Published 2011 by Pyr®, an imprint of Prometheus Books
Lightbringer. Copyright © 2011 by K. D. McEntire. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, digital, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or conveyed via the Internet or a website without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Cover illustration © Sam Weber
Cover design by Grace M. Conti-Zilsberger
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
McEntire, K. D., 1980–
Lightbringer / by K. D. McIntire.
p. cm.
Summary: Teenaged Wendy, who has the power to help souls cross over to their final destinations, falls in love with a ghost and discovers horrific, dark forces in the afterlife.
ISBN 978-1-61614-539-2 (pbk. : alk. paper)
ISBN 978-1-61614-540-8 (ebook)
{1. Supernatural—Fiction. 2. Soul—Fiction. 3. Ghosts—Fiction.
4. Love—Fiction.} I. Title.
PZ7.M478454238Li 2011
[Fic]—dc23
2011028713
Printed in the United States of America on acid-free paper
This book wouldn't exist without a truly awesome group of people. I'd like to thank the amazing AgentJoe—aka Joe Monti—who was willing to walk a newbie through this whole process without once getting grumpy at me. I'd also like to thank the fabulous and mellow Lou Anders, editor extraordinaire and lover of all things geeky. Thank you.
Further thanks go to Nadia Cornier, who is the best sounding board ever, and without whom I probably would have tripped over my own plot holes. To my mother, whose timely help saved my work from going poof! And, of course, my Drafty Ladies: Karen Ramsey, Jennifer Day, Anna Hunt, Elly Hunt, and Christine Panus. You all humble me. Thank you.
Last but not least, thanks go to my husband Jake, and the teenage self he's willing to channel every time he picks up my work. Without you I'd never have time to write. Thank you.
When the last off-key strains of Happy Birthday trailed away, Wendy opened her eyes and blew hard. Twelve flames winked out and the waiter clapped politely before retrieving the candles from the cake, leaving the three of them alone with dessert.
The mountain of chocolate cake and ice cream in front of her was nearly the size of her head. Eddie, fork in hand, leaned forward to dig in when his father's fingers on his wrist stopped him.
“Manners, Eddie. Wendy gets the first bite.”
Eddie grinned sheepishly at his father. “Sorry, Dad.”
“It's okay, Mr. Barry.” Wendy grabbed her own fork. “Race you to the plate!” Together they dug in and when the cake was demolished, Wendy tore into her gifts with equal abandon.
While the waiter cleaned up the mess of paper and plates, Mr. Barry helped Wendy clasp the locket her father had left for her around her neck. He patted her shoulder when he was done but Wendy did not miss the sympathy in his eyes. “It suits you.”
“Yeah,” Eddie agreed, spearing one last bite of cake off his plate before it was whisked to the kitchen. He wiped his wrist across his mouth. “It's pretty.”
“You missed a spot,” Mr. Barry said wryly, wetting a corner of his napkin in his water glass and gently wiping Eddie's chin. Eddie rolled his eyes and squirmed but Wendy caught the small smile he gave his father in thanks. She couldn't help a slight pang of jealousy at their closeness, but by now it was a familiar feeling and easily squashed.
Sensing her discomfort, Mr. Barry signed the bill quickly and rose to pull Wendy's chair away from the table. He held her jacket for her as she slipped it on and then offered her his arm. Wendy, feeling very grown up, took it. “When is your father due home again?”
“Next week.” Puffed up and proud, she added, “Dad said that I can stay by myself tonight! I'm old enough now.”
“But the twins and your mother will be back in the morning?” The doorman opened the door with a flourish and they stepped from the warmth of the restaurant into the slushy, drizzling night.
At her nod, he said, “Well, Wendy, if you decide that you don't like spending the night by yourself, you can call anytime and Eddie and I will come get you.” He winked. “Or if you want Eddie to sleep over there, I think we can get along without him for a night.”
Bounding up beside his father, Eddie grabbed Mr. Barry's wrist and tugged. “Really? You mean it?” Wendy grabbed his other wrist and danced a quick jig for joy.
