The frigid ivory knives of his claws slid out of my flesh and blood washed onto my skin, warm and sharp with the scent of life. I rolled onto my back, the floor unexpectedly solid beneath me as the Grey pulled away, recoiling as if in shock. The room flushed amber as the lights in Wygan’s rack shifted to keep the Guardian Beast at bay.
They were all I could see and all I could think of to buy time to escape. The echo of the grid’s refrain vibrated along my nerves as if the energy of the Grey were powering my limbs and not the weak impulse of my own battered brain. Wygan swooped to grab me once again and I clutched my hands together over my chest, feeling the hard shape of my pistol between my palms.
I squeezed and shot. Again and again. The gun kicked against my sternum as each light shattered and the room went dark with the roar of the Beast descending.
I rolled again, the ringing of the gunshots in my ears deafening me, and started crawling. . . .
TWELVE
I
t didn’t matter now if I touched the red spiderweb lines that coated the hallway. Wygan and Goodall already knew I was leaving, but there was nothing they could do; they were too busy with damage control and keeping themselves out of the jaws of the Guardian Beast. I didn’t doubt they’d survive—it couldn’t be that easy to stop the Pharaohn-ankh-astet or someone would have done it long ago. I dragged myself down the darkened corridor toward the exit, a growing square of distant, white light.
Even crawling, I felt I was staggering, swaying unsteadily from wall to wall and losing my focus under bouts of nausea. Yeah, that was familiar. But this time I didn’t feel like a rape victim. This time there was some hope under the ache, horror, and disgust. Also a hell of a lot of fear, but I wasn’t listening to it gibbering in the back of my head; I pushed it down and dragged onward.
The light grew painfully bright and ran toward me, making a sound like wings. It started dipping toward me, that light and a gold thread of a voice called out from a distance, “Not yet! You don’t know what they’ve done.”
The chorus in my head shouted through my efforts to shut it up, like a dog barking to greet its master, cutting through the physical ringing of my shot-damaged hearing. I stifled an urge to puke from the pressure of the noise.
Something shiny and pale blue whirred through the air and settled on me, prickling on my skin like sleet and covering me in a glittering reticulation of energy. It had no weight, but it pushed me to the ground and I sprawled onto the streaked linoleum, sighing out the breath I barely had. “Know the song—”
Someone scooped me up, bundling me over their shoulder with the urgent speed of a fireman exiting a blaze. Jouncing miserably, I was carried outside and into the dimness of the dark streets behind the radio tower. That was when I gave up and vomited.
The jarring, rushing trip continued, down a hill and across broken fields of light and darkness. Feet pattered behind and ahead, and something snorted a hot breath onto my ankle.
“Grendel, sit.” It sounded like I was underwater again but at least my normal hearing was returning.
All right: That was Quinton. And the dog. And I thought I saw Mara . . . so . . . Ben had to be around somewhere. . . .
I still couldn’t put the images together but I heard the bang of the Danzigers’ back screen door and the light around me became a soft, silent yellow. The chattering Grey sound in my ears faded back to the most distant of whispers as the screen door slammed again, leaving only the lingering high-pitched whine of fading gunshots.
This must be the kitchen. I tried to raise my head, but it was difficult and Quinton hefted me higher on his shoulder, knocking the air and the fight out of me. In a minute, he rolled me onto the bed in the basement bedroom and sat down beside me.
“Hey, Harper. Hey, can you hear me?”
“I’m dead, not deaf,” I moaned. “At least not permanently deaf.”
“Not dead this time,” Mara said, her voice drawing closer. She sounded annoyed. “Quinton, you’ve sick on your coat. You might be wantin’ to clean that off.”
“It’ll wait.”
Mara cleared her throat. “It shan’t. Go upstairs and wash. Ben’ll help you while I take a cloth to Harper. Off with ya.”
Quinton’s weight shifted away and the slighter one of Mara took his place at the edge of the mattress. I pried my eyes open to see her bending over me, scowling.
“You look bloody mangled.”
“Thanks.”
“I mean it. Burns, blood, scrapes. What happened to ya?”
“If I knew I’d tell you.” I could feel the press of her frown. “Really.”
“Well.” She took a deep breath. “I hope y’aren’t overfond o’ these clothes. They’re beyond salvage. I shall have to cut you out or risk tearin’ off your head to get the shirt off ya.”
“Go for it,” I muttered, lolling on the bed, feeling like my bones had been removed.
She stripped off my upper layer and swabbed at me with a wet cloth. I tried to figure out how my body was doing beyond the feeling of having been put backward through a wringer.
