The Triad of Finity (7 page)

“If she does, she’ll be able to control me again,” said Dean.

“Yeah, and then, I don’t know, maybe she wants to try to take over my destiny again, or something.”

“But there’s no way to do that.”

“I know,” said Oliver. He felt like there must be more to it than that, but he had no idea what. “I guess we could spy on their meeting.”

“Ha.” Dean clicked his tongue. “Sounds like old times. Emalie would approve.”

“Yeah,” said Oliver with a sigh. It wasn’t much, but at least it was something. “Let’s do it.”

Chapter 6

Things to Do on the Eve of the End

Oliver and Dean transferred buses to get to Dean’s house. It was a cool, clear night, the wind laced with a salty smell of the ocean.

“The Legion meets tomorrow night. So, what should we do tonight?” Dean asked glumly.

“I don’t know,” Oliver replied. The brief feeling of optimism about spying on the Legion had worn off, and Oliver was back to thinking about cohesion, about the end, about the two years, over seven hundred and fifty days, all spent with nothing from Emalie. “Who cares?” he spat. “Everything sucks.”

“We could hit the movies.”

Oliver huffed. “What’s the point? Of anything? If we sit around watching a movie, we’re not doing anything to stop the prophecy, but there’s nothing to do to stop the prophecy, so it’s like, whatever.” He threw up his hands. “Nothing matters.” It was a feeling he couldn’t help sinking into lately.

“Yeah,” Dean sighed in agreement. “Well, I still have that bag. You know, in the freezer …”

Oliver shrugged. They’d had a funny idea recently, something dumb and gross and maybe even a little mean, but …

“Sure,” said Oliver. “Why not?” At least Bane would have approved.

“I gotta grab some dinner first though,” said Dean, “I’m starving.” As he said it, his voice seemed to lower a notch, as if the real creature inside him was surfacing.

They leapt off and walked through the sleepy three A.M. streets until they reached the one house with light glowing in its windows, albeit around the edges of dark velvet curtains.

Inside, Dean’s mom Tammy was lying on the couch, asleep in the blue light of the television. She sat up with a start, “Oh, hey guys.” She got up quickly, tightening her robe and shuffling to the kitchen. “Just dozed off for a sec.”

“No worries, Mom,” said Dean. “We can get dinner. It’s okay.”

“Nah, it’s fine,” said Tammy, yawning as she turned on the kitchen light and pulled a foil-covered dish from one of two refrigerators, this one for the undead food. She slid the tray onto the counter, then got out a glass pitcher of blood. “We still have a bunch of stuff from the butcher co-op,” she said, uncovering the dish of raw pig entrails soaked in lime juice, cayenne and cilantro. She glanced at Dean. “Do you think this will be … enough?” She asked uncertainly.

“It’s fine, Mom, don’t worry,” Dean replied sulkily. “Everybody’s brains are safe.”

“That’s not how I meant it, honey, I just—”

Dean waved his hand. “Nah, I know. It’s cool.” He didn’t sound like it was.

“You know,” said Tammy, sounding like she was forcing herself back into her old peppy tone, “I think another guy who comes to the community cuttings at the butcher shop may have an undead family member, too. I used to be the only one interested in taking the entrails home, but now he wants some. People think we’re part of some weird culinary trend from L.A. or somethinggg-yah.” Tammy was interrupted by a big yawn. “Excuse me. Okay, help yourself. I’ll clean up and then it’s back to bed for this old lady.”

Dean grabbed a plate from the cabinets and handed Oliver a goblet. They were quiet as they got their food and ate it at the counter bar. Tammy bustled around, pink rubber gloves on, bleaching down the counter where the tray had been.

These days, she didn’t stay up with Dean the way she used to. Dean’s younger sister Elizabeth was now in seventh grade and on the school volleyball team. She had games and practices, so as it was, Tammy was leaving work early to make those events. Elizabeth was technically Dean’s age now, or the age he’d been when he died. She was as tall as him. And she never got up during the night. Really, the two didn’t see all that much of each other. In the past, she’d always made her displeasure with Dean’s condition known, but at least she’d been around. Oliver was pretty sure Dean missed seeing her, but he didn’t talk about it.

Mitch had gotten laid off his night job, and had to go back to working days. He didn’t get up much in the evening, either. Most of the times that Oliver came over, he and Dean were on their own.

“Okay,” Tammy sighed, pulling off her gloves. “You guys have a good rest of the ni—Oh, honey!”

