Inside, Piotr was met with anxious, pale faces. Tubs, clinging to Piotr's duster, huddled behind Dora, and Specs peered past splintery boards to the courtyard below. Piotr wanted to soothe them, to swear they were safe, but he didn't want to lie. Instead he remained silent.
The silence grew too long. Abruptly Specs turned from the window, pushing his round frames up on his nose. His hair, dark with grease, fell over one eye. “That was the third time this week, Piotr. We should pack.”
“Da,” Piotr sighed. “We should.” He knelt down and Tubs flung himself into his arms, sobbing into his shoulder. Piotr stroked the back of Tubs' hair and let him cry.
“It spotted me,” Dora said. “I saw it watchin' me.”
“Most likely.” Piotr stood, Tubs resting on his hip, and hugged the little boy close. Life seeped into Piotr from Tubs' skin in blue arcs, dulling his pain. The wounds on his arm began to slowly seal shut, itching like fire. “I am unsure but, yes, most likely.”
“Perhaps we might bunk down with Miss Elle or Miss Lily,” Specs offered, hesitant to bridge the topic of Elle to Piotr. “Or perhaps Mister James.”
The thought of begging his fellow Riders for a place to stay made Piotr laugh roughly. “James? I'd rather leave you on your own.” He set Tubs down and smoothed the wispy blond hair back from his forehead. “You okay now? Yes? Go wash your face.”
When Tubs had toddled off, Piotr reached out and enfolded both Dora and Specs into a hug. Specs clung tighter than Dora, trembling lightly, the remaining unspent years of life flowing into Piotr in small, sharp spikes. The itching on his arm faded, replaced with smooth, blessed coolness.
Piotr squeezed them both and then stepped back, alert and wary, listening for intruders. “Spaseebo.” He gestured to his upper arm. “Thank you. For the aid.”
Uncomfortable, Specs shrugged. “It is the least we can do, Piotr. You're welcome.”
“They, the Walkers, are getting closer.” Piotr crossed his arms over his chest.
“And smarter.” Dora chewed her thumbnail. “Remember, Specs? When we saw one of ‘em grab that kid right outta a tree last week? They ain't ever done that before.”
“Do you think it's because of the White Lady?” Specs asked, pushing his glasses higher on his nose.
“White Lady or no, so long as you three are safe, I don't care the reasons why.” Piotr ran his hands through his hair. He was still shaking, his mouth sour with adrenaline. The mill had been in a safe zone for years, but with the coming of the White Lady almost no place was safe anymore. The Walkers were everywhere.
“Honestly, I don't know what to do. Walker territory is spreading and the mill is stuck between them.” Piotr leaned against a nearby wall, tilted his head back, and closed his eyes. They felt gritty with lack of sleep.
“We ain't strong enough to fight ‘em.” Dora drummed her fingers along the kitchen countertop. “Ain't stupid enough, neither.”
“Since we are running, we should decide where to go,” Specs said. “Which shall it be? Move closer to the bay or the valley?”
“I thought of that before, but there are too many of the living,” Piotr said, rubbing his hands across his cheeks, feeling the light rasp of hair that would never grow past a certain point, brushed by calluses that would never fade. Piotr pushed away from the wall. “You should weigh in. What do you want to do?”
Hesitantly, after several seconds, Dora hunkered down into a squat and, wrapping her arms around her knees, murmured, “I don't mean to start no fuss, Piotr, but I wanna stay with Elle for awhile.” Before Piotr could protest, she hurried to say, “I know we're safe with you, but there's been a lotta Walkers ‘round lately and you can't be with us 24/7. We gotta be somewhere more, I dunno, more castle-like, you know? With a moat or somethin’. Def…dev…dependable.”
“Defensible?” Much as he hated to admit it, Dora had a point. “Specs?”
“Staying with Miss Elle does indeed appear to be the best course of action.” Specs took off his glasses and cleaned them on his shirt. Like Dora, Specs was too thin and gangly, caught in an early growth spurt by a death that had come too soon. Eternally eleven. “No offense.”
Sighing, Piotr rubbed his hand along the wall, feeling the spots spongy with decay crumble away under his fingertips. Elle was not going to like this. “Net, there is none taken. Fine. Go pack up then and we'll go in the morning. Pandora, please pack for Tubs?”
