Lightbringer

by K. D. McEntire

  Jon pitched his voice low. “Actually, she never suggested it. Weird, right? She said all her shopping's already done. Internet.”

  “Chel turned down a chance to go waste Christmas break at the mall? I guess she's serious about avoiding the rah-rahs after all.”

  “Everybody changes.” He shrugged. “Anyway, when we're done Nana wanted to know if we'd like to crash with her up in Oakland tonight. She was talking waffles so I'm thinking hell yes,” Jon said, grinning wildly. He leaned down and offered her a hand up. When Wendy took it his open expression darkened, eyebrows drawing in. All joviality fled. “Wendy, what happened to your arm?”

  Whoops! In the recent chaos, Wendy had forgotten all about the cuts the Walker had inflicted in the park. Snatching her hand out of Jon's grip, she cradled her arm to her chest. “It's nothing. I had an accident. Eddie patched me up.”

  “Some accident,” Jon said and then his lips pressed together in a tight line. “Wendy,” he said, choosing his words with some care, “I know this isn't any of my business, but you're not taking that goth-emo thing to that wacko level are you? You know, that ‘I bleed to feel pain’ dominatrix crap kinda level?”

  Wendy rolled her eyes. “Jon, honestly, listen to what you're saying for once. You know me. Do you really and truly believe that I—of all people—would cut myself?”

  “Since you didn't just give me a direct answer, I'd have to say that I don't know,” he said gravely, glancing around the shattered glass and ramshackle chaos that passed for her room. “Would you?”

  “No! Jesus, Jon!” Annoyed, Wendy punched him on the bicep, not bothering to be gentle. When he yelped and rubbed his arm she waved her fist in his direction. “That's for thinking I'm a cutter, you jerk.” Her thoughts flicked to the dream of the night before, the skin clutched in the White Lady's hand. She tamped down on those thoughts quickly. She had a little bit of time; she'd figure out what to do.

  “Okay, okay!” he protested, half-laughing, still rubbing his sore arm. “I get the picture already!”

  “Next time think before you go accusing people,” Wendy warned. Careful of the glass, she reached under the bed and pulled out the Tupperware container stuffed to bursting with shoes. Selecting a sturdy pair of army surplus combat boots, Wendy flopped on the bed and began lacing them up.

  “Fine. Whatever. Go get Chel,” she snapped, impatience coloring her tone. “I'm tired, I'm stressed out, I'm done. You and me and Chel. We're getting this over with. Move it!”

  Jon looked offended. “But Mom—”

  “The drive,” she clarified, softening. “I want to get the drive over with. Christmas break, remember? The 101 is gonna be total crap, and crossing the bridge isn't going to be much better. Dad emptied the change tray, so we gotta swing by the bank for cash. Any clue where he stashed the debit card?”

  “I've got it in my purse,” Chel said, leaning in the doorway, the cordless phone hanging loosely from her hand. Dark circles ringed her eyes and her skin was tight and shiny, white except for the hectic patches across her cheekbones. She coughed into her fist. “What happened in here? Did your reflection sass you good, or what?”

  “I lost my temper,” Wendy said shortly. “You look like hell. Are you feeling okay?”

  “Peachy keen,” Chel drawled. “I'm fine. Let me grab my shoes.”

  “You don't look fine,” Jon protested. “You're all—”

  “I know how I look, okay?” Chel pushed away from the threshold and tossed the cordless on the bed. “It's just a little cold or something. Anyway, Eddie's mom beeped in about five minutes ago while I was on the line with Nana. She wants you to call her back ASAP.”

  Heartbeat trebling in her chest, Wendy's grip tightened on her boot until her knuckles bled white. Beneath the bandage on her arm she felt the edges of the wound Eddie had sealed with the dermabond glue start to pull apart. Twisting so her siblings wouldn't see the dark red seeping on her gauze, Wendy asked casually, “Did she say what it was about?”