Faced with their beaming smiles, Mr. Barry was lost. He threw his head back and laughed, hugging them both close with either arm. “You two were planning this, weren't you?”
“Thank you, Dad!” Eddie wrapped his arms around his father's neck and hugged tight.
Still chuckling, Mr. Barry held on for a moment and then stepped back, smoothing his son's ruffled hair. “But you have to behave yourselves,” he warned, leading them toward the car. “Only one horror movie apiece. And if you call me at midnight scared out of your wits, I'm not coming over there.”
Eddie sniffed haughtily. “We're not kids, Dad.”
“Right,” his father agreed gravely as they reached his car. A push of his key-fob unlocked the doors; it was Wendy's birthday so she sat up front while Eddie, plotting the rest of the night under his breath, slid behind her, sprawling across the seat on his back.
“Buckle up,” Mr. Barry said to Eddie, cutting off his son's whine of protest with a pointed look. Eddie, scowling, followed orders. Wendy did as well.
The rain drizzling on the roof was soothing and Wendy, lulled by the swish of the wipers and the warmth of the heater blowing steadily across her face, quickly dozed.
Soon the car was too warm, however, and she uncomfortably shifted awake. The only noise was the hum of tires on pavement, the only light the hazy glow of the headlights barely cutting through the mist ahead of them. Mr. Barry was hunched over the steering wheel, craning his neck forward.
Groggy, she lifted her head and started to ask if she could turn the heater down, when a lurching shudder rocked the car.
“SHIT!” Mr. Barry's hand jabbed down, grabbed a lever nestled between the seats, and yanked. The car swerved violently left and right and Wendy heard the scream of tires drowning out her own tearing scream with their wail.
In slow motion the car slid left one lane, two lanes, three; Wendy threw her arms up over her face as a flood of fierce white light cut through the fog right in front of them. Dimly she felt the thump of Mr. Barry's hand slap against her collarbone as his outthrust arm protectively pinned her to the seat. A horn blared, filling the world with noise and the blinding white light.
Years or maybe only seconds later, Wendy opened her eyes.
There was a choppy whirr-chunk noise to her right and groaning to her left. Her whole body felt funny, tight and numb, and her mouth was filled with a taste like salt and metal. She spat twice and it helped somewhat, but it did nothing to ease the dreamy sensation of floating. Wendy blinked and realized, very gradually, that she was upside down. The seatbelt held her firmly in place and her hair, loosened from its band, brushed the roof of the car.
Slowly, marveling at the strange sensation of her hair catching on what could only be bits of metal and glass, Wendy turned toward the groaning. Her hand, moving of its own volition, stretched out in front of her, and stroked Mr. Barry's shoulder.
He, too, dan
gled toward the roof of the car, but there was something wrong. His cheek flapped open, wet and gleaming, torn apart in a wide swath at his chin. Mr. Barry's hand, studded with safety glass, rose up, took Wendy's hand in his own, and squeezed. The touch felt strange, his bones ground beneath the pressure of her fingers, but Wendy didn't let go.
“Light,” he said, turning toward her so she could see the complete ruin of his face, the shattered nose, the misshapen lump of cheek and jaw. He deliriously hacked the words out one by one, stuttering and shivering as he spoke. The bottom curve of the steering wheel pressed into his sternum, cutting off his air. “Pr-pr-omise?”
Wendy nodded. He squeezed her hand again and she realized that his middle three fingers had been bent completely backwards, flopping over her knuckles loosely as he squeezed her hand over and over again, as he tried to soothe her, to comfort her.
“Eddie?” he asked. His words huffed out of him on a fine spray of blood and spit. “Is…Eddie?”
Craning her neck, Wendy felt the first stirrings of pain in her back and shoulders, but no matter how she twisted, she could not see. There was no guiding noise from the back, just the dying kachunk of the engine. “He's okay,” she croaked, lying to calm him. She coughed, swallowed, and tried again. “He wore his seatbelt.”
“Good.” Mr. Barry's eyes fluttered closed. His lips moved but no sound came out. Wendy thought they might have formed “Eddie.”
