Shadowed Ground (2 page)

This was actually, embarrassingly, true. Alexander had hovered anxiously around the kitchen, peppering Elizabeth with suggestions as to what might tempt his sister’s flagging appetite. Fed up, Elizabeth finally sent him off to squeeze oranges. Actual work, she thought, would get rid of him. It always had before. But this time, he juiced away anxiously, watching the door for the pallid wax doll that was his sister in the mornings.

Charlotte looked at her glass with mild, fuzzy interest. “Really, Alex? You cooked something?”

“Making juice isn’t exactly cooking,” he pointed out gently.

She smiled at him, sipping juice, her long blonde hair as dull as her eyes. “I can’t imagine Elizabeth allowing you near a stove,” she agreed, but then she slipped off into abstraction again, staring at nothing.

He fought down the panic that was his constant companion lately. He was losing her. He’d been watching the three Smith clones drain the life from his family, his home, and large parts of the town for too long now. And there seemed to be nothing he could do about it.

He’d learned on his second day back that Smith and his associates were more than peculiar, or foreign, or wealthy. They were the vanguard of something bigger. The Smith clones mentioned a supervisor of theirs, promising he would visit Raven’s Ward soon. In the last few days, the Ravenwood estate had been receiving a steady stream of people who were a little slower, a little duller, than the Smith clones. They were less refined in appearance and physically less coordinated. They had problems with language, too; they couldn’t pronounce some English words at all, and often fell back into a kind of sibilant cadence only the three Smiths understood.

He discovered, too, that they loved negative emotions. In fact, the Smiths baited people into arguments and outright fights, the more violent, the better. Only two days before, Alexander had come running when two of the gardeners attacked each other with pruning shears. One man had to be taken to the hospital in Spring Hill. Both bore nasty wounds. Alexander had seen all three Smith clones standing right in the thick of it, doing nothing, expressions of almost sexual rapture on their faces. It made him sick to his stomach. Carson was the one who’d dragged the men apart. The head Smith clone had looked quite annoyed when that happened.

Alexander frowned. Of the three of them, that particular Clone was clearly in charge. He was the one constantly with his father. In fact, since his return home, he hadn’t once seen his father free of a Smith clone.

Then there was Charlotte. She was almost as shackled as his father. A Clone or two was almost always near.

That left only him, and he managed to avoid them most of the time. He froze, holding a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice in the sunny breakfast nook.

Three Smith clones. Three Ravenwoods. One for each of them.

Holy shit.

No wonder he pissed them off so much. He managed to resist them, somehow. He found himself laughing. Who knew his problems with authority would pay off one day, like some illegal prep-school poker game? Orange juice exploded from his mouth. Charlotte glared at him. “Really, Alex. You are so juvenile.” With a withering glare, she pushed slowly away from the table. “I’m going to check on Rajah,” she declared, walking woodenly away and into the long formal dining room. He watched her blond hair until it disappeared in the darkness.

Rajah was just one of many exotic gifts from the Smith clones. Alexander remembered the trip: Charlotte, beaming, disembarking from the Gulfstream with an armful of white fur, a Smith clone on either side.

Rajah was a white tiger cub whose name, tragically, had been lifted from his sister’s favorite Disney cartoon. Alexander was pretty sure the animal’s presence on the Ravenwood estate was illegal or unethical or something. But proper quarters for the cub appeared almost instantly and one of the Smith clones somehow miraculously knew how to care for growing tigers. Alexander snorted. His sister loved the cub with all her sixteen-year-old heart. Some girls dreamed of ponies. Charlotte loved big cats. The unfortunately named white tiger cub ensured her instant, undying devotion to the three Smith clones. Only a snow leopard could have topped it. Alex was pretty sure a snow leopard, endangered almost into extinction, was beyond even the Clone’s abilities.

He hoped.

Rajah was one of the few things that made Charlotte smile. She gained animation when she played with him, free of Clone intervention. He heard her calling the tiger cub’s name from the sun porch, where she usually played with him after breakfast.

Then she started screaming.

He bolted, covering himself in even more orange juice. He found her sobbing, the lapful of white spotted fur curled in her lap. “Rajah,” she sobbed, barely getting the syllables out. “He won’t wake up. He won’t move. Help him, Alex!”

