"Sweet Aether. If you want town, I'll go. It's nice wherever I am with you." He took my hand and gazed at me with such sappy devotion, I squirmed and tried to change the subject.
I said, "You'll need someplace to live, now that you're . . . alive. The Vic is just enormous."
"The Vic." Emmett straightened up and let go of my hand. "I helped them with the enhancements."
"You sound better," I said, hope springing into my heart.
His eyelids drooped. "Chocolate chip cookies," he whined.
"Good All, not again," I said.
Emmett tossed his sandwich into the air, and a bat-Chi whizzed by and caught it. The creature eyeballed us wildly, then zipped away again.
"That bat-Chi was acting weird," I said.
"Spooked. Something malevolent is about," said Emmett, nodding sagely.
I wasn't sure if I should take him seriously, but Bruce's weird behavior, the bat-Chi's nervousness, and the dreadful, brooding feel of the whole junkyard convinced me. True, the junkyard was normally pretty depressing. But I was picking up an energy here, dead electricity in the air. Spirits! And not the sort of spirits I wanted to summon.
I promised Emmett cookies if he'd stay put on the blanket. Then I returned to the double-wide and held my hands over Bruce, who rolled frightened eyes up at me. I concentrated on showering him with the blue snow of healing spectricity. But only a few lone flakes trickled from my hands, then the flow stopped. I shook my hands and tried again. Nada. I was dry, this whole junkyard was dry of spectricity. That wasn't a good sign.
I used the wall phone to dial for Bruce's doctor. During the hold music, I dug deep into the cupboards and unearthed the last package of cookies. To think he liked those stale, grocery-store things! I smiled and imagined feeding them to him, one after another. He'd lay his head in my lap, and once his face was covered in chocolate, I'd . . .
The crunch of car tires on gravel startled me. A car door slammed and footsteps stomped up the stairs to the front door. A key turned in the lock. I panicked and bolted out the back door.
Peering around the corner of the trailer, I spied my mother's car. Shirleen—home from Aunt Doreen's. "Oh, Bruce!" I heard her exclaim from inside the double-wide.
Good. She'd take care of him now. Emmett and I needed to get out of here! He was practically helpless. If there were evil spirits lurking, I'd feel safer with the Coterie.
I grabbed our picnic stuff, handed Emmett the cookies, and led him to the junkyard's back fence. Emmett whistled. Both bat-Chi's came flying. They licked his face and tried to pass through him. They rolled their eyes nervously and stuck close to us.
Emmett leaned toward me, trying to feed me a cookie, and I saw the chocolate was still on his mouth. I guess the bat-Chi's missed some. His face was so close. If I got just a little closer, I could . . .
I turned away, blushing at my own thoughts.
"No cookie?" Emmett said, puzzled. I shook my head no, eyes cast down. "Okay . . ." I heard him chomping.
Before us, a tall chain link fence separated the junkyard from the surrounding chaparral, the desert scrublands. I climbed up a junk pile next to the fence, beckoning Emmett to follow.
"What ingenious piling," said Emmett. He clambered on an old washing machine, gripping a rope I'd tied to the fence. "What made you set this up?"
"Oh . . . lots of time on my hands, nothing else to do. Plus, I always dreamed of running away," I said.
"Ah. An escape route," said Emmett.
Emmett balanced unsteadily on an old plastic cooler. It shot out from under him and he fell, the rope twisting around his leg. He swung upside down, banging his head against the washing machine, the bat-Chi's licking his face.
"Emmett!" screamed. I pulled him free of the rope. He landed headfirst in the sand.
"Ow," said Emmett, his face bemused and bruised. "What an interesting experience."
I checked him over, counting black-and-blue marks. I'd never seen Emmett—or anyone, for that matter—so clumsy. I decided against climbing the fence.
"Come on, Em. There's a large hole on the east side we could squeeze through—carefully," I said.
"You called me a short name." A funny little smile crossed his face.
"It's just a nickname." My cheeks burned.
"I like my name short when you say it to me. It's so l-o-n-g," he said. "Emmett Groswald Cornelius St. Claire Marie-Claude Juan Rodriguez Gabriel Lysander Tippetarius Zetian O'Toole Carlisle Fitzhugh—" Emmett stopped to pant.
