by Gregory Ashe
Chapter 33, Wednesday 28 September
Flicker was the only word for it. Like the way reflected sunlight can blind you, just for a heartbeat, and the next moment you’re seeing again—but with a little bit of an afterimage. There was no sense of movement, no displaced air, no ruffled hair or clothing. Not even a fraction of separation between us. Just that blinding flash, and the darkness of the cemetery. Mike had gotten better at traveling. Much better.
In front of me, the grower’s tree shredded the sky. Stars peeked out between its branches, as though afraid of being caught in the net of limbs, shedding a diffuse light that, while not enough to let the tree cast a shadow, nevertheless made it stand against the world like a silhouette. The pounding in my heart, the sweat under my arms, on my palm—the meaning behind these things suddenly shifted, from that moment in the garage to the terror before me. This was actually happening.
It only took a moment for me to gain control of myself. Mike released my hand almost immediately after we arrived, and by then I was back to normal. Almost. So I might die—so what? I had seen what my life was like without Olivia; I wasn’t going to go back to that. Death would be preferable.
As far as I could tell, though, we were alone. The gravel ring, the circle of earth surrounding the tree—these were empty. Suddenly the tree looked forsaken, alone. Perhaps the grower had stopped using her power as much, and the sprawls had gone back to sleep. I knew so little about growers, about their magic, that it was hard to say what might have happened. A part of me—the part trained by my grandfather, the part that had fought and killed and survived—was pretty sure this was a trap. But the tree, abandoned under the timid swirl of the Milky Way, was an irresistible target.
“Cover me,” I said. “When I’m away from the tree—well away—blast it.”
“Got it,” Mike said.
“Not until I’m away, Mike,” I said. “I don’t want to spend Homecoming in a burn ward.”
That easy smile again. He gave me a shove, and the gasoline sloshed in the can in response. “Get going,” he said. “I’ve got your back.”
I examined the cemetery one more time, looking for any sprawls, but if they were here, they were well hidden. I couldn’t see any. I ran, as hard as I could, my tennis shoes grinding against the gravel and then firm earth. Twenty yards. Fifteen. My heart was pounding, my breath a whistle between my cheeks, and a totally different kind of sweat from what I had experience earlier burst out all over me. Ten yards. I was getting closer, and still no sign. It was going to work. The grower had been stupid, unprepared. She hadn’t realized that she was in danger. This was going to work.
Five yards. The branches of the tree spread out over me, a clawed hand waiting to draw me in. Something hit the ground hard behind me, and my heart stuttered. I glanced to one side and saw a sprawl crouched. Another dropped before my eyes. They were clinging to the branches, indistinguishable from the black bark in the moonlight. Something was different about them now—the moonlight shone dully of something black, not the usual pale, rotting skin. It hit me, a surprise so hard, that I almost stumbled.
The sprawls were camouflaged. Somehow, they had learned to disguise themselves. And they were waiting for me.
More thuds as the sprawls continued to drop from the trees. A blaze of white lit up the night, throwing long shadows in front of me, and I felt the heat of the blast. A more refined one, from the focus I had given him. It was like opening a hot oven; the heat dried the sweat on my neck even as the smell of burning flesh and hair reached me. Another flare of white heat.
Something hit me, sending me flying. The bat and the gas can left my hands. I hit the ground hard, rolling across the uneven ground, and my head smacked into one of the tree’s great roots. Spots danced in front of my eyes for a moment. Something hot had me by the shoulder, pulling me into the air, and the spots cleared as pain invaded me. A sprawl held me with one hand, its claws digging deep into my shoulder. I stared down at it, in too much pain to do anything but dangle there.
The sprawl looked like something completely different from what I had known, from what a sink would look like. Thick, black bark covered the rotting skin; the only thing that showed through was the clouded, shriveled eyeballs. I couldn’t tell if the bark was real or not; it seemed like that was important, somehow, but through the pain I couldn’t figure out why. The other claw came up lazily, starlight gaining no purchase on the dull, sharpened nails. That was my death, right there, coming to meet me. At least I had died fighting, trying my best.