Alexander stood there, staring, helpless. He didn’t give a damn about the tiger cub nearly so much as he did his sister. For her sake, he would try. He went to her, putting an arm around her heaving shoulders, and put one hand on the cub. Just how the hell do you take its pulse, anyway? he wondered. The beast’s fur was still warm. There was slight movement under his hand. The thing was still breathing, at least.

“Shh, Charlotte,” he whispered into her blond hair that was so exactly like his mother’s. “He’s not dead. He’s still breathing. We’ll get him help. We’ll get it all sorted out, and it will all be ok, right, sweetheart?”

They were both in tears at this point.

Alexander turned to the shadows where he knew, just knew, the Smith clones waited. “Fix it, dammit,” he growled. ”You did this. We both know you did. Fix it.”

Two nearly identical faces wore twin expressions of bliss. “Poor little Charlotte Ravenwood,” one of them crooned. The other was busy inhaling, drawing closer and closer to his sister as Alexander clutched her protectively. He hissed, actually hissed, at the Clones.

“That’s close enough,” he snarled. “Where’s the one of you that can take care of this thing?”

“Oh, I’m afraid he’s away. Business. Bringing more of our associates over.”

“Of course,” Alexander snarled again, alarm coursing through him. “Of course.” He turned to his sister. “Don’t worry, Charlotte. I’ll call the vet in Spring Valley.” He gritted his teeth.

“Oh, yes, that,” a Smith clone said, taking deep breaths from his spot in the shadows. His eyes widened in anticipation. “There are problems with the roads. They’re impassable, for some reason.” He smiled delightedly when Charlotte sobbed harder. Alexander finally exploded into Smith’s face with rage.

“You bastard,” he spat, struggling to maintain control of his fists.

“I must admit, I had my doubts about you,” the Clone said, his face upturned in sick ecstasy. “You have managed to resist us so well. It’s quite extraordinary. But this rage of yours… it’s exquisite, in its own way. Not as delicate, perhaps, as sorrow, but still quite nice.”

Alexander turned to see the other Smith clone actually sniffing his sister’s hair, his hands buried deeply in it while she sobbed over the cub. She acted as if the second Smith clone didn’t even exist. Perhaps, for her, he didn’t.

That was the exact moment when Alexander knew, in his bones, that his hometown was being taken over by monsters.

He didn’t know what kind, exactly. Sometimes they acted like emotional vampires, literally drinking people’s fear and hate and sorrow. Sometimes they were more like dark magicians, or aliens, with their strange language and endless money and slowly building force of personnel and weapons and their ability to hide how wrong they were from almost everyone.

His blood ran cold as pieces clicked into place. Personnel. Building. Weapons.

Monsters were taking over his hometown and building an army. An army of monsters like the one that petted his sister now, crooning to her as she sobbed over the unconscious, unmoving exotic pet of her dreams.

Alexander knew he couldn’t wait any more. He knew the time for trying to strategize, to outwit them, was over. He was going to have to act, and soon.

He would find Carson and make plans to get them out. His mind raced through a list of cash and portable valuables, of places to take her. He realized she was so far gone she might try to fight him. Father has a closet full of sedatives, he thought, if that’s the case. No matter what, he vowed, he and Charlotte would be gone by morning. He shoved the Smith clone off his sister, but she didn’t even notice as she sobbed over the ball of white fur.

Later that afternoon, Rajah died.

Chapter Three: Hurricane Chloe

She stood in the middle of the living room, watching him push a heavy beige couch against the wall. End tables and a bookshelf followed. When he struggled to pick up a huge mahogany roll top desk by himself, she automatically grabbed an end of it.

He put the desk down and leaned towards her, forcing her to drop her end. “You’ve only been out bed for a couple of days. You wouldn’t eat or drink for days before that. In fact, you only remembered my name more recently than I like to think about. So step away from the desk, Chloe.”

She crossed her arms and glared. “You said you were going to teach me to fight.”

He picked up the desk alone, with effort. “This isn’t about male pride.” He dragged it a few more feet, the muscles in his arms tensing. “Just want to save your strength,” he panted out, “for the important stuff. Trust me. Wait an hour.” He leaned against it, breathing hard. There was no trace of humor as he looked her up and down.