“What?” said Dean.

Oliver saw Tammy’s gaping expression and followed the path of her eyes down to Dean’s left leg. There was a huge blotchy stain on his jeans below his knee, and a pool of black liquid spreading on the floor around his foot.

“Oh, great,” Dean moaned.

“It’s okay,” said Tammy, rummaging through a cabinet drawer and producing a pile of old, stained towels. She dropped to the floor and quickly started mopping up the mess.

Oliver’s nose wrinkled at a smell like rancid meat and wet cinders.

“Did you bang your knee or anything?” Tammy was asking, her voice thick as she tried to inhale as little of the noxious fumes as possible.

“No, Mom,” Dean said, his voice edgy with frustration. “All I did was the normal school stuff. Ugh, this sucks!” he shouted, a menacing snarl creeping into his voice, and he slapped his plate off the counter. It smashed against the wall. Oliver couldn’t help thinking of the sounds and actions of real zombies.

“Honey, it’s okay, it’s okay,” Tammy said. “It will be fine.” Oliver thought it sounded like she was trying to convince herself as much as Dean. “Here, just … sit down and I’ll get the sewing kit and bandages. We’ll see if we can patch that leg up.” Tammy spun to the cabinets again as Dean slouched into a seat. “You’re sure you didn’t do anything excessive at school?”

“Mom, no!” snapped Dean. “It’s just this stupid … me!”

“Hey, Oliver,” a groggy voice said from across the room. Kyle had come down, in his pajamas, hair sticking this way and that. He was ten now, and though he still liked hanging out with Dean and Oliver, Tammy kept him on a strict time limit so he wasn’t too tired for school, soccer, and guitar lessons.

“Ky just hold on—” Tammy began, but Kyle rounded the table and saw Dean’s leg, his jeans rolled up, and the long, wide tear in his yellow skin, chunky black fluid oozing out.

“Oh gross! What happened?”

“Nothing,” Dean muttered.

Kyle slapped his hands over his nose. “It reeks!”

“Shut up!” Dean snapped and pushed him. He probably meant it like any annoyed older brother, but the force sent Kyle careening back across the room.

Oliver leapt off his stool, arcing through the air and catching Kyle before he smashed into the dining room table. With the force of Dean’s push, he’d probably have broken a few bones.

“Ow,” Kyle groaned, clutching his chest, the wind knocked from him.

“Oh, I—sorry …” Dean stammered. Oliver gazed at him, saw the wide eyes and how Dean’s face fell as he realized what he’d just done. And Oliver felt his insides sink, too, weighed down by a guilty feeling he often had, because, just like the impending end of the world, Dean’s condition was his fault, too.

Tammy sniffed and wiped at her eyes as she gazed from Kyle back to Dean.

“Hey,” Oliver said quickly to Kyle, “wanna go out back and practice?”

Kyle nodded. “Yeah.” Oliver hurried him past Dean and Tammy and through the kitchen.

“Wear shoes!” Tammy called as they reached the back door. Kyle slipped on his sneakers and they headed out into the small grass backyard.

When Oliver closed the door, Kyle glanced back at the house and his face grew serious. “He’s getting bad.”

“It looks worse than it is, I think,” said Oliver, but he wasn’t sure if he meant it.

Kyle nodded, but frowned. “I put a padlock on the inside of my door,” he said. “Elizabeth, too. Dad helped us set them up. And Mom and Dad both sleep with axes under their beds.” Kyle looked at the ground. “He doesn’t know any of that.”

Oliver nodded. “He’s still your brother.”

“But not for much longer.” Kyle looked up at Oliver. He was up to Oliver’s chin now, but he still had child’s eyes, big, searching, scared. “I mean … right?”

Oliver didn’t know how to respond.

Kyle headed over to the shed and grabbed four long, straight sticks, former broom handles, that were leaning against the door. Kyle was fascinated with vampire stuff in general, but whereas he’d once been into the gross-out stories and toys like dismemberment dolls, now he had older tastes, like this method of two-stick martial arts, called Eskrima.

Oliver held his two rattan sticks in a ready position.

Kyle faced him a few feet away. He spun to attack, one stick horizontal for blocking, one twirling over his head.

Oliver dodged and blocked. The two danced around the yard, sticks spinning, until finally, Oliver undercut Kyle’s legs and sent him falling on his backside.

He held out his hand and helped Kyle up. “Good moves.”

