Public Enemies (14 page)

“Pretty crazy, right?” The girl looked like she wanted to call one of those ghost-hunting TV shows right this minute.

“Could be Photoshopped,” I pointed out.

But I didn't think so. It cooled off some of their excitement, though. The guy cocked his head. “Shit, that does seem like something Allison would do. Send around a fake ghost photo, get everyone pissing scared, and then announce she was punking us.”

I half smiled. “Thanks for filling me in. I have to get to class.”

The rest of the morning, I played good student. Davina needed consoling because people were talking shit about Russ, calling him the strangled specter. Which was flipping macabre and, pretty soon, morons were talking about cold spots and feeling hands on their necks in the shower. While I thought Russ was an asshole when he was alive, it sucked that he was turning into an urban legend—and
oh, shit
. I needed to put this rumor to bed before enough gullible people made it come true. Sadly I had no idea of the tipping point—how
many
people needed to buy in—before Blackbriar actually had an entity created in Russ's monstrous image.

My blood ran cold.
And Allison knows that.

During lunch, I went to the new Teflon table and tapped her shoulder. “Can we talk?”

Allison glanced up, flipping shiny dark hair.
Yeah, she's eating well.
It occurred to me that she must've found it hilarious pretending to be bulimic to pass better as a human. The scientist in me entertained fierce curiosity about her species and how she differed from other immortals; the rest of me realized that I didn't have time for distractions.

“I have better things to do and they don't include validating your existence.”

Leaning in, I pitched my voice low. “I know what you're doing with this stupid Blackbriar ghost.”

Her perfectly lipsticked mouth curved into a pleased smile. “Call it a social experiment.”

“You don't know how many people it takes either, do you?” From the flash in her eyes, I'd struck pay dirt.

But she didn't answer. Instead she turned to the dude next to her and loudly complimented him on his stupid hair, spiked with enough product to put someone's eye out. Sighing, I went back to my own table and pondered ways I could completely discredit the story. By the time school ended, I was already exhausted. Since Kian knew I was grounded and forbidden from seeing him, he didn't pick me up. That gave me the window I needed, breathing room from both my dad and boyfriend, to make my training session with Raoul.

Who looked impatient as hell when I ran into the gym ten minutes late. “Do you take this seriously? Do you understand what's at stake?”

Between my dad, Kian, Allison, and the Harbinger, the urge to burst into tears hit me hard but I wrestled it down.
Crying won't help. It won't save Kian or make my dad understand. It won't break the Harbinger's deal, stop Allison, or make me stronger.
So I squared my shoulders and bowed like I'd seen students do to an honored sensei.

“I'm sorry. I'll do better.”

Mollified, he said, “Stretch out, run your katas, and then show me what you can do on the practice dummies. Once you're ready, we'll spar.”

I did as I was told and earned the right to punch his gloved hands after an hour of brutal sweating. That actually felt really good. Raoul called a halt, let me drink some water and walk around, then we met in the center of the mat. He took up a battle stance, both of us unarmed. I was still too inexperienced to be trusted with a practice weapon.

“Come at me,” he invited.

This was never going to be my first instinct. The idea that I could ever kick someone's ass seemed ludicrous, but I readied myself and went in, only to be taken down hard. All the breath rushed out of me as my back slammed into the mat. I lay there for a few seconds, wheezing and seeing stars.

Raoul made an impatient noise. “You're small. You're weak. You're tentative. Congratulations, anything in the game will eat you before you get in a single strike.”

“Is this your idea of a pep talk?” Somehow I managed to roll over and wobble to my feet.

“It's your reality. I'm trying to teach you how to survive.”

“And to save Kian,” I said.

“That too. Again.”

Raoul threw me five more times, each time harder than the last. He didn't hit me today, but I couldn't penetrate his guard enough to make it worthwhile. I was bruised all to hell by the time we called it quits. I didn't say anything as I limped toward the exit.

But he called after me, “You're stubborn. That'll help.”

A faint, exhausted sigh escaped me. “I hope so. It never has before.”

“And you know what it's like to be broken. You won't let it happen again, will you?” He was relentless, digging at old scars to see if there was any raw putrefaction beneath.

“No,” I said softly. “I won't roll over again. I won't go quietly.”

For the first time since I'd known him, Raoul gave me a warm, true smile. “I'm counting on that,
mija
.”

The two weeks of my punishment went slowly. I Skyped with Kian, trained my ass off with Raoul, and ate dinner with my dad. Things were a little better at home. He was making an effort, so I tried to do the same. I couldn't say it was perfect; tiny fissures had formed in our relationship. It was hard to forget the burn in my cheek after he hit me, easy to remember all the nights I went to bed without seeing him and left in the morning the same way. Yet he was all the family I had left, so I had to patch things up.

I also had homework and friends to reassure. It seemed like there weren't enough hours in the day because I poked around online, searching obscure texts and trying to find some medieval codicil that would free Kian. So far all of my Google-fu qualified me only as a noob, not a ninja. The answer was probably in a dusty old book, hidden in a quaint corner shop somewhere in Europe written in ancient German, and I'd never in a million years find it.

So tired that even my eyeballs hurt, I put my face on my desk. I lay there for a few seconds before realizing it was late enough that my dad should be home by now. He hadn't missed dinner in weeks. Blearily I looked at the clock on my laptop. 8:59. I'd been researching Kian's problem since I got home just before six and hadn't even touched my homework yet.

Telling myself it was nothing, I got my cell phone and texted my dad.
Should I make something for dinner?

No reply.