He didn’t look like the Eliot who wouldn’t let her move furniture anymore. He looked like the Eliot that had smashed a man twice her size and weight into a wall. Her adrenaline spiked.

“What did you do to your hand?” Her voice came out all wrong, high pitched and rushed. Silver duct tape bound two of his fingers to the thumb of his right hand. He held it out to her. A single silver needle protruded about two inches between his two fingers, braced by his thumb. Surprise deepened quickly into dread. “What are you doing, Eliot? Exactly how are you planning to teach me to fight?”

“I didn’t say I was going to teach you to fight. I said I was going to teach you to defend yourself. I taped my fingers so the needle won’t get stuck in you.” He looked uncomfortable. “Please believe me when I say I don’t want to hurt you. But we don’t have much time, and people want you hurt, or dead, and I can’t take you out there, into the real world, with no idea how to defend yourself.” He eyed the needle taped to his fingers. “This is just going to sting a little. When Cass first started training me, he used a real knife.” She suppressed a shudder. His face closed, and he became a different person, a harder person, right in front of her eyes. Gone was the Eliot who’d been there when she didn’t know his name, and cared for her anyway. “Now take off your shoes and socks.”

“Um. Ok.” Her mouth went very, very dry. She tried to tear her eyes away from the silver needle but couldn’t. She kicked her tennis shoes and socks into a corner, fast. “Why?”

“Defense is the most important thing I can teach you right now. Hopefully, it’s all you’ll need. It’s also the foundation of attack. Barefoot, you’ll have better grip and balance. Plus I’ll need to study your feet.” He swept his eyes up and down her critically. “At least you put your hair up. Next time wear something tighter.”

“What? Why?” she squeaked, horrified.

“It’s not like that,” he exhaled impatiently. “I need to see exactly how you move your muscles, how you breathe, where you tense up. Plus it gives an enemy less to grab. That’s why. And that’s two questions. You don’t get to ask anymore.” He feinted to her right with the needle, going wide. She couldn’t help it; she tensed and drew into herself. “Wrong. Stay loose. You just made yourself the perfect target. Shake yourself, like this.” She copied his loose-limbed bounces. “Now. I’m going to try to prick you with this, and you’re not going to let me.”

“But why… Ow!”

“No questions.” He struck her right forearm. The needle barely touched her, but she felt it. She glared.

He struck her again, grazing her in almost exactly the same place. “Come on, Chloe. Move, or this will go badly for both of us.” He moved to stick her again, and she dodged him. He nodded approval.

Then he began to strike in earnest, and her world narrowed to two things: silver needle, and avoiding pain. He struck out again and again. She managed to dodge the vicious little needle about half the time. As much as each tiny bite stung, she could tell he was holding back. That knowledge turned her fear into building anger. A succession of quick stabs tore a loud yell from her throat. A little silver sewing needle. That was all it took to make her want to whimper and cry. She pressed her lips together to hold back her yelps. She blocked a strike with her forearm. It left a long stinging scratch on her skin. “Ow! That hurt!”

“Dodge it, then,” came the pitiless reply. “Stay balanced. Ignore the pain.”

He struck out at her again and again, wielding the needle like a whip. She moved from side to side, ducking his stabs and dancing backwards. But he was always faster. He followed her around the room, always an arm’s length away, his little needle poised to strike. “Easy for you to say,” she growled, stumbling in an effort to move beyond the tight perimeter he kept her in.

“Move, but don’t move too much,” he cautioned, holding the needle at bay while she regained her balance. She was smarting in a thousand places and her skin shone with sweat. “Watch me. Watch me for the next strike, then the next.”

She focused less on trying to get away from him. It was obvious she couldn’t. She watched for the swath of silver duct tape instead of focusing solely on the needle. After a few minutes she was hardly conscious of what she was doing. She watched for the lunge that told her the bite was on its way, dodging more of his swipes as her focus narrowed to him rather than escape. Her body moved without thinking. Time seemed to slow and there was nothing but attack and retreat between them.

Watching his arm, trying to ignore the thousand throbbing stings, she moved slightly to the right, just as the silver duct tape began its swing. When the little needle moved in for its bite, she wasn’t there.