Death, Doom and Detention

by Darynda Jones

  Mr. Davis ran into the room, weaving his way around terrified students scrambling to safety.

  It happened so fast. So impossibly, impossibly fast.

  Had I just traded Cameron’s life for mine? For Ms. Mullins’s or Mr. Davis’s? He wasn’t even in my original vision. What had happened to change the events?

  I blinked and Glitch was there, kneeling, putting pressure where Mr. Davis instructed. His hands were covered in blood faster than I thought possible. I heard Ms. Mullins as though from a distance calling for an ambulance. I heard Brooklyn screaming Cameron’s name, tears running in thick rivulets down her dark cheeks. I couldn’t focus on any one thing. It all hit me like a hurricane, strong and fast and overwhelming.

  Cameron grabbed Glitch’s collar and jerked him forward. “This is what they want,” he said, his voice hoarse as he spoke through clenched teeth. “They got us out of the way. She’s vulnerable now. Get her to the Sanctuary.” Then he pushed. Hard.

  Glitch pitched back and looked at me, his gaze frozen behind a shocked expression. I took over for him. I put pressure on one of the bullet wounds. The thick, warm blood seeped through my fingers.

  “Glitch, damn it!” Cameron ground out between labored breaths. Now that he’d put Glitch in charge of my well-being, Cameron’s expression was murderous.

  Glitch started forward slowly. He didn’t seem to want the job, and I could hardly blame him—but no way was I leaving Cameron like that. When Glitch took my arm to pull me away, I shook him off.

  “We have to stop the bleeding,” I said to Cameron. Then, despite the fact that Mr. Davis was right there, I added, “You have to stop the bleeding. You’re different, Cameron. You heal really fast. Can’t you do something?”

  He raised a bloodied hand from around Brooklyn and placed it on my cheek. “Not that fast, shortstop. And if I have to say it one more time, Blue-Spider, the last thing you will ever see will be the satisfied smile on my face as I snap your neck.”

  Glitch took my arm again just as Sheriff Villanueva ran into the room. I looked up, relief flooding every cell in my body. Surely he would know what to do, how to help Cameron. But he barely spared Cameron a glance. He took my other arm as Mr. Davis gaped in confusion. When I fought to stay by Cameron’s side, the sheriff wrapped an arm around my waist and hoisted me off my feet.

  “What are you doing?” Mr. Davis asked, appalled.

  But the sheriff ignored him. He pulled his gun, handed it grip-first to Glitch, and said, “Shoot anything that gets close to us.”

  Glitch nodded; then the sheriff whisked me out the door with him right behind us.

  Before I could even protest, we were out the side doors.

  Thank goodness the final bell rang twenty minutes earlier. The last of the kids to be bused were on the other side, and there were only a couple of stragglers leaning against the building on this side. They straightened when we passed them, startled.

  This being dragged away from school was becoming a habit. I just wanted to get back to Cameron, to Brooklyn and Ms. Mullins.

  “Stop!” I yelled, but the sheriff thrust me onto my feet, then dragged me to his car.

  An ambulance pulled into the parking lot, lights flashing and sirens blaring. Right behind it was another patrol car, then another, all with lights flashing and sirens blaring.

  “Glitch, we have to go back,” I said, pleading with him. He was scared. I could tell. He kept the gun pointed down and close to his body like a real professional.

  When the sheriff stuffed me into his cruiser, I pushed his hands away. In one movement, he twisted my thumb back and had my face against the dashboard before I knew what was happening.

  “I will cuff you,” he said, the warning edge in his tone unmistakable. He let go, but he’d gotten his point across. I was not going anywhere except with him.

  Glitch pushed me over and sat next to the door as the sheriff went around. Only then did I see the blood smears on his neck and shirt where Cameron had grabbed him.

  We flew out of the parking lot, and somewhere in the back of my mind I realized I’d lost track of Tabitha. She was so going to need therapy.

  My vision blurred as hot tears pooled between my lashes. I gazed straight ahead. “I don’t want to do this anymore,” I whispered to myself.

