage. London Steel had to deal with it. Roman King
had to deal with it. So did the others.”

“Roman
King?” I say, squinting. “That name rings a bell. Who is he?”

“A
recent addition to my team.” Vagabond smiles. “I’m sure you two will meet soon.”
He claps his hands together once. “Right, then. Shall we get on with it?”