Perennial (13 page)

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” I
say, unable to bring myself to tell him the truth. “Don’t take this the wrong
way, but can you two ever be together again? She misses you, William. She told
me so herself. I saw her today.”

“You saw Aruna
today?” William says, squeezing my hands hard. “How is she?”

“Not good,” I
say. “Face sent her to scare me out of investigating Perennial.” I pause. “It
didn’t work.”

“It’s official,”
he says. “You’ve definitely gained some confidence.”

“Can you answer
my question?” I say. “Can you and Aruna ever be together again?”

“Did she look
that bad?”

“You wouldn’t
want to see her like she is.”

“I’m not
positive how it works,” he says. “And I’m not saying I want her to die anytime
soon, but yes, I guess there’s a chance that we can be together when she dies.”
He pauses. “It’s just that …”

“Just what?”

“I don’t know,”
he says. “It’s been so long. Two years. I’ll always care for Aruna, and I
definitely hope she gets away from Face, but I’m not sure we could ever have
what we had when I was alive.” He shrugs. “What I’m saying is that I don’t
think I’m in love with Aruna anymore.”

There’s a long
silence. We’re still holding hands. My gorgeous Dream Guy is being candid in
his last moments with me. I feel so bad for William. It must be so lonely
wherever he is, not knowing who killed you and realizing you’ve grown apart
from somebody you once loved. His life ended violently. William never even had
a chance to say good-bye to anybody.

“I understand,”
I say, rubbing his muscular forearms. “I really do.”

“I know you do,”
he says. “I’d much rather stay here with you, but it’s time for me to go.”

“Are you sure
this is your last visit?”

“Yes,” he says.
“According to Vagabond it is anyway.”

I feel heat
building behind me eyes. “Maybe I can figure out how to channel you and we can
talk again someday.”

“I would love
it,” he says. “I don’t know if I should say this, but if I wasn’t dead I have a
feeling I could fall pretty hard for you.”

“Thank you for
saying it, William.” And it does feel wonderful knowing he feels that way about
me. My knees seem to melt, but despite my smile and all the happiness his kind
words bring, I fail to hold back tears. I don’t want William to leave, but I
know the time has come. “You know something, William?” I say. “You’re the
sweetest, hottest ghost I know.”

William laughs.
“If I don’t do this, I’ll always regret it.”

“Do what?”

“This.”

His soft, moist
lips are on mine before I can react. Part of me wants to pull back, but I’m in
William’s world, and he simply has too much power over me. He kisses just as
well if not better than Lewis, something I never dreamed possible. My whole
body relaxes as William’s strong arms wrap around my waist. He smells and
tastes like spearmint, and there’s a brief but funny moment where I consider
the possibility that William and Lewis might use the same soap and toothpaste.

Warm tingles
rocket through my body, hitting all the right places as William begins gently
kissing my neck. I wrap my arms tightly around his upper back, eyes closed, my
breathing heavier now. I’m aware of his hands moving further up alongside my
ribs, and as much as I tell myself that this is okay because it’s just a dream,
I can’t help but feel increasing guilt about Lewis. I have to do something
quick, because as much as I want William to keep this up I know we’re minutes
away from going too far.

“Aruna,” I say,
pulling away but allowing my hands to rest on his wide shoulders.

“What about
her?” William says, now looking at me through his dark sunglasses.

“She said
something else,” I say, catching my breath. “When she was talking about you
today, she said she was sorry for losing something. I asked her what she’d
lost, but she didn’t answer.” William continues staring at me, not a hint of
emotion on his face. “Does that mean anything to you?”

“No,” he says.
“Maybe she meant me. She was sorry for losing me.”

“Maybe.”

“Good-bye,
Alix,” he says, placing his palms on either side of my face. “You’re an
incredible person. Thank you for helping me. I know you’ll figure it all out.”
He gives me a quick kiss on the lips and removes his hands. Smiling, he says,
“And I sure hope you figure out a way to channel me, because I think we’d both
like to see each other again.”

I nod and reach
forward, longing for one last touch of his amazing body. But William Weed
vanishes just as quickly as he appeared, his physical form flaring and joining
the brilliant white light just before my fingers touch his dragon tattoos.