  MAC WITHOUT THE CHEESE

  Sheriff Villanueva drove straight to the Sanctuary like everything behind us was on fire. By the time we got there, I was little more than a basket case.

  Granddad ran out the side door of the church to intercept us.

  The sheriff helped me out his side. “They’ve taken both Jared and Cameron out.” He looked down at me, his eyes soft with concern. “They’ll be coming after her next.”

  Granddad rushed me into the church and down the steps to the headquarters. The archive room was on the other end, and I sat staring at it as members of the Order filed in. Some hugged me in assurance. But they were worried. I could see it in their eyes. We’d failed. That stupid war was going to happen, and we didn’t have Jared or Cameron to fight. We had me.

  We were all dead.

  * * *

  I listened to the members of the Order for two hours. Well, kind of. My mind wandered to Jared. To Cameron. To Brooke and Glitch.

  Glitch was with me. He watched as Grandma cleaned the blood off my hands and went for a change of clothing. Even though his clothes were just as bloody, he stayed. And sat. We both stared at the archive room, our backs to the proceedings.

  I just wanted answers.

  “We’re just sitting here,” I said to no one in particular, but the entire council quieted. “We’re just sitting here waiting for something to happen. For someone else to get hurt.” I offered my grandparents a thoughtful look. I wondered if they were going to ship me off now. They’d stood by me, by the teachings of my father, through thick and thin and everything in between, and I could never repay them. Not in a thousand years. But they’d kept so much from me, and I wanted answers. For that, I needed an expert. Someone who grew up with the knowledge of the Order. With its teachings.

  I bowed my head, almost ashamed of what I was about to say. “I want to see my paternal grandfather.”

  * * *

  Because we had lost our supernatural advantage, I was ordered to sleep in the vault in case of an attack. It was huge and had plenty of air through a venting system. They could watch from the monitor, make sure I was okay. If I needed out for the bathroom, I could call out to whoever was monitoring me. This was getting ridiculous.

  Brooke stayed at the hospital with Cameron, and Grandma was at home with Jared. Glitch was allowed to stay with me under one condition, that his father stay as well, so among our guards was Glitch’s dad. Granddad had assigned two rotating guards on two-hour shifts. If there was even the slightest hint of trouble, they were supposed to ring the church bells, which was actually an electronic bell that just took the press of a button to ring.

  They brought in two cots for Glitch and me. We had a restless night, but that was to be expected. I felt raw. Dry. Like the slightest touch would cause excruciating pain. Would crack open my skin. All I could do was hope my paternal grandfather would have some answers, and pray that Cameron lived.

  The next day, I found out he’d made it through the night. He would make it. I knew he would.

  Thanks to our connections with the sheriff, we were able to get a visitation scheduled with my paternal grandfather on short notice. He grew up with the prophecies. And he was the only one who might actually know what was going on. He was in the prison in Los Lunas, about an hour away from us. All these years, an hour away.

  The prison was minimum security and had been built for two reasons: for intake and diagnostics of new inmates and to house inmates with either a medical or mental condition. I wondered which one my grandfather had.

  After we got through the check-in, Granddad let me go into visitation alone. I sat down at window 4. It was strangely like the desks in detention, only with glass se
parating an identical desk on the other side.

  An older man stepped into sight, and the breath in my lungs stilled. I recognized him. He looked so much like my father, I wanted to cry. A lump formed in my throat. Average height. Thick, solid build. Graying red hair with about a week’s worth of scruff on his chin. He looked rugged and kind at the same time.

  When his gaze settled on mine, he looked confused. His brows slid together—first in puzzlement, then in recognition. My identity dawned and the shock on his face gave irrefutable evidence that he was not expecting to see me. Possibly ever. I couldn’t decide if I should be hurt or appreciative.

  After he regarded me a long, long moment, he sank into the chair behind the glass and picked up the receiver with lengthy, strong fingers. I did the same, but the act did us little good. All we could do was stare. He had the same gray eyes as both my father and I. The same chin dotted with a soft cleft. The same squared-off nose and wide mouth.