  “Nah,” Chel said, coughing into her fist again. Outside the window, thunder rumbled in the distance, causing them all to glance out the window at the dark clouds building on the horizon. “She said just to call soon as you can, that it's important. Anyway, since we're definitely visiting Mom and Nana, I'm gonna go throw together an overnight bag, okay? It won't take ten minutes.”

  “Me too,” Jon said, after glancing at Wendy's face to read the emotional weather. “Lemme know what's up,” he whispered as he left.

  Fingers trembling, Wendy shut the door before punching in the number for Eddie's mother's cell on the cordless phone. It rang three times and went to voicemail.

  “You should try again,” Piotr said and Wendy jumped.

  “Crap! I didn't see you there,” she gasped, hand pressed to her chest. Beneath her palm her heart fluttered frantically; adrenaline left her mouth sour. “How long have you—”

  “Long enough to catch you obliterating the mirror.” Piotr drifted through the desk and settled on the edge of her bed, his cool hand rubbing calming circles on her back. “I was going to speak up, but Jon came and I didn't want to draw attention to myself.”

  “Good idea,” Wendy said. She pressed the heel of her hand to her forehead. “Today has been one hell of a day already.”

  “Is that so?” Piotr touched her wrist. “I noticed that you opened up your cuts again.”

  “Accident. Look, we've got a lot, I mean a whole hell of a lot, to talk about. But not right now okay? Give me just a few minutes.” She held up the phone.

  Understanding, Piotr nodded and pretended to zip his lips shut, resting his head against the wall so that his touch wouldn't distract her further. This time Eddie's mother answered on the first ring. “Hello? Winifred, is that you?” Even across the crackling line, she sounded frantic.

  “Hi Mrs. Barry,” Wendy said, injecting what she hoped was the right amount of faux cheer into her tone. “My sister said you called. What's up?”

  “Winifred, I need your help. It's Eddie.”

  It was as if she'd reached through the phone line and punched Wendy in the gut. All the breath went out of her; her stomach felt hollow, empty, and her heart thudded so hard in her chest that the room literally alternated dark and light with each beat of her pulse. Yet, somehow, despite the world spinning out of control right then and there, Wendy heard herself say, voice appropriately concerned, “Eddie? What's the matter, Mrs. Barry? Is he okay?” She wiped her forehead with her good arm; her skin was oily with sweat and she found that she was clenching her jaw so tightly her teeth ached.

  “You remember how your mother just collapsed last year?” Mrs. Barry sobbed into the other end. “Last night at dinner Eddie was standing up to pick up the plates and he keeled over. Boom! Just like that. We rushed him to the hospital—I thought it was one of those youth heart attacks, God forbid—but his heart was still beating, he's still breathing. But he won't wake up, Winifred!”

  Honking her nose noisily, Mrs. Barry spent several seconds struggling on the other end of the line. The sounds coming out of her were somewhere between sobs and crazed laughter. Wendy recognized that sound. It was the sound her father had made when they'd brought her mother into the ER that first night. It was the cry of an anguished soul.

  “Oh Winifred,” Mrs. Barry sobbed, “first my husband, now my only boy? I go to synagogue, I keep the holy days, I volunteer. What did I do wrong? What else could I have done?” She broke down weeping for several minutes but the sound was thick and muffled. Hearing a steady thump-thump in the background, Wendy realized that Mrs. Barry must have pressed the phone to her chest. Patiently, she waited for her best friend's mother to calm down.

  Finally the sobbing slowed, followed by a wet sniffle. “Hel-hello? Winifred?”

  “Hi, Mrs. Barry, I'm still here.” Swallowing thickly, Wendy was surprised to realize that her voice was level, calm even, and that at some point between picking up the phone and this moment, her heart had slowed down, the sweat o
n her brow had dried.

  “What hospital is he at, Mrs. Barry?” Wendy asked, reaching for the math notebook balanced on the corner of her desk. The pencil cup was on the opposite corner and too much effort to hassle with; Wendy used the mechanical eyeliner that had rolled underneath the corner of her bed.