We strolled past mounds of old car bodies, and I carefully guided him away from the old box springs, razor wire, and chicken wire layer. I led him between piles of tires and bricks, around heaps of old kitchen sinks and toilets. I pointed to a place in the chain link fence that bore a series of scars, like the wire had been cut and healed.
"Sam cut it with wire clippers years ago. We didn't want Bruce to find out, so we super-glued it back together. It should pop apart easy," I said.
Emmett reached for the fence and immediately cut himself. "Ow," he said, smiling and showing me the blood.
"Oh, Em!" I walked him ten feet back from the fence. "Stay here."
I pulled the fence apart and propped the hole open with a long stick. I wrapped the picnic blanket around his shoulders and ushered him forward.
"Ouch," said Emmett. He stood, face bleeding and scratched, on the other side of the fence. I squeezed through myself. I had never imagined mortal Emmett would be so accident-prone.
From outside the fence, I regarded the horizon. Town meant a ten-mile hike through the chaparral in the heat of day. I hoped Emmett could make it. He'd become so fragile in his mortal state. Still, I'd risk it, to avoid another night in this junkyard.
The bat-Chi's, who had easily glided over the fence, started yipping frantically. Emmett pointed at several large, black shapes that appeared out of the desert. "Demon dogs!" he whispered.
"It's a wild dog pack," I said. I yelled at the dogs and threw a few rocks, expecting them to turn tail and run. But they closed in, their growls low in their throats.
Emmett and I backed toward the fence. As if by signal, the dogs charged in, running full speed, snapping and barking. I quickly eased through the hole in the fence, but Emmett ran at it and dove through without holding open the wires. The sharp edges tore at him. He crouched inside, scratched and bloody and shaken.
I expected the dogs to try the fence, but they stopped a foot away. Several of them sat. The rest paced up and down, eerily guarding. Again, I felt that brooding, dreadful sensation. Maybe they really were demon dogs.
"So that exit's out. And—oh my All! You're cut to ribbons!" I said. "I'll have to get some bandages. Come on, Em." I hoped his nickname would cheer him up. He did flash that funny little smile again, but he was so banged up and bloody that I despaired of escaping the junkyard by tonight.
I dug a first aid kit from the back of Bruce's truck. In the shadow of the teardrop, I cleaned blood off Emmett with our remaining water. Long, ragged scratches ran along his arms, shoulders, legs, and his sweet, confused face.
"Were you always so clumsy as a mortal?" I asked, dabbing at a long scratch on his cheek.
"I don't believe so. Teddy was the clumsy one. I was the careful one," said Emmett in a low voice.
"Now who is Teddy?" I asked.
"Teddy bear? I don't have one," babbled Emmett. "Those were the fashion after I was dead, so you can't expect me to know more than what I read in the deadzines."
Addled again. I wouldn't get any more out of him now.
"What's a deadzine?" I asked, hoping to distract him while I applied antiseptic to his scratches.
"A spirit-mortal publication. They helped me keep current with mortal life, so I didn't get too out of touch and—ow! What's that stuff?" Emmett yelped.
"Nothing. But I've run out. You are so banged up! Look at those bruises." I poked the side of Emmett's head, and he winced.
I'd have to creep into the double-wide for more antiseptic
and water. Maybe Shirleen would be too preoccupied with Bruce to pay attention to me.
I crossed the sand lot and walked up the steps, entering the living room through the back door. They were watching television. Very casually, I strolled into the bathroom, where I took all the antiseptic. Then I tiptoed to the kitchen and grabbed more water from the fridge. I was about to leave out the front door when Shirleen stepped in front of me.
Fresh from Aunt Doreen's, her hair colored and styled, Shirleen's fingernails and toenails sparkled bright pink. She wore a new lavender dress and a little makeup—they'd had a girl's day out. Her eyes snapped with anger at me.
"You look nice, Mom," I said, hoping to pacify her. "Did Aunt Doreen do your hair? It looks nice."
"Don't you start with me!" snapped Shirleen. "I want to know what happened to your father, and why you did not call me the moment this began!"
My mouth dropped open. My father! Oh, if only she knew what happened to my father!
But I did know a thing or two about what happened to Bruce. Attack by otherworldly spirit gods—probably not what Shirleen wanted to hear.
"Bruce is not my father," I said. "He probably took the wrong pills with his beer." I sidled around my mother, toward the door.