“Gotcha.” Dora and Specs drifted towards their quarters, leaving Piotr alone by the window. Lost in thought, he stared down at the empty courtyard and watched the swirling fog drift in from the bay. With a Walker down there somewhere, he knew there'd be no more sleep for him tonight. None at all.
Dawn came, lightening the sky to a pale grey, and Piotr carried Tubs piggyback as they made their way through the shriveled remains of the world. Picking a path through crumbling brick streets, they followed the whisper of surf breaking against the piers in the bay, leaving the mill behind. At first the going was slow; Piotr's turf was around fifteen miles from where Elle and her own Lost squatted dangerously near the tourist zone, amid the life and heat of Pier 39 and North Beach, wading through the press of humanity that eddied like the tides.
A steady pace brought them just inside Elle's territory by midmorning. The idea of leaving the kids so close to the haunts of the living bothered Piotr deeply, but Elle was particular about her space, and likely wouldn't stand for another Rider on her turf for long—especially if that Rider were Piotr.
As if sensing his thoughts, an arrow speared the road inches from his toes, shooting shards of brick shrapnel in every direction. Piotr raised his hands high as the arrow quivered in the street, testament to Elle's skill. Raising his voice, Piotr glanced left and right, trying to determine from which direction the missile had flown. “Dobraye utro, Elle!” he called, striving to keep his tone light, cheerful. “Good morning!”
“How many times have I told you to stop with that foreign jibber-jabber?” echoed a reply, sounding both close and far all at once. Elle had picked her hiding spot well. “A simple ‘Hi, Elle’ will do me just fine.”
Piotr bowed at the waist, struggling to keep his senses attuned to their surroundings, attempting to assess which direction the arrow had come from. “My apologies! Good morning, Elle. I see that you've gotten better at hiding.”
“You haven't.” There was a light tread behind him and Elle's hand firmly cupped the back of his neck, the strength in her fingers daring him to try something. Knowing the power of those hands and the muscles behind them, Piotr held still.
“Elle!” cried Dora, dropping her bags and flinging her arms around the slight girl holding him hostage. “I missed you!”
The hand squeezed sharply once, pinching, before dropping away. Elle turned to embrace the child. Freed, Piotr swiveled and dropped his hands cautiously to his pockets, hooking his thumbs just inside.
Dora had always adored Elle and the feeling was mutual. Watching them hug was like watching a rainbow appear from the mist—all the darkness fell away and they were momentarily awash in happiness and light. Where the two of them touched, crackles of blue essence hummed, the years traveling from Dora into Elle and back to Dora in a circuit of joy. Dora was so pleased Piotr could taste her energy on the air itself.
Keeping her tone easy, Elle glanced up from rubbing her cheek along the top of Dora's head, and said, “I never'a thought a palooka like you'd show your mug around here. Didn't I give you the bum's rush last time?”
“Yes, well, times change.” Piotr scratched his chin and glanced up at the brilliant silver sky. The sun shone with fiery white light, basking them in its dim warmth and faded glory, but in the distance thick black clouds churned above the sea. “The weather's looking foul. May we move this elsewhere?”
Elle rose from her crouch, muscles rippling. Her short, fringed tunic and thigh-high skirt left nothing to the imagination and Piotr politely turned his face away. Noticing his discomfort, Elle smirked. “Fine, ya wet blanket. What's e
ating you?”
“A Walker was poking around the mill last night.”
Elle stilled and her blonde waves, silvery pale and close-cropped, trembled. “It sussed you out.”
“Yes. And it escaped.” Piotr shoved his hands deep into his pockets and hunched over slightly. “So I was wondering if you'd—”
“Of course.” Elle turned fluidly, taking Dora's hand in her left hand and Specs' hand in her right. “This way.”
Once, when they had been on better terms, Elle had confided in Piotr and shared some of her living memories like the jewels they were. She'd been a gymnast once, and rich, spoiled by parents with too much money and not enough time for their wild daughter. Archery, horseback riding, a separate tutor for every fancy. In the Never, these skills made her a handy ally but a terrible enemy. Piotr struggled to keep up as Elle sped through walls and past throngs of living men, their heat momentarily searing but fading the further they traveled. Confidently athletic, Elle raced along, never turning to note his pace behind.
