Winter Moon (30 page)

Then the Blade was bearing down on Sheila, fingers locked around her throat, making her the fourth victim of his murdering spree. I took what I'd been
granted and coiled it up with my own core of silver-blue power, then wound up and threw it overhand, like a baseball, into Sheila MacNamarra's hands.

Power erupted like an electric line cut loose, snapping and flailing. The Blade shot backward, landing dozens of yards away on hands and feet, still skidding back. Rocks in the field tore up under his long fingers, furrows grooved in the concrete garage floor. For an instant, the banshee cries stopped, leaving a silence so profound it hurt me in my bones.

Then even I saw the flash of silver thread that lay between myself and the roundness of my mother's belly. It pulsed with the power I'd just thrown, crackling and popping like a trapped snake. The Blade's gaze snapped to me, focusing on me for the first time since Sheila had placed herself between us. He howled a victorious shriek and pounced toward me, forgetting Sheila in the moment of triumph. As he reached me, Sheila rose up behind him with her hands wrapped around a column of light, a weapon shaped from her own will and nothing more. She drove it into his spine, sending him arching backward with a scream that brought rupturing agony to my ears, and then blessed silence.

The bloodred light cleared. I slithered down the last few steps into the garage, stickiness trickling from my ears. Sheila's face appeared above me, round eyebrows drawn down with concern, long black hair tucked behind her ears. She had her hand pressed over her stomach, fear narrowing her green eyes. Rushing clouds whirled behind her head, and I managed a tiny smile.

Relief swept her face, her lips shaping words I couldn't hear. I said, “Thank you,” feeling the words vibrate in my throat even if they didn't echo in my ears.

Then her face blurred into Thor the Thunder God's, and I decided that was as good a time as any to pass out.

I woke up to a weirdly silent world in which Morrison's face was hovering worriedly over mine. Morrison worried was distressing. Much more distressing than Morrison yelling. There were certain constants in my world.

Hearing, for example. Up until this very moment, hearing had been one of those constants. Now there was nothing. No ringing in my ears, no ocean of blood thrumming, no background traffic noises or cops arguing over topics ranging from doughnuts to politics.

One missing constant I could deal with. Two was too much. I frowned at Morrison and said, “Why aren't you yelling?”

At least, I think I did. I never realized how much I depended on hearing myself to know I was talking. I mean, I could feel my voice box working, but the astounding silence into which the words fell really,
really made me want to begin shouting. I didn't, but only just barely. I thought shouting would look a lot like giving in to panic, and since it appeared that half the precinct was standing behind Morrison, I didn't want to come across like a wussy girl just because of a little thing like shattered eardrums.

I felt very much like a wussy girl just then. It was possible I owed Billy a very small apology for being bent out of shape over the one-of-the-guys comments. A very small apology. Minuscule. I closed my eyes, cleared my throat—another thing that I could only feel, not hear—and said, “I'm okay.”

I got my eyes open again in time to see everybody sag with relief. Even Morrison, although he covered it nicely by scowling magnificently and, judging from the color of his face and the fact that I could see his uvula, yelling.

It made me feel a lot better about not being able to hear, actually. I sat up very slowly, not at all sure that broken eardrums didn't equate to a broken sense of balance. It didn't seem to, which was nice. Vomiting on my boss after all this fuss would have been embarrassing. Especially since he was being nice, and had a hand between my shoulder blades, keeping me steady as I sat.

“I'm okay,” I repeated silently. “I just, ah…” Something tickled along my jaw. I reached up to scratch it and came away with sticky, drying blood under my fingernails. “I can't hear,” I said to nobody in particular, especially myself, since I couldn't hear me, “and the thing we're after looks and sounds a lot like Munch's
Scream
.”

I suspected I was glad I was looking at the gook under my nails instead of the gathered crowd. “I'm going to need a little time,” I said, still to my icky fingers. “And maybe a sandwich.”

The room cleared like I'd fired a shot. Ten seconds later the only people left were Morrison, Thor, and Billy, the middle of whom looked like he'd rather be somewhere else. “I'm fine,” I told him. “Thanks for, um. Whatever you did.”

He gave me a tight smile, nodded, and followed the rest of the crowd like he'd been given a reprieve from the firing squad. I wondered why my mind was wandering down the aisle of shooting similes. I'd never been completely deafened by firing a gun.