Long moments passed. His body sagged and Wendy realized that Mr. Barry must have passed out. Without thought she loosened her hand from his grip. His arm flopped onto the roof. Wendy, shifting until she could wriggle her leg to the left, kicked weakly at the dangling car keys, careful to avoid hitting Mr. Barry. It was better that he stayed unconscious until help came. On the fourth kick the engine gurgled to silence.
From the back she heard Eddie shift, groan, and mutter, “Dad?”
“He's sleeping,” Wendy said, closing her eyes. In the distance she thought she heard the keening wail of an ambulance. Wendy relaxed, letting the seatbelt hold her weight. She felt herself drift again and welcomed it. “Let him sleep, Eddie. He needs it.”
Time enough for Eddie to see his father broken and bloodied. Let him sleep, Wendy prayed silently to herself. Let him sleep.
Piotr hefted the newest box of loot and hauled it to the back of the mill floor, wrestling it into their makeshift pantry with effort. It had been good scrounging this week, their cubby was filled to overflowing, and Piotr was grateful to finally be done. On top of the closest box was a portfolio, battered but blank inside, and underneath a grocery bag bulging with Prismacolor colored pencils. Piotr collected the pencils and the portfolio, leaving the pantry. There was no light to turn off behind him.
It was late and the mill was silent. Poking his nose into various nooks and crannies, Piotr checked on the kids he was watching over. Snoring quietly, Specs lolled in his recliner, glasses askew, with a tattered copy of The Hobbit hanging from the tips of his fingers. As he'd done every night for over fifty years, Piotr saved his place and covered Specs with an army blanket, tucking aside the thick, black glasses on the windowsill.
The tangle of GI Joe blankets Tubs normally nested in was empty. Piotr found him asleep in Dora's corner; Tubs was curled under her blanket and an old duster Piotr had discarded months before. The soles of his footie pajamas were filthy and his chubby thumb was thrust in his mouth, lips smacking around it. Dora, still awake, glanced up as Piotr poked his head behind the beaded curtain that sectioned off her part of their den.
“Nightmare,” she said, jerking her thumb towards Tubs. “How'd scavengin' go?”
“Decent overall.” Piotr eased into Dora's room, careful to not jar Tubs as he joined Dora at the warped closet door balanced on cinderblocks, which she was using as an improvised desk. Making a mental note to see if he could scavenge a better tabletop for her, Piotr set the portfolio and pencils on top of Dora's dwindling stack. “How's your landscape?”
“The bark ain't right.” Dora held up a sketch of the overgrown courtyard outside the mill, skeletal branches of the lone tree yearning towards the sky. “It's junk! It's all just junk.” Scowling, Dora tossed down her pencil and wiped a hand across her forehead, leaving dim charcoal smudges behind. “This pencil stinks.”
It didn't. The Prismacolors were the best Piotr could scavenge, but Pandora's death had left her eternally at the age where every artist's block was a major disaster, and Piotr'd long since learned to ignore her hysterics. He mussed her hair. “Keep trying. It'll come.”
“Yeah, yeah. You stayin' in?” Dora smoothed the ruffled strands of her white-blonde hair back behind her headband.
“At least for a while. I might walk the perimeter later.”
“'Kay. Thanks for the supplies. I know they ain't easy to rustle up.”
He grinned. “Nezachto. It was no problem. Spi spokojno.”
She waved a hand. “Yeah, yeah. You too. G'Night.”
Resisting the urge to ruffle her hair again, Piotr left Dora to her sketchpad and, rather than walking the long way around, gathered his will and drifted through the half dozen walls that separated her cubbyhole from his own. Some days, he thought, there were definite benefits to being dead.
Outside the night smelled of metal and salt, the scent drifting in through the rotting boards nailed over remnants of shattered windows. His corner was on the far side of the floor, away from the kids, giving them privacy. Piotr would have liked to be closer for safety's sake but he knew they needed their space.
