Chariots of Wrath

by R. L. King

  “Long story.”

  “Aaand one I shouldn’t ask about. That’s fine.”

  I pause, trying to decide how much to tell him. I guess I owe him at least a little bit of disclosure in exchange for doing me this big favor. “Her name’s Twyla. She and I used to be really close when we were younger. I call her my cousin, even though we’re not related, but we were more like sisters. My family is…unusual.”

  “Not surprised, if you’re in it.”

  I consider chucking my crab shells at him. “It’s huge, for one thing—but only a small subset of it is actually related. Have you ever heard the word ‘ohana’?”

  “Uh…don’t think so. Is that Spanish?”

  “Hawaiian, actually. It means ‘family,’ but more in the sense of extended family. People related to you by blood, adoption, or just because you consider them family.”

  “Oh, right, like in that Disney movie.”

  “Er…something like that.” Even before I left for California, I’d already developed an irrational dislike for that movie.

  “Sounds cozy.”

  “It can be. When things are good, it’s awesome. You’ve always got somebody who has your back, somebody to do things with…people who understand you and your quirks.”

  “But…things aren’t good?” Nick speaks carefully, tilting his head and giving me an obvious out if I don’t want to answer.

  My heartbeat picks up, and I start feeling like I used to when I had a test in school that I hadn’t studied for. “That’s the part I don’t really want to go into, okay? Some stuff happened a few years ago, and it’s the reason I’m out here and they’re all back in New York.”

  He holds up a hand. “No problem. I’m not gonna pry. But…this Twyla is coming out here to visit you? That’s a good thing, right?”

  “She’s not coming to visit me. She’s got some kind of project out here—something to do with making a video for a non-profit she works for. But Nana—she’s my great-grandmother, and kind of the matriarch of the clan—thinks we should reconnect. And it’s not generally considered healthy to defy Nana.”

  “You mean she’d hurt you?”

  I snort. “No, silly.” I picture tiny, formidable Nana, wrapped up in her colorful scarves and her lap blanket, smacking me over the head with a baseball bat. “She doesn’t need to hurt you. If she’d not happy with you, you know it. Everybody knows it.”

  “So you’re gonna let Twyla stay at your place because some old lady says so.”

  “Hey, you stay at your place because some old lady says so.”

  “Score one for the smartass in the leather jacket. But the question still stands.”

  I ponder that. “Okay. Partly, I guess. It’s easier just to do it than to argue about it. Nana’s kind of like what you’ve told me about Maddy: used to getting what she wants. And also, it’s sort of a pressure-valve thing.”

  “I don’t follow.” Nick is looking at something over my shoulder as he speaks. I figure he’s checking the sports scores, or maybe scoping out a cute waitress.

  “I guess maybe I don’t think trying to reconnect with Twyla is a horrible idea. I don’t think it’ll work, and it’ll probably be awkward as hell, but I’m willing to give it a try. And this way, Nana gets what she wants on something that’s not a huge deal with me, so maybe next time she won’t try to push something that is a big deal.”

  “Yeah, I guess that makes sense.”

  He still seems distracted, and inexplicably I’m annoyed. I’m only telling him this stuff because he asked, and now he’s not even paying attention. “So who’s winning?”

  “Huh?” He looks startled, and focuses fully on me again.

  I point over my shoulder. “Whatever’s going on over there must be pretty interesting. I figure it’s either sports or you’re checking somebody out.”

  He chuckles. “I’m not much of a sports fan, and even though this isn’t a date, I’ve got enough class not to scope out any ladies while you’re sitting right there.” His expression gets more serious. “No, I just noticed that news crawl on one of the TVs. Another guy freaked out in Reseda and started going after people. By the time the cops took him down, he’d ripped open some guy’s stomach and was trying to eat him. This is the third one like that in the last couple weeks.” With a shudder, he adds, “Sorry. Not exactly table talk.”

  “It wouldn’t be if we were on a date,” I agree. “Or if we were eating spaghetti instead of crab. But since we’re not…you’re right, that is creepy. Have they figured out what’s causing it yet? I’m guessing drugs.”