Suddenly both the sprawl and I were thrown forward, toward the trunk of the tree. Its claws ripped free of my shoulder with a final surge of pain. I missed the trunk of the tree by a few inches, and my momentum seemed to fade abruptly. A solid thunk, though, announced the collision between the sprawl and the tree. It slid to the ground a moment later, looking like it had been hit by a truck.
I glanced back at Mike, saw the gold pusher on his arm. He raised one hand, sending a shimmering bolt of refined quickening at the tree. It struck the center of the trunk, tearing out great chunks of bark. But I heard him grunt, and the light cut off suddenly as he turned to face the sprawls that, having identified the true threat, were moving to encircle him.
Above me, the tree smoldered, and embers winked like embarrassed stars before fading. The tree was living, the wood green, and—for all I knew—it was magically strengthened, protected. Steady, refined quickening might be able to set it ablaze eventually, but Mike couldn’t manage anything like that while defending himself from the sprawls.
Fortunately, I had one of the best solutions for any problem—a decent quantity of gasoline.
The can leaned against the base of the tree, almost on its side from when it had been knocked from my hands. A few yards away, the bat. I dove for the gas can, ignoring the bat for the moment. A reassuring slosh of gasoline met me when the cool plastic met my hands. It hadn’t spilled. I started pouring, drenching the trunk, letting the gas run down the bark until it glistened in the weak light. I moved around the tree with deliberate steps, taking my time, in spite of the fear that made my legs shake so I could barely stand. My injured arm hung at my side, useless. All it would take was one sprawl. Just one.
And then I was done. The gas can empty, the tree soaked—at least the bottom part. I held onto the can; I really didn’t want to go to prison, and I don’t think my parents did either, so the family gas can, with a mixture of all our fingerprints, needed to go with me. I turned, looked for the bat—same reasons—and found myself staring at a sprawl perhaps two yards away.
The bat lay between us. For a moment, we stared at each other. Then I darted forward, flinging the gas can at the sprawl. My aim wasn’t great, and I was running, but I managed to catch it in the chest. The sprawl just kept running. I had been moving the whole time, though, and I threw myself toward the bat, grateful when the wood slid beneath my fingers. I swung upward, with as much force as I could muster from that position, and caught the sprawl in the jaw as it leaned in toward me.
With the hollow thud of wood striking wood, the bat knocked the sprawl’s head up and back. I scrambled to my feet as the sprawl recovered; it only took a heartbeat before it was looking at me again, but I saw the crack in the bark covering its face. So, the bat could do some damage.
Of course, in the amount of time it would take me to beat a sprawl to death with a baseball bat, I’d be sliced to ribbons.
I swung again, catching the sprawl in the chest. It stumbled back a step, but then it was moving again, and moving fast. One-handed, I slammed the bat into it, but I didn’t come close to slowing the sprawl. With my other arm injured, I couldn’t get much force behind the bat—not that it would have made much difference in the long run, I suppose. I swung the bat one last time, catching the sprawl on the side of the knee, and it stumbled. I turned and ran.
The flares and washes of light continued, sending shadows flying around me, as Mike continued to fight off the sprawls. I didn’t
know how he was doing, but I kept my head down and ran away from him; he had his hands full as it was. The sprawl was behind me, but not as close as I had thought; maybe that bat had damaged its knee bad enough to make it limp. Or maybe the camouflage was actually interfering with its movement.
With the pulses of light blooming and dying among the trees, I didn’t notice the approaching group of sprawls until it was too late. Their dark, bark-like camouflage made them hard to see from a distance, even with the light of Mike’s quickening. Somehow, they had noticed me, broken off their attack on Mike and, without his noticing, they had turned their attention to me. If the slip of white light against darkness were any evidence, Mike had plenty of other things to worry about. As though in answer to my thought, a sudden static charge lifted every hair on my body, followed by a crack of thunder so loud that I staggered and came to a stop, good hand pressed against one ear. Yes, Mike was definitely still busy.