“So, was it worth near-dyin’ for?”
“Huh?”
“Goin’ in there. Whatever y’got. If y’got anything.” Angry red and orange sparks danced around her head. I couldn’t recall ever seeing anything like that with her before.
“Yes. There’s a back door. A way in. I heard my father. I didn’t see him, but I knew it was him. He told me about the door.”
She made a muffled snort. “Quite sure it wasn’t a trick of Wygan’s?”
“I thought so at first . . . but he’s not that brand of subtle. I didn’t get any idea about Edward, though. Or Goodall, except he didn’t make any magical moves while I was there.” Talking helped to straighten the ideas in my head, but I was still a little confused.
“And has the Pharaohn gotten what he wanted of you, too?”
“I don’t think so. He didn’t kill me—he didn’t really try—and except for this damned ringing in my ears, I don’t feel any different.”
She sat back, her eyes narrowed. “But would y’know if he had . . . bent you?”
“Yes. I think I would. He hurt me, but not more than that. He said he wanted to give me some kind of knowledge. . . . He tried to force me to listen to something, but I was too busy screaming. What brought you in at the right time?” I asked, hoping to redirect the questions before I had to say anything about the unsettling whispers of the grid. And I didn’t mention my far-too-narrow escape.
Mara glared. “You were over time. When I got up the hill, Quinton said he’d heard gunshots and reckoned that was as good a signal as any that y’might be in a bit too deep this time.”
“This time? What the hell ...?” I levered myself up, feeling a little dizzy but not too wretched, and rested against the headboard so I could look at her without straining. “I’m always in too deep with this stuff. What’s with the inquisition?”
She frowned at a spot on my shoulder. “I’ve always seen us as friends, but there are times I’m unsure what’s the cost of that friendship. Or what you really are. I’m always here for you. Always. But you’re keeping secrets from me and you make me doubt my own judgment. The business with Albert hasn’t done my confidence any favors. I could have lost my son.”
“That was more than a year ago. And you didn’t have any way to know.”
“Hah! I’ve always read people very well. But I didn’t read that right. And maybe it wasn’t Albert. Maybe it’s you.”
I shook my head, thinking I couldn’t be hearing this clearly. “What? You think I made Albert do the things he did? He was a bad guy, living and dead. I didn’t make him that way. This isn’t some experiment where observation changes the outcome.”
“That is not what I mean! Some people change things—it’s a trick they’re carryin’ with ’em like luck or disease. With you there’s always damage! We met because you’d been damaged, but when it’s not you, it’s someone else: my son, your da, my husband, Will. . . . What’s going to happen, now, hm? Just look at ya. I don’t know what you
are
!”
I was so startled, all I could do was stare and shake my head. I hadn’t changed into a monster in the past ninety minutes, hadn’t grown an extra head, or fangs. . . .
Mara could see I wasn’t understanding her. She pointed at my shoulder and pushed her finger hard into my flesh. It hurt, but not enough to make me wince. “Look: You’re healin’. I’ve seen that before, but not like you’re doin’.”
I glanced down, tucking my chin so I could see the shoulder Wygan had sunk his claws into. The deep gouges and pits were smeared with blood that had soaked into my shirt and dappled my skin with scarlet and dried brown. It wasn’t disappearing or soaking into my flesh, like you’d see in a movie. The holes weren’t pulling themselves closed; instead they were weeping light that slowly choked off as the ragged openings dilated shut. They looked like shining, eerie eyes, closing for the night.
“You left here tired and still injured from what happened in London. You came back pukin’ ill and bleedin’. But y’aren’t now. And how long have we sat here? I’d wager y’don’t feel like a woman’s just done battle with an asete. Do ya?”
I flexed my hands into fists and ground my teeth, watching the smallest of the bright little wounds wink out and vanish. “No,” I replied over the swelling roar of the Grey in my head. I ached and felt burned and bruised, but I didn’t hurt like I had in the radio station, or as I lay over Quinton’s shoulder being sick from it. Even my ears had stopped ringing.
“Then what happened to ya?”
That was a very good question and I, of course, had no answer. I realized that Mara wasn’t angry; she was scared—well, perhaps a bit angry. I had brought a lot of distress into her home and now I was freaking her out. I was freaking me out a bit, too.
“I don’t know. I don’t feel different. . . . Trust me: I’ve got a pretty good idea what dead feels like and this wasn’t it.” I poked at my shoulder and smoothed a finger over one remaining cut. It felt irritated and raw, and the rate of healing had slowed down to a crawl. It was creepy. “As I understand it, I have to actually die—not just come close—to make any changes, so whatever happened isn’t a final change. He said he was giving me information . . . no, knowledge. Someone said I should know the song. . . . Huh . . . all I got was this noise in my head and I’ve had that off and on since I got back from London. There is something ...” I thought aloud. “There’s something going on that just hasn’t crawled up to the front of my brain yet....”