  “Me too—or that bath salt stuff everybody was talking about a while ago. They’re still trying to figure it out.” He tosses his empty claw on his plate. “Anyway, getting back, I’m happy to give you a ride to the airport so you can pick up Twyla. I’m looking forward to meeting her.”

  “Don’t say that till you have.” I concentrate on my food for a few more moments, then look up again. “You sure you’re okay, Nick? You’re acting like nothing happened, and trust me, that’s not healthy.”

  He doesn’t even try to be flippant this time. “I don’t know. All I know is I need some time to process it all. You’re right—I’ve been hoping since I was a weird little kid in my very mundane family that all that stuff was real. But I guess my version of ‘real’ was a lot more sanitized than I thought, you know?”

  I know exactly what he means. Mundanes get their ideas about magic from comic books, movies, and TV. They rarely consider all the implications, and they almost never think the bad stuff—the stuff you see in horror movies instead of Tolkien fantasies or fluffy fairy tales—could actually be real. Getting hit in the face with that all at once is enough to mess up the most well-adjusted of them. And that’s without even adding in all the guilt about Nick’s unique abilities.

  Damn, but I wish none of this had happened. Up until a month ago, I’d done a great job of staying away from it—or so I thought. Now, it’s trying to seep in all around me like a slow leak, and if I’m not careful, I’ll run out of ways to plug it before the dam breaks.

  “What are you going to do?” I ask.

  “Haven’t decided yet. My grandfather called me a couple times, but I told him I need some time. So far he’s been cool with that, but I’ll have to talk to him eventually.”

  “What are you worried about?”

  “Who says I’m worried about anything?”

  “It’s obvious to blind people, actually.”

  He sighs. “I don’t know. I mean, part of me wants to dive into this whole thing feet-first. Can you blame me? In a way, it’s like a dream come true. But in another way…”

  I wait.

  He cracks another crab leg and pokes his tiny fork around, digging out the meat. “You know that old proverb, May you get everything you wish for? Well, this was everything I wished for—or at least I thought it was. Now, I’m not so sure.”

  Again, I wait. I don’t want to pry if he doesn’t want to tell me. Actually, I’m still not sure I do want him to tell me.

  “Come on, Bron—it’s magic. I know for whatever reason you want to stay as far away from it as you can, but me…” He drops the little fork on his plate and spreads his hands. “This was everything I wanted since I was a kid. But I never thought it would be this…complicated, I guess.” He leans in closer. “My grandfather’s a crime lord—that’s bad enough. But when I used to fantasize about magic, it was Harry Potter stuff: turning invisible, making slugs come out of people’s mouths, shooting fireballs out of my hands. I never thought I’d end up with something that could screw other people up without even meaning to. Something that can kill people just because I’m in the room.” He looks down, clenching his fists.

  “Yeah.” There isn’t much else I can say. I definitely sympathize with him—it’s only been a month since he lost one friend due to his strange magic-glitching power. And it’s not every day you find out your whole family sent you off to be adopted all the way across the cou
ntry because they thought it was too dangerous for you to be near them. “But…”

  “But? There’s a but?”

  I consider, then offer a faint smile. “Everybody’s got a butt, Nick.”

  “Bron…”

  “Okay, okay. Sorry. Just trying to lighten the mood with some juvenile humor, but maybe that was a bad idea. I was just thinking—and believe me, I have no idea why I’m saying this—that maybe you should talk to Happenstance.”

  “What? Why? I thought you didn’t approve of what he does. And the more I think about it, I’m not sure I do either.”

  “Somebody’s got to teach you to use that power of yours. Or at least to control it. If he can do that, it might be worth a bit of temporary discomfort.”

  A little hope flashes in his eyes. “You think I can learn to control it? Because I don’t mind admitting, I’m blundering around in the dark right now. You know what I’ve been doing for the last month, when I’m not doing readings for my clients?”

  “No idea.”