The sprawls in front of me had spread out, a net waiting to draw me in. This had happened before—every visit to the cemetery at night had been disastrous. Every time, I had ended up running for my life, my heart in my mouth. Every time, I had been saved by Mike. It was outrageous, ridiculous. I had been one of the most talented quickeners alive. I had faced men and women three and four times my age, and I had cut them down. I had held my own against sinks, even with their ability to absorb quickening. I had been strong. I had been the hunter. And now I could do nothing but run like a frightened mouse.
Well, hell might be waiting for me, but I would not go down running from a bunch of scrap-heap zombies like these sprawls. If they killed me, they’d kill me when I was doing what I’d been doing my whole life: fighting. And with that thought, I turned back toward the sprawl behind me and ran toward it.
Sprawls were definitely smarter than sinks, or at least, these ones were. I could tell it was surprised, the way its eyes widened—the expression mockingly human with its desiccated eyeballs. The eyes. Perhaps they were more different than sinks than I had realized. My heart fluttered with the first hint of hope.
Surprise kept the sprawl still for a moment longer, just enough for me to reach it. One-handed, I whirled the bat back and then forward, slamming the tip into the sprawl’s face. Right about where one eye was. The force of my momentum, added to the force of the blow, made the rotting flesh and bone crumple under the bat. I pulled back the bat, and to my surprise, the sprawl held up one hand to its face. I took advantage of its distraction and slammed the bat into the other side of its head. When I pulled away, the creature’s head looked like a collapsed sack of potatoes—lumpy and misshapen, very little of what would look like a face to a casual observer. I stumbled back, letting the creature paw at its ruined features for a heartbeat. It took a staggering step toward me, and I quietly moved to one side. The sprawl continued toward where I had been, claws outstretched, oblivious to the fact that I had moved.
They weren’t like sinks. I had known that, but seeing this drove home the point even more. A sink would have moved right toward me, whether it had a head or not. There was very little in a sink that connected it to its body—really, only the quickening energy that made it into a frantic, mindless killer. Once I had split a sink in two, using a copper pusher to drive a saw blade through its body. That’s one of the ways to get around a sink’s resistance to quickening. And you know what the sink did when I finished cutting it in half? Both halves kept coming toward me, driven to kill.
But the sprawl—it couldn’t see me. I turned to face the other sprawls that were closing in around me. Four of them, claws at the ready, knees bent, ready to pounce. But they waited. Hesitated, as though uncertain. And so I ran toward the closest one, grateful for the fact that they had spread out, separate themselves—if only for a few moments.
Sprawls were smarter than sinks; I should have remembered that. When I drove the bat toward this sprawl’s face, it brought up one clawed hand and deflected the bat, while the other hand swept towards my stomach. I skipped back, almost losing my grip on the bat as the sprawl’s claws stuck in the wood. The others were moving in now, tightening their trap around me, but I didn’t care. I feinted with the bat, halting the swing at the last moment. Instead of the long arc, which the sprawl had already moved to block, I jabbed forward, overhanded, slamming the end of the bat right into the creature’s face. It must have been older than the first sprawl, for its entire head collapsed with the feel of tearing wet paper. I wasn’t sure if it would still be able to see me, but I turned my attention to the next sprawl.
The other three were almost on me by then. I swung the bat in an arc, forcing them back a step, but they were already dead—what did they have to be afraid of? They must have realized the same thing, for a moment later, they surged forward, claws flashing toward me. I caught one in the throat, bark-like camouflage cracking under the bat and sending little tremors through my arm, but the other two were right by my side.
A wave of silver-white light rippled through the air to catch the sprawls and cut them in half. It washed forward, within a few millimeters of my t-shirt, and then vanished. No sense of heat. No static charge. It was something I’d only seen once before, from Mike, and I still didn’t understand what it was or how he did it. But as the severed sprawls fell into clumps around me, I decided I didn’t care how he did it. I was just grateful.