Her hand flew toward my face so quickly even a seer could not have anticipated it. I bore the slap defiantly, tears springing into my eyes. I tried not to cry, afraid it would bring Sam—but that was an old habit. Sam wasn't here. Just Emmett, and what could he do?
I shoved past Shirleen and outside.
"Where are you going?" she demanded.
I didn't answer, just gave her the finger and stomped off. Behind the teardrop trailer, I collapsed next to Emmett in tears.
Many hours later, a much-bandaged Emmett and I lay inside the teardrop trailer, conversing in darkness. Like the Victorian gentleman he was, Emmett insisted on taking the floor, despite my pleas that he take the bed. I found myself rambling on to him about my family.
"I had a regular father like everybody else, until seven years ago. But he was never a regular father. He held séances, told fortunes, sometimes even gave prophecies. We lived in the big Victorian house in town. Shirleen never approved of what Dad did. I think it scared her. I helped out with the séances—just the beginnings. He made me leave before anything interesting happened. But I used to eavesdrop."
I paused, remembering. "Then Dad died. I was eight. They said it was cancer. Mom didn't have enough money, so she sold our house and worked as a waitress. That's how she met Bruce. She married him and we moved out here when I was eleven."
"I know him. Able d'Espers," whispered Emmett.
"You do? In the spirit world?" I sat up on the creaky little camp bed.
"I . . . can't remember. His name is familiar. But Sam—your brother would know," said Emmett. His eyes drooped with weariness.
"Sam's probably with Dad right now. They spent a lot of time together when Dad was alive. I've never really fit in, not even in my own weirdo family. Dad always thought Sam would grow up to be the world's most talented spiritualist, like him. He named him Samhain—an impressive name for the heir to the family talent. Dad never figured on me having any talent. My name's ordinary, a flower name," I said.
"Heather. That's a powerful flower," said Emmett.
"Flower power? You don't make sense when you're sleepy, Em," I said.
"That nickname makes me feel all funny. Like I'm flying over Dead Town, and I'm about to dive three hundred feet straight down." Emmett shivered and rolled over. "Good night."
I smiled in the dark, listening to his breathing become slow and regular. By moonlight, I gazed at Emmett's sleeping face. I loved to watch him, even all scratched up. I couldn't possibly sleep with him so near, so I found my journal and wrote.
I wrote about how I hated my mother. Then how crazy Bruce was acting. My escape plans, how great it would be to see Dad again if I ever got out of here.
Then I wrote about Emmett. How adorable he was as a mortal, although I had no idea how to keep him from hurting himself. Last, I wrote that Emmett made me feel funny too, butterflies in my knees and stomach, and I really, really wanted to—
What was that?! I dropped my notebook, startled by a loud banging and shouting from outside. I knew that sound. Bruce, cursing as he stumbled around in the dark.
Seconds later, he rattled the teardrop trailer door. When he couldn't open it, he banged and bashed and swore. I tried not to breathe, hoping he'd lose focus and give up.
Unfortunately, Emmett woke up. "Aether, what is that?"
I shushed him, but Bruce had heard Emmett's voice and was going insane outside, slamming into the door and screaming. "Who's in there? That better be your little fruity friend, Heather! I better not find some boyfriend in there!"
My hands shook with anger—and fear. Emmett scowled and balled his fists. "He will not talk to you like that! You're Heather Esperance d'Espers, the last of the great d'Espers line, and the most powerful spiritualist I've seen for two thousand years. That junkman is going to get what's coming to him, by Bellum!"
Bruce pounded and yelled. Emmett reached for the door, an angry frown marring his face.
"Wait. That's it. By Bellum." I touched Emmett's hand. "You're right. I am Heather Esperance d'Espers—a far cry from Heather Desperate Despair. Ring or no ring, I can sense things others only dream of. And what I sense now . . ."
"I'll smack you six ways from Sunday!" Bruce howled. "I'll get my belt! Come out of there! I'll get my gun!"
"Emmett! Listen! Bellum's here. I think he's controlling Bruce. Play it cool, and maybe we can get Bellum to reveal himself," I whispered.
Emmett's eyes lit up. He wrapped his arms around me in a tight embrace, then he opened the trailer door. What was he doing?