  “Going through my collection, this time with an eye for trying to figure out how much of it’s real and how much is just pop-culture crap. Hoping I can find something that will help me do just what you said—even though I have no idea if it’s even possible to do it.” He grips the table and leans closer. “I know you don’t want anything to do with this stuff, and I know you don’t plan to tell me why. But you know it. Can I learn to control this? Because I don’t want to kill anybody else, Bron. I can’t even count how many nightmares I’ve had featuring Heidi’s face, or that…thing that was sucking those people’s souls out. That’s the other reason I haven’t gone out much: I’m scared of running into somebody I’ll screw up.”

  I consider his words carefully before answering. “I…think it’s possible. I don’t think it will be easy, though, and I doubt it will be something you can learn in a day or two.”

  “And…there’s no way I can talk you into helping me out? I’m not asking you to do any…you know what. Just theory. If you know how, then—”

  “I don’t know how.” My answer comes quickly, along with the usual increased heart rate and cold sweat that accompanies any thoughts about actually doing magic. “Listen, Nick—I’m not kidding when I say I don’t want to talk about it, and I definitely don’t want anything to do with it. If you want to learn to control your Talent, you’ll need to find somebody else.”

  He looks disappointed, but nods. “Yeah. Okay. I had to ask. Maybe someday you’ll trust me enough to tell me what’s going on with that, but it’s okay if you don’t want to. Maybe I will talk to my grandfather. I just hope he doesn’t ask for something in return that I can’t give him.”

  I had been thinking the same thing, but don’t say it. There’s a reason you don’t get involved with people like Happenstance, even if you are his grandson.

  Chapter Three

  Nick and I don’t talk for the rest of the week, and Twyla doesn’t call either. Maybe she’s as nervous about this little get-together as I am, and she’s humoring Nana too.

  If that’s true, it’s going to be a long few days.

  I spend more time than I’d intended getting the place ready for her, cleaning the junk and books out of the spare bedroom, vacuuming the cat hair off the rug, and even getting a new bedspread. Rory is indignant that I’ve closed the door and won’t let her in there, but I tell her she has to cope. I think Alice approves, though. At least she hasn’t shoved anything off any surfaces this week. She can be worse than Rory sometimes.

  Nick shows up promptly on time, which is good because we get stuck in a nastier traffic jam than usual on the way over to LAX. By the time we get there, the time for Twyla’s arrival has already passed. I picture her pacing around in the baggage-claim area, wondering if I’ve forgotten her—or if I stood her up. Great start for the visit.

  Nick comes through, though. He pulls in at the drop-off area and waves me out. “You go on and find her. I’ll find parking and let you know where I end up.”

  “Thanks, Nick.” I jump out of the car and take off at a fast walk, dodging overloaded luggage carts and small children.

  Turns out I needn’t have hurried—Twyla’s flight’s been delayed, and it’s only pulling into the gate when I locate the arrivals board. I find a lounge outside the security checkpoint, send Nick a text to let him know what’s going on, and spend the next twenty minutes pacing around and getting increasingly more nervous.

  What am I even going to say to her?

  We haven’t spoken since everything went to hell five years ago. I don’t even know why she’d want to stay with me. She probably doesn’t, actually. This is all Nana’s doing, and maybe she’ll keep her nose out of other people’s business when this whole thing blows up in our faces. If it does, I’ll have to call Mom back and make sure she lets Nana know about it.

  Why did I even agree to this?

  “Bron?”

  I spin around, and there she is. I swallow hard. “Hey, Twyla. It’s…good to see you.”

  She looks pretty much the same as I remember her: tall, graceful, dressed in a mismatched colorful ensemble that she somehow manages to pull off. Her long, shiny black hair is tied back into a neat bun instead of the ponytail I remember, and she carries an oversized leather satchel slung over one shoulder to go along with the bright red carry-on bag she’s pulling behind her.

  Her smile slips, and for a moment we just look at each other, both at a loss for words. What do you say to somebody you haven’t seen for five years, after…everything that’s happened?

  “Hi,” she says at last. “Thanks for picking me up. I know Nana made you do it, but…thanks.”