I awaken at my
desk with a loud gasp and nearly fall off my rolling swivel chair. It’s as if I
can still smell, feel, and taste William all around me. I rub my eyes and scan
the dark bedroom just to make sure he hasn’t crossed over like he did after the
second dream.

As much as I secretly wish he had crossed, I’m
relieved he hasn’t. There’s no sign of him, just his wonderful smell and the
lingering feeling of his lips against my neck. I reach up and touch the spots
where he kissed me, part of me feeling guilty, another part looking forward to
Lewis kissing me in the same places.

It’s nearly
midnight. Dad isn’t home yet, and again I worry that he saw me inside of
Lewis’s truck in Oval City. I check my phone for messages. There are none, not
even a text from Lewis, which I find slightly disappointing. The good news is
that the more time passes without me hearing from Dad, the less likely it is he
saw me with Lewis tonight.

I remove the
silver knife from my pocket and lay it on the desk beside my tablet. What a
day! Events pass through my mind quickly. Lewis. Aruna. The silver knife.
London. An envelope of Perennial. A car accident. Oval City.
Dad
in Oval City. Vagabond’s revelations
about Fire and Light. Face is a leader demon. A portal beneath Oval City that
I’m somehow supposed to close. Vagabond cutting off my hands and revealing
wonderful orbs of white light. A final and quite memorable visit with William.

And his murder
still to solve!

Whew. I should
pass out from exhaustion right now, but I’ve felt incredibly alert and strong
since my meeting with Vagabond. Somehow I’m still running on a full tank and
sense that I’ll continue feeling this way until my mission is complete.

Vagabond is
correct. My abilities are new and developing. I shouldn’t question or fight
them and should just let them happen.

I turn on the
desk lamp and find myself staring at a framed photo of Mom, Dad, and me in
Niagara Falls two years ago. We’d just finished the
Maid of the Mist
ride, the one I told Lewis about earlier tonight.
The three of us are soaked and still wearing our blue
Maid of the Mist
ponchos, huge smiles on our faces as we stand on
the jetty. Mom’s long brown hair sticks to the sides of her face in giant
clumps, her brown eyes full of life. She was the kind of person you think will never
die. That’s why part of me died the day she did. And now Vagabond comes out of
nowhere and promises me one last visit with her.

That bald
bastard better keep his promise.

“Hi, Mom,” I
say, touching her face with my index finger. “I know you’re out there, and I
know you can hear me. I don’t know if you realize it yet, but we’re going to
see each other soon. I promise, okay?” I sit there, finger pressed against the
picture frame, biting my lower lip and hoping for some kind of vision of her.
That doesn’t happen, but I know she’s in the Light world. She was the nicest,
most generous person one could imagine. “By now you probably know I’m
different,” I continue, finding surprising comfort in speaking to her picture.
“There’s a lot of weight on my shoulders right now. I didn’t ask for any of it,
but I’m different, and that’s something I have to live with now—and forever.
We’re not a religious family, but right now I feel like I need to pray. And I’m
not praying to God, Mom. I’m praying to you. Please, I need your help. Over the
next forty-eight hours, I’m going to experience hell. You and Dad are the
smartest people I know, but Dad can’t know about this, so I’m praying to you to
guide me and bless me with the strength, courage, and wisdom I need.”

I pull my finger
away and clasp my hands to my chest in prayer.

“You’re the
reason I’m doing this, Mom,” I say, glancing at the silver knife before
returning my gaze to her picture. “Helping William find peace and destroying a
demon bent on possessing the world are pretty damn important, but Vagabond
didn’t have me until he said I could see you.” I unclasp my hands, kiss my
fingertips, and press them against the picture frame. “I love you, Mom. I love
you, Dad.”

I turn my
attention to the knife and the network of triangles and lines on the handle.
The more I look at the weapon, the more I appreciate its craftsmanship. The
knife doesn’t weigh much—less than a can of soda—and the pristine condition of
the silver makes it look brand new. Even after today’s events, there isn’t a
single smudge or stray mark on the blade. It’s as if the weapon heals itself
after every encounter.