Billy looked at Morrison in a way that made me look, too. The captain said something I didn't catch—obviously—and Billy cast me a worried glance, then nodded and left the room. I finally figured out I was in the broom closet, which was nice. It was the station's flop room, kept meticulously clean for cops who'd been on the job too long and needed a rest break. I hadn't known it was big enough to hold more than two people, much less the eight or so that'd been in there.

Morrison touched my shoulder. I nearly jumped out of my skin, then drew in a sharp breath through my nose and turned to face him, eyes wide. Not hearing sucked a lot. He said something and I focused on his mouth, concentrating.

“If you think,” he said, slowly and clearly enough for me to read, “that you're getting out of work today
just because you collapsed with blood running from your ears, think again.”

I had never heard—or not heard—such reassuring words in my life. I split a grin that turned into laughter, and leaned forward to give the police captain a hug. A tiny dimple that I'd never noticed before quirked at the corner of Morrison's mouth, and he returned the hug somewhat gingerly. I sat back, still grinning, and felt my face fall long and googly with dismay. “Oh, shit.”

Morrison's eyebrows shot up and he followed my focus to his shoulder, where his formerly impeccably white shirt was now stained with sticky red residue. “Oh, for Christ's sake, Walker,” he said, and he didn't even have to say it slowly for me to understand. I wrinkled up my face in apology. He sighed explosively and waved it off. “What the hell happened to you?”

“I ran into the bad guy.” I was trying so hard not to shout that I suspected I was barely more than whispering.

“In the
garage
?”

It was amazing how easily I understood him. Amazing, and somewhat alarming. I frowned at his mouth and nodded, then shook my head. Not being able to hear made me feel like I wasn't able to talk, either.

“In Ireland. In the garage. It's complicated. Morrison, I'd really like to get my ears fixed before anything else happens.”

“You think something else is going to happen?”

“Something else always happens.”

His eyebrows rose and fell in an acknowledging shrug. “Do you need a doctor?”

I shook my head. “Just some time and some food.” I felt like somebody'd turned me upside down and shaken every last bit of energy out of me. Thinking about it made it worse. Morrison's hand found its place at my spine again, supporting me, and it took everything I had to not lean over, curl my fingers in his shirt, and snivel on him for a minute. “I'm a little tired.” That time my voice felt so low I wasn't at all sure I'd spoken out loud. Morrison tipped my chin up so I could see what he was saying. It struck me as an unbelievably intimate gesture, and I felt myself blushing. Morrison ignored it, which was somewhere between relieving and insulting.

“Lie back down, Walker. You're white as a sheet.”

I
felt
white as a sheet. I felt like all the energy that I usually ignored had been bleached and left out to dry. Part of me wanted to argue, because Morrison was the one telling me what to do. The other part thought falling asleep for the rest of the day sounded like a good idea. I started to nod, but Morrison's finger under my chin kept my head from dropping.

“I sent Holliday to get your drum. That'll help, right?”

I nearly kissed him. Instead I closed my eyes and bit my lower lip, nodding. “Yeah. Thank you.” My nose prickled with embarrassing tears. “Thanks.”

I didn't hear him answer, but I felt the rumble of his voice through his touch.

“I'll just lie down until Billy gets here, or food does.” I didn't need to hear my own voice, either, to know that it was full of stings and thorns; that was how my throat felt. I hoped I just sounded tired, not angry or about to burst into tears. Morrison wrapped a strong hand around my biceps and helped me lie back down. I pulled a pillow over my head and knew nothing for a little while.

 

Billy didn't just come back with my drum. He came back with Gary, who found me in the laundry room, washing the broom-closet sheets. By the time he found me I'd eaten and rinsed out my ears, which made me feel considerably more human. I was leaning against the washing machine, feeling it do its thing, when Gary poked his head in and said something I couldn't hear. I grinned a little and pointed at my ear, which made him huff and puff like the big bad wolf.

Getting anything useful out of the drum when I couldn't hear proved to be awkward as hell. I eventually sat down directly across from Gary and kept my fingertips on the drum's edge while he knocked out a beat.

I'd never felt the drum actually call up energy inside me before. It was like a well filling, a few bubbles in the depth of me turning into splashes and then into a steady trickle. I said, “Faster,” and Gary increased the beat until the power of the drum made me laugh with the feeling of life well lived. It was an entirely internal celebration that took my breath and
made my blood run thinner and faster in my veins. I wanted a hundred drums all around me, so their vibrations shook the very air, making it safe for me to dance even without being able to hear the beat.