I waited for five minutes while fear beat a bass tempo in my skull. My hands shook when I called him, but it went straight to voice mail. A cold chill went down my right side and I turned, half expecting to see the shadow that Allison had allegedly photographed. I was already putting on my shoes when the weeping letters appeared on the misty windowpane.

That was all I needed to see. As I ran down the stairs, I texted Kian,
Meet me at the station. Dad in trouble. Heading to BU.
Bursting out of the building, I startled the birds nesting in the eaves. At first I was too terrified to register but they paced me, soaring in lazy circles overhead like an aerial honor guard, or maybe impartial observers.

“Harbinger,” I breathed.

They stayed with me until I stumbled underground, where I lost time on the stairs. There was no way I could wait for Kian, though, when I sprinted to the platform as the next train was about to leave. I barely slid through the doors and grabbed on to a pole, breathing hard. For a few seconds, the metal supported my whole weight since my knees shook too hard to hold me. The normally brief ride seemed to take forever but it gave me a chance to catch my breath. I'd left without my coat, so it was freezing when I got off at the university stop and sprinted for the lab. There were other people around but I paid no attention to them as I dodged and wove, closer, closer. The birds found me again on campus, so the only thing I could hear was the taunting flutter of wings. They didn't caw, only circled silently, come to bear witness and report back.

I need a weapon,
I thought, but there was no time.

My worst fears crystallized when I skidded up to the door of the science wing where Dad worked; the glass was smashed all over the ground and the metal frame was bent inward, partly torn from the hinges. I raced down the dark hallway, following the thumps, crashes, and cries of pain that had to belong to my father.

His lab was completely trashed, and the monsters inside it absolutely defied description, like something out of Lovecraft—grotesque and enormous, covered in eyes, mouths, and tentacles, and the smell … the smell was swampy, stagnant water, slimy, fetid flesh, and half-decomposed vegetation. They didn't look remotely smart enough to be doing this of their own volition, so that meant they were somebody's muscle. The fact that I wasn't peeing down my leg just looking at them was a good sign.

My dad was holed up in his office, adjacent to the lab, and they were bashing in the door, just like they had the other one. I restrained a burst of hysteria.
I'm not too late this time.
An incredulous look dawning, he spotted me and shook his head frantically, telling me to get the hell out. I shook my head.
Nope, not happening. I'm not scared of monsters. I'm not, I'm not.

A tentacle slammed into the glass beside the door, splintering it.

Okay, maybe a little. Still not leaving.

But this was way more than I could handle on my own.
Maybe I can lead them away so my dad can escape. I'm fast.
So I glanced around, looking for something that said diversion. Ten feet down the hall I spotted a janitor's cart and my brain lit up.
Please be a smoker. Please.
When I found the lighter, the idea solidified. I made a few more preparations, my hands shaking.

Finally, something's going my way.
I put on rubber gloves, then shoved the cart toward the lab. Another crash told me they were almost through the door. This had to be Dwyer, determined to neutralize Wedderburn's advantage.
Gained by murdering my mom.
I hated them both with a ferocity that defied description. Right now, though, I didn't give two shits who had sent these mindless brutes. I had to get my dad out of there.

It was possible I'd die trying.

I pulled my shirt up over my face—crappy gas mask but it was all I could do—and got a bucket. Every chemistry teacher I ever had told me
never
to do this. First bleach, then ammonia, and I kicked the cart as hard as I could toward the beasts.
Chemical reaction: first hydrochloric acid … Next we get chloramine, poison gas. Do these things breathe? Guess I'll find out.
The wheels' rattling motion drew their attention away from the door and I used the seconds to light up an oily rag I'd tucked into a half-empty plastic Coke bottle.

Please let there be enough ammonia. Come on, liquid hydrazine. I need a big boom.

“Take cover,” I shouted at my dad, just before I hurled the demi-Molotov.

I sprinted away from the doorway as the fumes exploded. The walls trembled and I smelled something horrible, like rotten meat on the grill. On my hands and knees, I crawled through the smoke, trying to keep low.
If we don't get out of this soon, we'll die too.
The sprinklers kicked in, dousing the corridor and laboratory. An inhuman rumble of pain and rage told me at least one survived my surprise.

As I reached the threshold, I took stock.
Holy shit. I actually killed one. Well, destroyed it. Whatever.
Chunks of rubbery, charred flesh were spattered everywhere, dripping off the walls in viscous globs. I choked down some bile and took a shallow, stinging breath. My eyes were burning like the water was full of chlorine; that had to be the remaining chloramine vapors. If the lab was bad before, it was total devastation now with small fires guttering everywhere, struggling in the deluge. I slipped toward my dad's office, frantic.

And the remaining monster charged me.

“Are you crazy? Get out of here!” My dad's voice was hoarse, probably from the smoke, but I ignored him.

It was all I could do to stumble aside and dart around an overturned lab table that the beast smashed with one lash of a tentacle. The floor trembled and I staggered backward, tripping over debris, but my training with Raoul had improved my reflexes. Instead of falling over, I righted myself and scrambled for a weapon. Not that I thought I could really kill it, but …

I can save my dad.

“I'll keep it busy,” I yelled back. “Get moving, it's after you, not me.”

He called something but I didn't hear it. I laid a hand on a broken table leg with a jagged, pointy end. Considering the monster's overwhelming size—at least twelve feet—a David and Goliath comparison seemed apt but I was fresh out of slingshots. The longer my dad lingered, the less chance either one of us had of making it out, between the fumes and the Cthulhu beast—part man, part dragon, part octopus.