The symbols on
the handle remind me of dozens of tiny golf tees arranged neatly in horizontal
and vertical patterns. Every line has a triangle connected to one end, and
every triangle except for one has a line connected to it. Viewed as a whole
it’s a cool design, but I know there’s meaning to the symbols.

I decide to snap
a photo of the knife with my phone and run the picture through Google Goggles
to see if I get any visual search hits.

That’s when
something weird happens. The knife doesn’t appear in the pictures.

I take four
photos of the thing, two with the flash on and two without, and all that shows
up in the pictures is my desk. According to my phone’s camera, the knife is
either invisible or doesn’t exist.

“Unbelievable,”
I say, rubbing my forehead out of frustration.

I raise the
knife in my right hand and stare at it. People talk about clothing that has a
perfect fit. It’s like that with this knife. It’s a perfect fit for my hand.
Vagabond said Face gave me the knife through Aruna to test me. Now that Face
knows I can use it, he wants me out of the picture, and he wants the knife
back. He even sent one of his freaky demon Brawlers to get it.

Which means
he’ll likely send more, because Vagabond said I would meet other scouts called
Heaters and Crawlers.

Great.

Not wanting to
think about that, I lay the knife on the desk and take a picture of it with my
tablet just to be sure my phone camera isn’t acting weird. It isn’t. The
tablet’s camera produces the same result. There’s no knife in the picture.

So if my dad
walked in right now, would he be able to see the knife? Yes, I decide, because
Lewis and Aruna saw it, and they’re not paranormal demon warriors like London
Steel and … me.

If the knife
symbols are indeed a form of writing, I should be able to find an Internet
keyword match fairly quickly, and I’m getting ready to conduct that research
when, out of the corner of my eye, I see the knife moving.

It’s barely
perceptible, the blade moving less than an inch clockwise. I’m lucky I noticed
it. I didn’t accidentally bump the desk, so I figure it’s one of those “house
settling” movements Dad says are common in old homes. Regardless, I check
beneath the desk, relieved not to find some hideous demon scout lurking at my
feet.

My desk rests
along the wall opposite the bedroom window. I turn to look. The window is
halfway open. A gentle breeze blows through the screen, so the wind probably
moved the knife.

Focusing on the
tablet again, I’m typing the phrase “written languages with symbols” into
Google when I hear a faint hissing sound from outside. The knife moves again
too, faster and longer this time, doing a complete one-eighty and stopping when
the handle faces me, symbol side up. The hissing stops as well.

“Okay,” I say,
sliding the tablet away and staring at the knife.

Fear ripples through
me. I turn quickly in my chair in an attempt to surprise anything that might be
waiting for me. The room is empty. I exhale deeply and even manage a smile.

“You can relax,
Blade,” I say, swiveling back to the knife and liking the nickname I just gave
it. “It’s a possum or something. Besides, we’re on the second floor. Don’t
worry.”

I reach for the
tablet and hear it again, the hissing louder and closer now, sounding as if
it’s just outside my window. There’s a rustling sound too, like an animal is
moving through the shrubs in the front yard.

The knife begins
vibrating on the desk in the exact same way it did in my pocket during my
encounter with the Brawler. The movements make sense now. The knife is more
than just an awesome weapon. It’s also a type of warning system. It lets me
know when trouble is near and when it’s ready for action.

The hissing and
rustling stop outside, but my heart pounds rapidly as the knife’s movements
intensify. It’s going bonkers on the desk, vibrating like it’s in the middle of
a violent earthquake.

White light
slices through my mind. My body reacts as if it’s on autopilot. I know what to
do. Somehow I just know, and it all goes back to Vagabond cutting off my hands
and revealing the white light.

Light.

I open my right
hand and lay it palm up on the desk about a foot away from the knife. I stare
at the weapon and smile as it rockets toward my open hand under its own power
and secures its handle in my palm. I wrap my fingers around it, enjoying the
pleasing warmth it sends through my hand and arm.

I feel
invincible. Yes, my abilities are definitely growing.

Another blast of
white light.

Something that
looks like a goat face flashes through my mind, followed by what resembles a
starfish spinning like a fast-moving helicopter. Weird.