I burst through the top of my head and into clear sky so cold even the blue was leached from it. I could hear my own labored breathing as I tried to catch oxygen from the thin air, but I knew with great certainty that I was hearing an illusion. My spirit might be unharmed—at least with regards to this particular instance—but the body I'd left behind needed repair work.

The first analogy that slid through my mind was that of blown-out stereo speakers. I folded my legs and sat in the clear thin air, just as I might have within my own garden, and began the process of removing the destroyed stereo components and replacing them. I overlaid the idea on my own body, and called for the renewed power that lay coiled inside me. It sprang up, eager for the call, and swept through me.

I had a completely horrid sensation in both my ears at once, as if bugs were crawling out of them. I stuck a finger in one and wriggled it, coming away with a tiny smear of bloody flesh. I let out a ragged yell and flapped my hand frantically, getting rid of the icky bit, then repeated the whole ritual, including the frantic flapping, on the other side.

That part didn't hurt.

The next part did. I could feel the power in me rebuilding my eardrums, fitting the right amount of
newly created flesh into the cavity in my ear. It felt like an ink-jet printer was zipping back and forth inside my ear, making one tiny line of new eardrum after another. Heat ran down my eustachian tubes and into the back of my throat, tasting like blood and feeling increasingly like someone had poured molten gold into the delicate tubes.

I kept coughing and trying to gag the feeling away. Nothing worked, the boiling feeling continuing to zip around in my ears, until they popped abruptly and wind shrieked against my new eardrums. I fell back inside my head, the ringing of the drum suddenly impossibly loud, and yelled again, this time scaring the bejeezus out of Gary, who stopped drumming and threatened me with the drumstick. Then he leaned over the drum and hugged me without warning, mumbling, “You get in all kinds of trouble when I'm not around, lady. You oughta watch yourself.”

“Yeah, well, you should see the other guy.” I wrinkled my face. “Actually, I guess that's the problem. We can see him now.”

“Am I s'posed to understand that?”

I gave him a lopsided smile. “Not really. C'mon. I need to go talk to Billy.”

 

“My mother called it the blade. Blade.” I tried it out without a capital letter and with one, wrinkling my nose. “Its master's blade, specifically.”

“And its master is?”

I shrugged. Billy looked at the ceiling like he was asking strength from God. I spread my hands. “I
thought getting any kind of name from a woman who's been dead for three months was pretty good.”

“Well, can you go get more?”

I slid down in my chair, glaring futilely at Billy's computer screen. “What have I done for you lately, huh?”

“It's the nature of the beast, Joanie. Can't get no satisfaction.” He gave me a sideways look. “Are you really okay?”

“Right as rain.” I scratched my jaw where the blood had been. “I don't know how real this thing is, Bill. I'm not sure if it's something you can catch. Whatever Mother did to it set it back a lot of years, but she thought she'd have the power to destroy it, and that was a big fat bust. And whatever it is has got a master.”

“Forget about the master. The master isn't the thing stringing girls out by their guts, right?”

“Right.” God, I hoped I was right.

“Then he's not our problem right now. By the way, Melinda wants to know if you're still coming over for dinner.”

I blinked. “What?”

“It's the equinox tonight. She invited you last week, remember?”

“And you think to bring this up in the context of masters? Or was it being strung out by your guts?”

Billy fashioned a crooked grin. “You know Mel. She's a slave driver.”

I laughed. “So a little bit of both. Yeah, I don't see why not. I mean, you tell me. I know it's the first forty-eight hours of a murder investigation that are
most critical, but we're kind of way the hell past that. Is taking the night off going to make a critical difference?”

“If it does, it's my ass in the hot seat, not yours. You're just a beat cop, remember?”

“A beat cop who isn't doing her job today. Crap.” I got to my feet. “Did Morrison put somebody on the Ave to cover for me, or am I going to get beaten within an inch of my life the next time he sees me?”

“You're fine, Joanie.” Billy's voice was gentle. “People who spontaneously rupture eardrums, even if they follow it up with a little lay-your-hands-on-me action, are generally considered out for the day.”

I sat back down. “Yeah? That happens enough to have a protocol for it?” Probably only with me around. Great. “Can I bring Gary to dinner? Petite's still in the shop.”