I glanced through the trees and saw Mike standing there, surrounded by burned sprawls, his whole body alight with the purple-white nimbus of quickening. Here we were, in a cemetery, and he was spilling energy like it was water. If that didn’t get some sinks going, nothing would. At the moment, though, I just pointed toward the tree, trusting he would understand what I meant. And then I retrieved the gas can and started to run because, as I’ve said before, I didn’t want to end up in the hospital with third-degree burns.
I had made it perhaps halfway toward Mike when I saw a coruscating band of energy flare from his hand. It passed me, illuminating my path for a heartbeat before it struck the tree behind me. Red light and heat burst to life, scorching my back as the gasoline-drenched wood caught fire. I glanced back to see the flames licking their way up the trunk. Mixed in among the yellow and orange fire was a knot of white light that spread outward, eating its way into the wood. When I looked back at Mike, the glow around him had vanished, and his shoulders slumped.
“What is that?” I said. “What did you do to the tree?”
Mike gave me a tired, but familiar smile. “Not really sure. Just kind of felt right. Made it stick, you know, so the fire wouldn’t just fizzle out.”
I shook my head.
“What?” he asked.
“Unbelievable,” was all I could say. “You couldn’t have done that earlier? You know, before I was almost torn apart by sprawls?”
“Sorry,” he said. “It took me a while to figure it out.”
“Unbelievable,” I said again, but this time I meant something else. Nobody else would be crazy enough to try something like that on the fly—forcing quickening through the ground to achieve a new effect. I would have spent weeks, maybe months, perfecting a new focus. Mike just thought about it for a few minutes and then made it happen. And somehow, he’d avoided burning himself to cinders so far.
After a few minutes of watching the flames spread, the white knot of heat in the middle spurring them up the massive trunk, I glanced over. Numerous small cuts had shredded Mike’s shirt, and blood soaked what remained of the cloth. “We should get out of here,” I said. “And you need that healing focus again. Let’s go back to my place.”
Mike gave an embarrassed grin. “Hope you don’t mind walking. I might have used up the last of the quickening on getting the tree burning.”
He could have found an electrical socket, I suppose. Maybe drawn energy from a streetlamp, if I walked him through it. Or tried to pull it from the air itself. But I didn’t say any of that. Right then, with the smell of woodsmoke, the heat of the flames reddening my cheeks, I decided I was glad we cou
ldn’t quicken back home. “Alright,” I said. “But if you collapse from blood loss, I’m not hauling you back to your house.”
Mike just grinned again. And so we started out of the cemetery, heading back toward my house. As we left the crackle of the burning tree behind us, and the soft buzz of a quiet town settled back in, Mike said, “What about the grower? He didn’t show up.”
“No,” I said. “I don’t know why. But it’s a good thing he didn’t; that was the best stroke of luck we’ve had.”
“I could have taken him,” Mike said.
“Right. Just like how you won the football game. All by yourself.”
“Something like that,” he said in that voice edging on depth.
“Well, once the tree burns down, his powers—or her powers, I guess—should be broken,” I said. “He might even die. It’s hard to say, I don’t really know.”
There didn’t really seem to be a response to that, so we walked the rest of the way in silence. When we got back home, I gave him the golden healing focus. He siphoned some energy from the outlet, and although the lights flickered wildly, he didn’t black out the house. With the purple-white energy running under his skin, outlining every inch of his body—even through the torn and bloodied shirt—I couldn’t look away. I felt my throat tighten. Suddenly, in contrast to all the dangers of the night, I was vulnerable. Really vulnerable.
“You should go,” I said, forcing myself to talk. Memory came rushing in, a defense. “Don’t you have a birthday party to get back to?”
“God, Asa,” Mike said, “what’s the deal with you?”
I just sighed and tried not to stare at him, illuminated with the magic that I had lost. “Nothing. I’m just tired. You should go.”
“Let me look at your shoulder before I go,” Mike said. He grabbed the hem of my shirt and started to pull it up.