“And that’s all? That’s the payment for whatever you went through?”
“It’s not payment. It’s just another block in Wygan’s construction.”
“Of what?”
“Some kind of gate . . . I think.”
She snorted. “To hell I hope, and then shove him in.”
“I’ll do my best.”
She made a face but looked less pinched. I guess I scared her less when I made bad jokes. “Mara. Are you still angry at me about Ben?”
“Angry? Y’mean about the swamp? No. . . . Well, perhaps a bit. Y’really shouldn’t have—”
“Taken him where he wanted to go? Mara, could either of us have stopped him once he knew there was a monster to interview? Maybe I shouldn’t have asked at all, but it was Ben’s choice and I needed his help. The same way it was your help I needed and your choice to come with me to the Madison Forrest House. I do ask too much of you guys. I know I do. Thank you and—” There was that word I rarely used, hanging in the air like a sword, like “I love you” and all those other things that are hardest to say when you mean them most. “I’m sorry.”
She huffed in surprise, blinking. “You are. Well.” She stood up. “Next time we’ll know better. You should be after a wash and brush-up. Y’still look like you’ve been run down on the road.”
“I doubt I look that good,” I replied, heaving myself to my naked feet and heading, still unsteadily and stabbed by sudden knives of pain, to the bathroom.
She left me to it and I stepped under the flow of hot water, relieved by the warmth and the sense that water washed away the horror as well as blood and physical discomfort. As the character of my pain shifted from uncanny agonies of fire and cold to ordinary aches of aftermath and injury, sleep nudged at the edges of my mind. I felt soft and dopey by the time I got out of the tiny shower.
Quinton was sitting on the bed, dressed in a clean T-shirt and baggy pajama bottoms, when I came back into the basement bedroom.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey, yourself.”
“You look better than I thought you would.”
I made a face at him. “Thanks.”
“No. I mean that I thought you were in pretty bad shape, but looks like I was wrong.”
“No, you weren’t. Mara said I looked like I’d been hit by a truck.”
He got up and put his arms around me, squeezing gently. “You look great.” He kissed my neck and worked his way up toward my ear. “You feel better.”
“Then you forgive me for barfing on you?”
“It washed off. You only ralph on the one you love, right?”
“Or the one who’s crazy enough to put me over his shoulder like a sack of flour.”
“You are much sexier than a sack of flour.” He went back to nuzzling my neck.
“And you are big, goofy geek-boy.”
He raised his head and grinned at me. “Yes, but a goofy geek-boy with taste. And excellent timing.”
“It was pretty good.”
“Only pretty good?”
I shrugged. “You could have come a little sooner.”
“It’s hard to detect gunshots from a soundproof booth. What were you shooting at anyway? It was dark as the inside of a whale in there.”
“Lightbulbs. To let in the Guardian Beast.” I wasn’t sure that made sense, but it came out anyhow.
Quinton looked puzzled. “How would that work?”
“Colored light confuses it. I shot out the bulbs and it got in. It doesn’t like Wygan or whatever he’s up to, so it attacked him. I think. I didn’t stay to watch.” I yawned and felt my legs go weak.
Quinton kept me upright. “Ah-hah. I see. So what did you get?”
“Hints and clues. Talked to Dad. And got a headache that mutters.”
“Interesting collection. Was it worth it?”
“Mara asked that. Some hints from Dad about how to get back to him. And some kind of . . . knowledge I can’t process. That’s what I got. I know it’s in my head but I don’t know what it is. Except it makes me bleed light. Or that’s what I think. ’Cause I wasn’t weeping lumens when I went in....” I was just mumbling, blurting out whatever came to mind. I was too tired to filter it. “It’s loud in here, in my head. I know that’s something . . . and the light thing. Must be related....”
“Wha—?”
I shook my heavy head. “I don’t know either. I healed up on my own. But it’s creepy. Like little eyes all over....” I couldn’t help but shudder. “It’s just little hints and clues, little bits and pieces. About Dad and Wygan and something magic. . . . I need more. I need to know about Edward—I never saw a sign of him, or what Wygan wants him for, but he must be around....” Something more than the oceanic whispering in my ears was growing in my mind. Some idea . . . something about bits and pieces . . .
“Quinton, what happened to the boxes I sent from England?”