  His eyes followed every line of my face, every curve, a combination of disbelief and admiration in their shimmering depths. “Lorelei,” he whispered at last.

  “Mr. McAlister,” I said, not sure what to call him.

  A crooked smile appeared, and my heart leapt in response. I remembered that smile. Though I was only six when my parents disappeared, I remembered that smile like I’d seen it yesterday. My father’s had the same tilt, the same sparkle that made me feel like love had manifested into a facial expression.

  “Why don’t you call me Mac?”

  I could tell he’d started to say something else, perhaps Granddad, but changed his mind. Maybe he didn’t want to push things too fast. I could understand that. I nodded. “Okay.”

  “They told you about me?”

  “No,” I said, jumping to my grandparents’ defense. “No, I found out on my own. Kind of on accident.”

  “I should’ve known you would.” He glanced around, then back up at me. “You shouldn’t be here. It’s too dangerous.”

  “I need some answers, and everyone I know is getting hurt.” My breath caught in my throat, and my vision grew blurry.

  “Oh, sweetheart.” His eyes watered as he watched me.

  “I need to know, did the descendants kill my grandmother?”

  The question threw him. He sat so long I thought he wouldn’t answer, then nodded as though unable to believe I knew.

  “They’re here,” I said, and a hand shot to his mouth. I leaned forward. “I need to know how to kill them.”

  He had to stop. He laid the phone on the desk as sobs shook his shoulders, and I could hardly contain my composure. I cried. He put his hand on the glass, and my innate reaction was to reciprocate. I was so sorry for what he’d gone through. For what my grandmother went through. But placing my hand against his might not have been the right thing to do. Even through the glass, a vision hit me like a freight train. The prison disappeared in a flash and I stood in an abandoned house. No real furniture, just a mattress here, a broken chair there.

  Darkness filtered through the house like an animal waiting to pounce, and I was scared. No, Mac was scared, his breathing the only sound I could hear besides the rush of blood in his ears. His heart crashed against the walls of his chest.

  He stepped forward. Knowing they were there. Waiting. It took him two days to find her. He would not be stopped now. Even when the first bullet ripped through his leg, he would not be stopped.

  He shot a gun into the darkness. Was hit again. Shot again. Over and over. He pushed forward. Searching. Vowing to kill them all if it was the last thing he did. He ran out of bullets three times, dropping guns as he went and lifting others to replace them. The satisfaction he felt when a bullet hit home lasted only a microsecond before he would feel the heat of their return. Each round that slashed through him was a new kind of excruciating. A new kind of pain he’d never imagined existed.

  Then there was just smoke and silence. He tore through the house and found her in the last bedroom. The only piece of furniture it could lay claim to was a chair, and she was in it. Olivia Marie McAlister. The most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. Tied up and slumped over.

  Before he even got to her, he knew. She was just a shell. He knew that, but he couldn’t help but feel sorry for the universe at the loss of such a bright star. The world would be a lesser place without Olivia McAlister in it.

  He sank to his knees, took out his knife, and cut the ropes. When she fell into his arms, all he could do was apologize for being late. He was always late, even to his own wedding, so he apologized. Over and over until the encroaching darkness swallowed him whole.

  I bolted back to awareness and slammed my hands over my face, sorry beyond comprehension for what my grandfather went through. Such agonizing sorrow. Such needless devastation.

  Mac paused and looked up at me; then understanding dawned on his face. He picked up the receiver again. When I put my handset to my ear, he asked, “Did you just see that?”

  He clearly knew what I was. I nodded and swiped at the wetness on my face.

  “Why did they do that to her?” I asked.

  He wiped his eyes with a handkerchief and regretted what he was about to say; I could see it in his expression. “They wanted you, Lorelei. Your parents went into hiding when they found out they were having a girl, and your grandmother knew where they were, so they tortured her for information.” He fought another sob, gathered himself, then said, “She never told them a thing.”