  “It’s okay. She did, but…yeah. Do you have any other luggage?”

  “One other suitcase.” She tilts her head at me and narrows her eyes. “I don’t see a helmet, so I guess you found a car?”

  “Yeah, I got a friend to drive. He’s parking.”

  “He?”

  “Don’t start, Twy. He’s just a friend.”

  She offers a faint but genuine smile. “Your mom will be sorry to hear that. So will Nana.”

  “You’re not reporting back on me, are you?”

  “Oh, no. Don’t worry—your secrets are safe with me.”

  As we start to walk toward the baggage-claim area, I’m amazed at how easily Twyla and I have fallen back into old patterns. She always used to tease me about never having a boyfriend—or a girlfriend—when we were growing up. She, meanwhile, went through guys like most girls go through underwear, always turning up with somebody new just as I was getting used to having the last one around. It surprises me that she’s talking about it now, though. There’s still a definite undercurrent of discomfort—again, I can tell that even without auras—but not nearly as much as I might have expected.

  I allow myself to think that maybe Nana’s a wiser old bird than I’ve given her credit for, but I’m not getting my hopes up. Not yet. Twyla and I have only been together for less than five minutes, and I could be cordial to Adolf Hitler for five minutes if Nana insisted.

  While she’s scanning the carousel for her bag, I check my texts. Nick found parking on the third floor of the garage.

  Just wait there, I send back. We’ll find you.

  Twyla returns, dragging another, larger bright red bag behind her. “Ready.”

  I shake my head. “You are only staying through the weekend, right? You always did pack like you were going on a safari.”

  “Hey, I’m meeting with some important people. I need to have nice clothes.”

  I don’t answer. Once again, twinges of guilt and uneasiness prevent me from relaxing around her. Even though I don’t see anything to suggest it, I can’t help but think she’s waiting for me to let my guard down so she can pounce on me with five years’ worth of accumulated baggage—and I don’t mean her big red rolly suitcase. I cover my discomfort by taking the bag’s handle from her and heading out toward the garage.

  Nick’s sit
ting in his car and fiddling with his phone when I knock on the window. He jumps and quickly gets out.

  “Sorry we took so long,” I tell him. I point at Twyla. “Nick Morgan, this is Twyla Rainwater.”

  “Nice to meet you.” He offers his hand and a smile.

  She gives him an appraising once-over, but doesn’t take his offered hand. Instead, she returns the smile. “Same. Thanks for giving us a ride.”

  “Least I can do to keep you from having to balance on the back of Bron’s bike.” He opens the trunk and loads Twyla’s bags in.

  Standing back where he can’t see, Twyla raises both eyebrows at me, then cuts a quick glance toward him. Her message is clear: you sure you two aren’t together?

  I shake my head and wave her off. The last thing I need is for her to start hitting on Nick. I’m trying to uncomplicate my life, not make it worse.

  Nick is quiet as he guides the car back out of the hellacious LAX traffic and back to the freeway, which is fortunately quite a bit less hellacious at the moment. I’m grateful to him, since he seems to have picked up on the undercurrent of awkwardness between us and isn’t planning to add to it.

  Twyla, however, is another story. “So, Nick,” she says from the back seat. “How do you know Bron?”

  “That is what they call a long and strange story.”

  She glances at the traffic, which, despite moving faster than usual, is still nearly bumper-to-bumper. “Looks like we’ve got time.”

  Nick looks at me. “I think I’ll leave it to Bron to tell. Safer that way.”

  Thank you, Nick. “We…met through some mutual friends.”

  Twyla narrows her eyes, and I can tell she doesn’t believe me. Just because I don’t read auras anymore doesn’t mean she doesn’t. “Okay,” she says, settling back, her tone cooling. “None of my business. I get it.”

  “It’s not that,” Nick says, clearly trying to salvage things. “It’s just that it’s not really the kind of story you tell in the middle of a traffic jam.”

  “Exactly,” I say, relieved. “We can talk about it later. I promise.”