I stand and kick
the chair under the desk, knife held in front of me at chest level as I turn
and walk toward the window, squinting from the annoying yellow streetlight
glare slicing into the room.

I’m three feet
away from the window. It’s still silent outside, just the soft, cool breeze
hitting me as I approach the screen. It smells like late summer out there—dead
leaves, freshly cut grass, and a bonfire somewhere nearby.

I reach the
window. Nothing happens. It’s a large window that slides open horizontally. The
ledge is at my knees. Keeping the knife in front of me and ready to strike, I
lean toward the screen for a look at the front yard below, shielding my eyes
from the streetlight glare with my opposite hand. There’s nothing evil down
there, just impeccable landscaping, an emerald-green lawn, and a large maple
tree off to my right.

The knife hasn’t
moved on its own since landing in my hand, so I consider the fact that this
might be a false alarm. After all, my abilities are still in the beta stage, so
I figure a bug is bound to pop up every now and then.

“I’m telling
you, Blade,” I say, scanning the yard, “there’s nothing out—”

Heaters. The
word cloud shoots through my mind, but I’m too late.

The obnoxious
streetlight prevents me from seeing it. Chaos as something hisses and shrieks
loudly from the maple tree area and smashes through the window screen with
incredible speed and momentum. Everything goes black. I’m falling backwards and
can’t breathe.

It’s on my face.
Something hot, stinky, and slimy is on my face, screeching with delight as it
wraps what feel like short, muscular arms around the back of my head and
squeezes, applying the kind of pressure that makes your skull feel like it’s
about to shatter.

The knife. Going
berserk in my right hand. It wants to strike, but I’m on the verge of blacking
out from pain and can’t see anything. If I attempt a wild, blind strike on this
thing, there’s a chance I’ll end up stabbing my face.

I drop to my
knees and try screaming. No sound comes out. The smell is disgusting, like
rotten meat in a desert. It feels like some high-powered suction device from
hell is removing my face. I bring my free hand up in an attempt to pry the
creature off of me. I get a brief grasp of what feels like a hot, fleshy horn,
but then something sharp clamps down on my fingers, sending a searing pain
through my hand.

The damn thing just bit me
. That’s my
thought as I manage to pull my aching hand free from what I assume is its
mouth.

The beast
screeches louder now, surely thrilled with drawing blood from me. My only hope
is the knife. Using the knife is risky, but I’m seconds away from dying in my
bedroom. Whatever this thing is, it’s probably not expecting my wounded hand to
make another move, so that’s exactly what I do, reaching up with my bloody left
hand and making a desperate grab for the fleshy horn thing.

I get a great
hold on it this time too—so good that the creature can’t bite me. I feel it
trying, but my hand is too high up, confirming my hunch that I’m definitely
holding some sort of horn protruding from its small head.

I’ve distracted
it enough for it to ease up on the pressure its short limbs are applying to my
face and head, giving me enough time to bring the knife up and strike quickly
but carefully with a waving motion a few inches in front of my face.

I feel the blade
slice cleanly through something. I hope it’s not my own flesh. The beast emits
an awful high-pitched wail and removes itself from my face with a nasty
suction-like sound. I gasp loudly, sucking in the night air and wiping my face
free of what turns out to be more of the same thick yellow ooze the Brawler
introduced me to.

Demon snot.

“What the hell!”
I yell, opening my eyes and sensing the Heater still in the room, hopefully
dead or at least badly injured.

That’s when I
realize I’m holding something in my left hand.

It’s the horn. I
cut off a Heater horn! There it is, a pink, membranous horn several inches long
and ending in a dangerous, knifelike tip. Yellow tendons and fresh demon ooze
dangle from the severed end.

“Yeah!” I yell,
dropping the horn, adrenaline pumping and all senses on high alert as I stand
and scan the room for the creature. “Come on out, you little wimp! Is that all
you have?”

I see no sign of
the beast.

Blade has calmed
down in my right hand, barely moving now. I check the window screen and see an
opening the size of a dinner plate. Maybe the Heater retreated back to Oval
City or wherever it came from.