  I covered my eyes with one hand. The flow of tears seemed endless.

  “When the smoke had settled, we thought the entire sect was gone, so your parents came out of hiding.”

  After a moment, I took in a cool ration of air, then said, “She died on the day I was born.”

  A sad smile settled on his handsome face. “A bright star to replace the one lost.”

  I shook my head emphatically. “But I’m not,” I said, pleading with him to understand. “I’m not anybody. Everyone thinks I’m this person that’s going to stop some stupid war. And our best defenses are either hurt or unconscious or possessed.”

  “Lorelei,” he said, his voice calming. “You are the last prophet of Arabeth.”

  “That’s right. The last. What does that say about my chances of stopping this war?”

  He chuckled then, his eyes glittering with appreciation. “What that means is that there will be no more female descendants of Arabeth. You are the last one. In other words,” he added, leaning toward me, “you’re going to have sons.”

  I sat back, took another deep breath. Somehow his words gave me hope.

  “But first,” he continued, “we have to keep you alive.”

  I sniffed into my sleeve. “That’s a good plan.”

  “The initial faction that wanted you dead is dead themselves. I saw to that. It took a new generation of descendants to come after you again. Sixteen years of grooming and priming for this one kill. Make no mistake, Lorelei, they want you gone. Period.”

  “I don’t understand. Why would they not want me to stop this war like I’m supposed to?”

  “They feel like we humans have an unfair advantage. Like we’re cheating. They’re descendants of true nephilim, and they consider themselves a balancing force between the human and supernatural realms. Like supernatural cops.” He looked at me. “They’re actually nothing more than cult members who believe they are better than the rest of humanity. And they are absolutely psychotic, one and all.”

  “An unfair advantage? That’s what this is about?”

  “Basically. They feel that by having you on our side, we’re tipping the scales, disrupting the natural balance.”

  “What about war is natural? What about the deaths of millions of innocent people is balanced?”

  “Exactly. I’m not sure what their endgame is, be it power or just revenge against humanity.”

  “This doesn’t even make sense,” I said, tumbling into despair.

  “Lorelei,” he said, drawing me back, “they’re p
sychotic, remember?” He tapped his head. “It doesn’t have to make sense to us. It makes sense to them.”

  I straightened. “Okay, what do we do?”

  “You saw it yourself. They’re watered-down versions of nephilim. They can be killed much easier than an original nephilim.” He leaned even closer. “They’re arrogant and callous, and that makes them vulnerable. And they bleed just like you and I.”

  * * *

  By the time I met my grandparents and Brooke in the front waiting area, Mac and I had a plan. He’d described in detail their habits, their weaknesses. He said the Order would have to hunt them down, but the descendants would not be hard to find. They nested together, and we were to look for an abandoned house or building that looked like squatters had been there. We would find them there.

  I figured the sheriff and a couple members of the Order could handle that part. The other part, I didn’t like so much. He told me I had to go into hiding until they were found. It was the only way I would survive.

  “It isn’t fair that Mac is in prison. None of this is fair,” I said to my grandparents as we drove home, fighting to block the images I’d gleaned off my new grandfather. Of his horrible ordeal.

  “Life isn’t always about what’s fair and what’s not, pix,” Granddad said. “It’s about doing the right thing, no matter the risks. No matter the consequences.”

  If the consequences meant the suffering of the people I loved most, I wasn’t sure I agreed.

  * * *

  That night, I slept alone in the vault. The door sat open with one soft light filtering in from the next room. Glitch and his father were out helping the sheriff and other members with the search. He promised to come back as soon as they’d checked out a couple of abandoned houses in Abo Canyon. Granddad took point in the Sanctuary along with Delores, a girl who believed very much in the mission of the Order of Sanctity and moved to Riley’s Switch a few years ago just to be a member. She worked at the library with Betty Jo, Grandma’s best friend. Brooklyn was at the hospital with Cameron, her phone set to speed-dial the sheriff if anyone came after him. He was vulnerable now, and the descendants would know that.