  “UCSF,” she muttered, jotting the address down. Later, she wasn't sure why she did. UCSF was the same hospital where her mother was staying; she could've driven there with her eyes closed. But it felt good to keep her hands busy. “We were going to visit my mom today, Mrs. Barry,” Wendy said. “Stay calm, okay? I promise you that I can be there in about an hour.”

  “How's your mother's condition?” Mrs. Barry asked, desperation underlying every word. “Do the doctors know anything?”

  Like you gave two craps about my mom yesterday, Wendy thought unkindly, but kept it to herself. “No, Mrs. Barry,” she said. “But we still have hope.” The door creaked open and Jon and Chel were waiting in the hall, overnight bags at their feet. The two had been listening in; Jon's face was waxy white, Chel's eyes were red-rimmed.

  “I've gotta go, Mrs. Barry,” Wendy said. “I'm on my way, okay? Okay, Mrs. Barry, you hang in there; I'll be there in an hour. Okay. Okay. Bye.” Pressing the off switch with her thumb, Wendy dropped the phone on the floor. Outside, thunder boomed again, much closer this time, rattling the pencils in their cup.

  “Eddie's sick,” Wendy said and fought not to remember that terrible night when she had to explain to her siblings that their mother was in the hospital and Dad wouldn't be home for twelve hours. “He's got…probably whatever Mom's got. Same symptoms.”

  “Shit,” Chel said and slumped to the floor, burying her face in her hands. “Shit, not again.”

  “He's at UCSF,” Wendy continued, addressing Jon because Chel was crying now, slow soft sobbing that was both heartbreaking and distracting. “Your bags packed?”

  “Yeah,” Jon said dully, reaching down and collecting both the bags. “Yeah, they are.”

  “Okay.” Wendy held up her arm; let Jon see the dark splotches where the dermabond had pulled apart beneath the gauze. “I'm going to fix this and then I'll need your help wrapping it back up. Then we'll go.”

  “Yeah, okay,” he agreed, dropping the bags again and following Wendy to their shared bathroom. Wendy spun the cap off the hydrogen peroxide with her thumb, consciously not thinking about how Eddie had done this very thing for her only two days prior. She hissed when the chill liquid bubbled across her arm. At first it was bordering on unbearable but then Piotr was there, his hands icy cold and pressed against her wound, numbing it. Steam billowed up, obfuscating the bathroom, but when it cleared he was still there, eyes searching her face, seeking the telltale signs of weakness or pain that would make him draw away.

  Splashing a second dose against her arm, Wendy couldn't help marveling at the way the peroxide slipped right through his hands. She could feel the wetness but her arm was now numb from wrist to elbow and with Piotr helpfully gripping her forearm it took no time at all to pat the area dry and apply another layer of dermabond to the wounds.

  “Here,” she told Jon, tearing off a long strip of gauze with her teeth. “Start here and wrap.”

  “Let me do it,” Chel snapped from the doorway, pushing past her brother and snatching the gauze out of his hand. “He can't fix a boo-boo to save his life.” Chel eyed the wounds and heaved a dramatic sigh. “I always knew you would flip out one day,” she muttered, wrapping Wendy's arm with an expert finesse that spoke of years in cheerleading, of countless bound ankles, wrapped scrapes, and an endless succession of hastily bandaged knees. “But did you have to cut so deep? These are totally gonna scar.”

  “Not that I don't appreciate the help, but why does everyone think I did this to myself?” Wendy asked, exasperated.

  “I always figured your goth-kiddie thing was a big cry for attention,” Chel said, taping off the end. She pulled a tissue from the box and swiped at her nose and under her eyes. “The next logical steps are emo poetry and a knife fascination, right?”

  “Shut up,” Wendy replied and gestured for Jon to collect the bags. Piotr was already halfway down the stairs and sliding neatly through the kitchen wall. She knew that he would be waiting for them in the car, hopefully in the back seat. “Come on, let's get a move on.”

  “Go cry in a corner, emo kid,” Chel said, brightening and leading the way downstairs.

  Wendy laughed despite herself. “Can it, buffy, before I kick your ass.” They collected the car keys and locked the doors, letting themselves out into the first spray of falling rain.