It was early afternoon when they neared the pier and Elle's home. Unlike the mill, one derelict building among many where few humans bothered wandering, Elle's tribe squatted in an abandoned bookshop just off the main strip of Pier 39, the walls papered with droppings and overrun with nesting rats.
If he squinted, Piotr could just make out the words “Coming Soon” above the door. The letters were pink with age, however, and the floor inside was littered with the ghostly living shapes of sleeping rats huddled beneath overturned bookshelves and gently decaying easy chairs. Termites chewed the stairs, seagulls cooed in the eaves, and the floor was white and pebbled with decades of dried droppings. The living animal heat was mild however, easy to stand, and Piotr passed the rats with no problem.
The third floor of the bookstore was empty of furniture but sectioned into offices, the areas claimed by Elle's dozen or so Lost clearly marked with bundles of possessions and sectioned apart with piles of books that reached the warped and splintered ceiling. Elle led them here, leaving the kids to pick spaces of their own while she unstrung her bow and checked the arrows in her quiver.
Piotr, at a loss for what to do in this room once familiar but now alien, hovered near the door as Tubs explored the cupboard underneath the stairs and Specs unpacked in a relatively clean hollow in a far corner lined with the ghostly original copies of Yeats, Dickenson, and Blake.
Without pausing from her work, Elle said, “I have to hand it to you, Pete, you've done a good job with those kids. They kept pace pretty well.”
Piotr crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the doorway. He was surprised to realize that he was relieved. Elle was a good fighter, and smart. She'd keep his Lost safe. “That wasn't me. I still don't train them the way you do.”
She snorted. “You oughta.”
“Da? Well, I say let kids be kids.” Piotr rubbed the bridge of his nose. It was warm up here, and close. He felt as if he could barely breathe. “As long as they want to be, that is.”
“Whatever. You staying, too?” Elle glanced up from her task. Her voice was pitched low. “I don't see that excuse you call a bag.”
“Have you forgiven me?”
“Never will.” Elle returned to her task, her fingers flying nimbly over the arch of the bow, smoothing and polishing the grain of the wood. “But maybe I can forget for a bit. We can be copasetic for an emergency.”
“Then I'm not going to impose.” Ignoring the bittersweet pang at her words, Piotr sketched a shallow bow. “I owe you that courtesy.” Glad to have the current state of their animosity sorted out, Piotr stepped away from the door and raised his voice. “I'm leaving.”
“What?” Dora appeared at the door of a far office, pale-faced and scowling. “You ain't staying too?”
“Sorry, I can't.” Piotr knelt down and opened his arms. Tubs trundled willingly in for a hug but Specs and Dora hung back, both frowning. “I need to go get the lay of the land.”
Dora tried again. “But it ain't safe—”
“For you.” Passing Tubs to Elle's waiting arms, Piotr rose and dusted his knees. “Walkers usually don't eat Riders, remember?” he teased, poking his bicep. “Our meat's too tough.”
“Technically, you aren't a Rider anymore,” Specs pointed out, pushing his glasses up his nose. When Piotr wouldn't drop his arms, Specs reluctantly stepped to Piotr's side and hugged him. When he squeezed, Piotr could feel Specs' ribs and the steady thrum of the years unlived just beneath his skin. “You quit, remember?”
“Teenagers, then.” Specs stepped away and Piotr held out his arms. “Dora, please? I don't know when I'll be back this way again.” He glanced out the window as he pleaded, noting the swiftly rising fog rolling in from the bay and the dappled clouds covering the shining silver sun. The storm was rolling in.
“I changed my mind.” Hurrying across the room, Dora dropped her backpack at his feet and flung herself at Piotr. Clinging powerfully to his waist she cried, “I ain't stayin' here without you.”
“Geeze, thanks,” Elle muttered under her breath, and Piotr hid a smile.
“It's safer here for you.” Piotr knelt down and embraced Dora tightly. “Elle is amazing at this. You know how good she is with her bow. She'll keep you safe.”
“But you ain't comin' back if I stay!”
“Pandora, my malen'kaya printsessa,” Piotr groaned. He hugged her tighter. “I promise. I promise that when I can guarantee there aren't any more Walkers sniffing around the mill, I'll come back for you three, yes? We'll go back home as soon as it's safe. Da?”
She sniffled, drawing back slightly. “You promise?”
“Cross my heart.”