“Thanks,” said Kyle.

“Hey guys.” Dean came outside. He had new jeans on and was wearing a long wool coat. “How was the sparring?” He sounded more like himself again.

“Good,” said Oliver. “He gets better all the time. How’s your leg?”

“Stupid, pathetic, crappy,” muttered Dean. He looked at Kyle. “Sorry about pushing you.”

“It’s okay,” Kyle replied, but he was looking away.

“Mom says it’s time for bed,” said Dean. He turned to Oliver and held up a plastic grocery bag sagging with small heavy objects. “Still wanna go?”

Oliver shrugged. “Sure,” he said, thinking,
why not?
It would be funny, and at least it was something to do. “Later, Kyle.”

“Bye,” Kyle said quietly, eyeing the bag in Dean’s hand with a frown.

Oliver and Dean circled around the house and headed downtown.

“Thanks for playing with Kyle,” said Dean.

“No worries,” said Oliver.

“He was the only member of the family that wanted me around at this point, but, maybe not anymore.”

“Come on, that’s not true,” said Oliver, but Dean might have been right. And it was unfair and it sucked.
Another reason to open that Gate
, he thought darkly. Except opening the Gate would kill Kyle, Dean’s family, even Dean … Ugh! Every thought he had lately was dark and terrible and hopeless. Really, what was even the point of this existence? What was the point of anything they did when it was all going to end in destruction and death, at any moment?

Oliver felt like he could barely stand being in his own head. Even just getting through the night felt impossible. Everything felt heavy, crushing, like he had to try to not think about anything just to endure each moment.

Which made what they were about to do with that bag in Dean’s hand all the more appropriate. A distraction. From everything. All the everything that didn’t even matter and yet crushed him anyway.

“How many do you have?” Oliver asked as they jumped off the bus near Seattle Center.

Dean patted his bulky coat, the bag hidden inside. “Five, I think.”

They walked a little ways and entered a Kid Valley burger restaurant. It was open late and bustling with a mix of vampires (here for the unadvertised blood milk shakes and French fries), assorted other demons who couldn’t get enough of fast food (and who also didn’t have to worry about cholesterol or trans fats), and humans: mostly groups of teens, some older. Many of the humans were noticeably intoxicated. Oliver and Dean slipped into a booth by the window.

Dean surveyed the crowd, then nodded across the room. “How about them?”

Oliver glanced over and saw a booth full of teenagers giggling and stuffing their faces. “Perfect,” said Oliver, watching the happy little scene. He felt like he hated them. Not in the traditional way—vampires tended to look down on humans as primitive creatures—but more because they were so happy, so oblivious to their own peril. Not just to Oliver’s world-ending destiny, but even to the demons around them right now. These humans were such frail little things, yet it was like they thought they were invincible.

Or maybe Oliver was just jealous. He remembered times with Emalie and Dean, out late, sitting around laughing, thinking the world was theirs … but that was a long time ago now, so long ago it was almost like it had never happened.

“Here we go.” Dean produced the bag and slipped his hand inside. He pulled something out in a closed fist and handed it to Oliver beneath the table. Oliver took the cold object and slid it into his sweatshirt pocket. He nodded to Dean and left the booth.

As he approached the humans, he spectralized and stopped just beside the booth. The five kids were wrapped up in a laugh-filled conversation about their evening’s misadventures. The girl closest to him, with dyed-blonde hair and wearing a Ballard High sweatshirt, was leaning toward the boy diagonally across from her. A tall burger lay on her tray, only a first bite taken. Perfect.

Just do it. Who cares anyway. Don’t be a lamb.

As the girl talked busily, Oliver’s transparent hand flashed out. The girl sensed something and turned, but Oliver was already gone, circling back toward his booth.

He reappeared as he sat down. “Mission accomplished,” he said to Dean.

Dean turned to watch the girl with the closest thing he’d had to a smile all day. “Nice. Showtime …”

Oliver watched as the girl continued talking. He sensed his nerves squirming inside, and couldn’t help feeling a little bit bad about what was about to happen.
Whatever!
He reminded himself. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. Soon this girl would be gone, just like this restaurant, this air, everything. Nothing mattered, so why not have some fun?

The girl picked up the sandwich absently and took a bite. Her teeth sank through the soft bun … then suddenly crunched against something hard. She flinched, grimacing, and pulled the sandwich from her mouth.

The frozen rat’s head fell free, thudding on her tray.