"Oh, Heather," said Emmett in a deliberately corny voice, making me giggle. Even under the circumstances, I liked his arms around me. I took a deep breath of his lightning scent and rested my head on his shoulder. But I didn't have long to enjoy it. I froze when I saw Bruce in the doorway. His eyes were bloodshot, his jowls near purple—he reeked of beer—and his face was distorted with rage.
"Crux!" I shouted. I had no chance to say another word. Bruce lurched at me, pulling me from Emmett's embrace. Why, oh why, did Emmett tease Bruce? I told him to be cool! I dug into my deepest reserves, but not a glimmer of spectricity responded.
"YOU!" Bruce screamed at Emmett. "You put something in my beer! Both of you been druggin' me! Could have killed me!" He roared with fury, yanking me around by my arm.
"Ow, Bruce, stop! We didn't!" I said, but the ruddy tone of Bruce's face told me he'd reached a point beyond reason. He aimed his shaking finger at Emmett, who crouched, ready to spring.
Bruce shouted, "I hate this guy! He was in my dreams, my nightmares. Tried to kill me. Ghosts and monsters—horrible trip! Nearly went insane!"
Emmett laughed in a truly terrifying cackle, then howled like a banshee. His bruised, swollen face emerging from the shadows startled Bruce, whose mouth distended in horror.
"Skull face. Skull face!" hissed Bruce. He jerked back, his grasp on me slackened, and I pulled away. Had Emmett zapped him? No, he couldn't. But there stood Emmett in the doorway of the teardrop, brandishing his scrawny fists. Bruce shook his head loosely, like a dog shaking off water.
"Did you hit me, boy? Felt like a fly landed." Bruce scowled.
"There's plenty more where that came from!" crowed Emmett. "Unhand my protégée or face my wrath! You shall not lay a finger on Heather Esperance d'Espers!"
Emmett stumbled his way through more Victorian trash talk, then out the door of the trailer. I waved frantically at him to stop. Did he have a death wish? He couldn't fight Bruce!
Bruce laughed, but only for a second before he swung and connected with Emmett's skull in the flesh. Emmett spun around and fell, hitting the sand hard. He groaned and tried to rise, but Bruce closed in, kicking viciously.
"Stop! Please!" I cried.
Bruce slammed his steel-toed boot into Emmett's eye. Emmett ceased struggling and lay still.
"Emmett!" I screamed, running to his side. Bruce tried to grab me, but I elbowed him in the ribs and dodged his grasp. I bent over Emmett's unconscious form, touching his still-breathing chest, cradling his bruised head in my arms. Tears blocked his mangled face from my vision.
"Help us!" I moaned. I hardly knew who I called to, but the response came immediately. The deep, booming laughter I'd hoped to hear, but not at this price.
"So, the All wants to be mortal," said Bellum from the somewhere in the air above. The Ring of Esperance sparkled in the air next to Bruce.
Bruce cast his head around crazily and swore. Behind him, the Bellum materialized out of shadows. The elongated old man wore robes of heavy, purple brocade. He thrust his insubstantial hand into the back of Bruce's head, as if Bruce were a puppet.
"It is so easy to anger this one." Bellum nodded at me. "Look, I can make him angrier." He cranked his elbow, and Bruce's face blossomed into deep red, like the slightest movement would burst his blood vessels.
"I'll kill that kid! He came onto my property, attacked me, assaulted my stepdaughter! I have every right! Where's my gun?!" screamed Bruce at top volume.
"Stop it!" I said to Bellum, my voice choked with sobs, "What do you want?"
"I should think that would be obvious. I want the All to fight me for the Coming End. If he insists on being mortal, I will make it most unpleasant for him. I can make him wish for death. This one can beat him to a pulp. And there's no way out of here—in case you'd care to try again."
To illustrate, Bellum flew into the air. When he reached a height of fifty feet, an enormous fleet of birds, black, gray, brown, white, all shapes and sizes, flocked upon him. They dragged him down, grounding him in the sand, before they whirled upward again, trailing wraithlike tails.
Bellum stood and brushed off his purple robes. "Even I can't fly out of here now. You are truly trapped, All. Give up and fight me. Say you will, and I'll bring our battlefield here immediately."
Emmett coughed some blood.
"Never. You'll have to kill me. Again," he whispered.
Portals Heather Page 12