“'Kay.” Pulling away, Dora knelt down and sorted through her bag until she had her sketchbook in hand. She flipped to the last page and ripped the tree sketch free. “Take it. You promised.”
“I promise,” he agreed, taking her sketch and tucking it away before dropping a final kiss on her tousled curls.
Elle, balancing Tubs easily on her hip, followed Piotr down the stairs. One-handed, she loosened a dagger from her hip and slapped the flat of the blade against his upper arm until Piotr took the gift and tied it at his side. Like all Elle's weapons, the dagger was honed to a razor-sharp edge and curved cruelly.
“Offer's still open if you change your mind.” Elle jiggled Tubs until he giggled. “Isn't that right? Isn't it?” Tubs babbled happily and the warm haze of his energy surrounded them in a sweetly scented mist.
“Keep them safe.” Piotr momentarily considered kissing Elle's cheek but thought better of it. Dagger or not, she was still pissed at him.
In the distance a trolley bell dinged, faint and faraway. The fog was starting to really move now, rolling across the streets in swift and steady waves, already up to Piotr's knees. Up the street the living thronged together, ignoring the fog and the dank smell of rotting fish rising from the sea. Nearby a woman screamed laughter; for the living it would be piercing, but Elle and Piotr were cushioned by the years of empty silence and could barely hear the cry.
“You keep yourself safe,” Elle retorted. “Just cuz I hate you don't mean I want you pushin' up daisies. Again, I mean.” She smirked.
“I'll try to do my best,” he replied gravely and left, moving swiftly towards the shifting, eddying crowd.
“You always do,” Elle sighed, waiting at the door until Piotr had vanished into fog and humanity. Then, fondly, she added, “Jackass.”
The rising wind whipped flurries of debris about Piotr's ankles, lifting discarded shopping bags and candy wrappers into drifts like piles of autumn leaves. The brick streets beneath his shoes, warped into strange and twisted shapes by age and tectonic activity, were only the fading memories of the meticulously laid brick roads that had been before. Soon the remainder would crumble away, revealing concrete buckled by the California heat, already warped into rolling hills in the center, collecting water and spiritual debris with every summer storm.
Drif
ting along, letting the wind guide him as if he were as light as the trash spinning by, Piotr concentrated on the journey home rather than brood on what he'd just lost. It took all his will not to turn around and go back, to accept Elle's generous sanctuary and learn to move among the living like a shadow. He couldn't though, even if he wanted to. The sky had opened above him, rain poured down, and there were Walkers abroad.
Night was falling, brought in with the storm, and Piotr sped his pace, skidding down Highway 101's embankment, kicking aside flattened disks of soda cans and sodden cardboard boxes in his wake. The steel mill, their treehouse sanctuary, was still many miles distant, hidden amid the sprawl of industrial buildings and businesses that once thrived at the edge of the city, near the humid stink of the canal. Carefully maintaining his balance on the rain-slick grass, Piotr almost missed the sharp cry of pain amid the drubbing of rain and cracks of blue lightning across the sky.
He paused and it came again, a brief shout from the tangle of buildings just south of the highway, articulate with fear. Stepping up his pace, Piotr followed the scream, heart thudding in his chest and breath coming in short, harsh bursts.
Just south of the water treatment plant three figures fought, sliding through the fog and reflected highway halogens like skaters across ice. Two were long and lean and white-clad— Walkers—but the third, Piotr was surprised to note, was a short, dark figure he recognized: Lily.
What is she doing here, so far away from her own turf? Piotr thought, but then he spotted moonlit steel. Lily was backed against the building, left thigh torn open clear to the bone and leaking silver essence in rivulets like blood; despite her wounds, Lily gave as good as she got, twin daggers flashing.
“Lily,” he cried, sprinting now, “hang on!”
Hearing him, Lily's attention wavered for a critical instant. One Walker was attacking her face-on, but the moment she paused the other swooped in from the side, clawing her deeply across the hip.
“LILY!” Reaching her side, Piotr slammed the second Walker into the wall. Up close he could see a line of jaw beneath the white hood, and the teeth of the Walker where they poked through the rotting holes in its cheek. Coarse black stubble rasped against his hand as Piotr slapped the Walker's head against the wall over and over again, curling one hand in the white cloak for purchase. A stench puffed out at him from the fabric, rot and wet decay, moist with a black stink like old sour dirt and albino, crawling things.
Lightbringer Page 2