Once the entire San Francisco area had been filled with little groups like theirs—ghost children, nicknamed the Lost, eternally protected by teens like Piotr—but now there were darker things preying the streets, and Piotr's makeshift family had become a rarity. It had gotten to the point that Piotr was considering leaving the dilapidated steel mill they'd taken as a home and relocating either north to the city or south into Silicon Valley. San Francisco was teeming with the living, however, as was the valley, and abandoning the relative safety of the mill was a very big decision; one Piotr was unwilling to make just yet.
Too tired to want to think further on the subject, Piotr stripped to his boxers and a tee shirt, crawling gratefully into his pallet. His window, one of the few in the deserted mill with glass still intact, gave Piotr a breathtaking view of the surrounding city and a hint of the bay stretching out beyond. Clouds drifted across the moon as Piotr sank into sleep.
Minutes or hours later, a shrill, high scream yanked him from uneasy dreams. At first Piotr thought he was in the living world again, where the sky was blue and bright and the sounds insistent, but the room was dark, and through his window clouds now rolled swiftly across the sky, obliterating the pale moonlight in shades of dark shale.
Stumbling to the window, Piotr scrubbed his eyes and squinted down at the street. Below, amid the trees, a luminescent figure, lean and white, loomed over a smaller shape, clearly one of the Lost. The kid screamed again and Piotr, snapped from his haze, shoved back from the window and pounded down the emergency stairs, leaping over rotted risers in bounds.
He was too slow. By the time he reached the ground floor both the Walker and the kid were gone; only the ice-frosted ground where the Walker had lain in wait remained. Panting heavily, Piotr glanced left and right, hoping to catch some flash of white, a telltale glimpse of the Walker's cloak to guide him in a rescue attempt.
Nothing.
Cursing, Piotr turned to go back inside…and found himself face to face with a second Walker. The Walker, hunched over and slavering, leaned in close so that Piotr could smell the rot of its face, the black decay eating away at the skin of its cheeks. “Rider,” it hissed. “Meat.”
Stumbling, Piotr fell back, his teeth clicking painfully together as he thumped to the ground. Foolishly he'd run downstairs without a weapon, hoping to snag the child and race to safety before the Walker knew what'd hit him. Walkers were lone wolves—Piotr never expected a second one to be waiting nearby
.
Fingertips sharpened to brutal spikes arced across Piotr's upper arm, slashing his shirt into ribbons in four parallel lines of stinging pain. Hissing under his breath, Piotr grabbed his upper arm, and felt a gush of essence pour over his hand as he tried to stop the bleeding. The cuts were deep.
“Bastard,” he groaned and kicked at the Walker's robed legs, hoping to at least push the monster back a few paces and give himself some space to scramble to his feet. Luck was with him. The Walker's knees buckled at his kick, slamming the monster face first to the ground. Lifting his leg as high as it would go, Piotr kicked again, aiming for the head, trying to ignore the wet rip of his heel breaking the thin layer of skin covering the Walker's skull. “Stay down!”
“Piotr!” Dora shouted from her window. “Here!” Balancing her hips on the windowsill, Dora leaned forward and flung her arm out in a wide arc. There was a whistling noise and a brief flash of moonlight on silver as a butter knife from the pantry clattered to the sidewalk mere feet from Piotr's outstretched and grasping hand.
“Fight to the death,” Piotr grumbled, darting forward and snagging the blade with the tips of his fingers, “and she tosses me a dull knife. Great.” Still, he knew what he was doing and even a dull knife was better than no knife at all.
The Walker, either sensing danger, or simply tired of the fight, flung a handful of pebbles and dirt into Piotr's face, blinding him. Cursing, Piotr swiped his free hand across his eyes, scrabbling to see, but the Walker had used his momentary blindness as a chance to flee. The courtyard was empty once again.
Groaning, Piotr struggled to his feet. He sniffed the air but his scuffle with the Walker had left a dense smell of rot clinging to his clothing. There was no way he could track the beast by smell alone.
Trudging back inside, Piotr hid a bitter smile. It looked like the decision whether to stay or go had been stripped away. Thanks to his clumsy fighting, the Walker had gotten away and now it knew where some Lost could be found. It would be back. They had to leave.
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