“I’m fine,” I said and stepped away from him. “Just leave me alone for a little bit.” That’s all I needed, really. A few days, to get my feet back under me, reorient myself. A few days to forget the other things I had thought about Mike. Wondering if he was going to be like Christopher or Isaac. Hell, wondering if he was even going to be friend. A few days to wipe that all away, and then I could deal with Mike as a quickener. Nothing but shared responsibility. I could do that, with time.
Mike looked genuinely hurt, and I felt a glimmer of dark satisfaction. He let his hands drop to his sides. “Alright, Asa,” he said, that almost-deep voice coming very soft. “No big deal, I guess. I’ll leave you alone. Just show me you can lift that arm above your head.”
My injured arm hung at my side. I struggled to raise it, but the red-hot web of pain in my shoulder kept me from lifting it above about mid-chest. With a grunt, I let it fall back to my side. A tight smile crept across Mike’s face.
“I’m taking you to the hospital,” he said. “I’m not going to leave you here so you can become a cripple just because you’re pissed at me.”
“Long-term annoyance just isn’t worth it, huh?”
“What does that mean?” Mike said.
“Nothing.”
Mike stepped closer, grabbed my arm.
“What?” I said. “You’re going to make me go with you? Let go of me, Mike.”
With his other hand, he pressed the gold healing focus against the crook of my elbow and wrapped his hand around my arm, holding the focus tight.
“It doesn’t work that way,” I said. I had another focus, in my chest, that would do what he wanted—a silver focus, much more complicated, to heal another person. But the stubborn part of me didn’t want him to use it, didn’t want to owe him anything else. How could you hate someone that you owed your life to—who kept saving your life over and over again? Easier to keep from owing him anything else.
Mike’s face was fixed in concentration. The purple-white light under his skin shifted, increasing the rate of its oscillating glow as his body tried to catalyze it more quickly. I let out a gasp; his hand was hot against my skin, fire-hot, but the focus was cold. He was doing what he always did, what only an idiot would do: he was trying to use his body as a focus, trying to force the gold focus to do what it was never designed to do. His touch seared me to the bone; sweat broke out on my forehead from the heat rippling off his body.
“Stop,” I said, barely able to breathe. “You’re going to burn yourself to ash. It doesn’t work that way.”
His eyes, distant, almost glassy, suddenly focused. He gave me that easy, heart-breaking smile, and the heat dissipated. An instant later, I felt the tension-dissolving, healing warmth of the golden focus spreading through my body. Doing something that should have been impossible: healing me, instead of its owner. Under the sudden wave of warmth, the surprise of what Mike had done, I felt my knees give out. Only Mike’s quick reflexes let him grab me and ease me onto the bed, his hand still holding the focus tight against my arm. He just sat there next to me.
The purple-white glow under his skin dimmed, and after a time it faded. I couldn’t do much beside lie there, letting the focus do its work. Mike finally let go of me, pulling the focus back with him. He was pale, I realized, and trembling slightly. Before he could move away from me, I grabbed the hand that held the focus and turned it over. The golden focus fell onto the floor.
Lines of raised, blistered flesh covered his palm where he had held the focus against my skin. In its shape, it bore little resemblance to the scar I bore on my wrist, but I knew the same thing had caused it. What I had done to kill Christopher, what I had done to betray him, Mike had just done to save my life. He had figured out a way to invert the flow of a focus. I had only managed to figure it out in a moment of terrible grief and hate, staring at the broken body of my brother across the room of the subway station. How had he learned to do it?
Mike just swept up the golden focus and pulled his burned hand away from me.
“Thank you,” I said.
He stood up, shrugged, but it seemed like even that was too much effort for him, because he put out a hand to steady himself against the desk. “How’s the shoulder?”
I checked the wound; the cuts were still there, but scabbed over. I lifted my arm tenderly and almost had it above my head before I had to lower it. “Better. Much better.”
Mike just nodded and then he disappeared. And I sat there on the bed, alone, and wondering if I was the biggest jerk in the world.