  Accustomed to the ebb and flow of the hospital traffic, Wendy dropped Chel and Jon off at the front door, flicking off the heater as soon as they'd gone. Piotr had ridden in the backseat the whole way, making the already chilly air bitter cold.

  They had no time to talk; Wendy found a parking space almost immediately.

  “Not the Lost?” he asked, keeping pace as Wendy sprinted through the stinging rain.

  “No,” she cried against the rising wind. “The White Lady!”

  Shocked into stillness, Piotr stumbled to a stop but Wendy kept going. “The White Lady? When? How?”

  “Walkers, I'd bet,” Wendy gasped, dodging through the doors and out of the rain. Glancing around to ensure no one was listening, Wendy wrung her hair out over the non-slip mat and dug through her purse until she found her cell headset. Luckily Jon and Chel were nowhere near—they would remember that her cell was broken and still on the floor at home—but to anyone else she would appear to be on the phone. Rude in a hospital, sure, but not crazy.

  “Look,” she murmured, taking the long route to the floor Mrs. Barry said Eddie was on. “There's something I've been meaning to tell you.” Then, walking at a slower than normal pace, Wendy filled Piotr in on her way to Eddie's room. This time she bared it all, outlining the dreams she'd been having for months, the major visits from the White Lady, and even the White Lady's demands of the previous evening.

  “She's got my mom, Piotr,” Wendy finished up. “And now Eddie. I know I should have told you we were in contact before, or at the very least about Dunn, but I guess I was hoping it was just my dreams running away with me. I think that I didn't even really believe it was really her until this morning, when I woke up without my tongue ring. See?” She stuck her tongue out. “I mean, I believed it was her but I didn't really believe, you know?”

  “I understand,” Piotr said, “and I forgive you for not speaking up before. If I were in your situation I might not have believed it either. It seems so outrageous! But…I have got no clue what she wants with me. Do you know?”

  “No idea,” Wendy said. “Maybe because you're a Rider?”

  Elle spoke in his mind then, the memory of her words so sharp and cutting that Piotr physically flinched: She understands all about duty, I bet. That's why she kept you, Piotr, not just any ol' Rider but the big cheese who started the Riders, away from us when we needed you most. That's why you, Mr. Hi-You're-Dead-Here's-How-The-Afterlife-Works himself, was off neckin' with a monster when you should have been here running a shift!

  “Impossible,” Piotr murmured. “It…it can't be true.” His vision shutter-shifted again—live-dead-live—before the world was once more washed in grey.

  “Piotr?” Wendy asked, hand at his elbow, “Piotr, what's wrong?”

  “I-I do not know,” he whispered, but that was a lie. The fight he'd had with the other Riders had been so intense, so unlike their normal spats. Elle, he knew, was truly furious with him. Worried over Dora, feeling exposed in her own haven, and overwhelmed with betrayal that Piotr, her Piotr, had been not only spending his time with a member of the living, but the Lightbringer herself, Elle had said some harsh things.

  But had she said some true things? That was the question.

  Before Piotr would have said no. But now…now he wasn't so sure. His vision blinked again.

  If it had just been Elle, maybe he
could have forgotten the entire fight, gone back the next day and made up. But it had been James and Lily too, the three of them ganging up, all saying the same thing.

  Lily: Years passed and with them passed the man I'd known. Who you are now is not who you were then.

  Elle: I think it's pretty clear that Petey never remembers anything, do ya Pete?

  James: She's telling the truth. You're older than Moses, Peter. You're older than anyone any ghost I know's ever met.

  “Piotr? Piotr!” Wendy's hand was on his arm, and she was shaking him. Her eyes were wide, lids drawn back so the whites showed on all sides, her pupils only specks in the vast warm brown of her irises. The heat was baking off her in waves. “Piotr what's wrong?”

  “I am fine, it is nothing,” he said, pulling away. He felt shaky and scared, tottering on the edge of some very important clue that he couldn't quite grasp. It was aggravating, like having a phrase on the tip of your tongue, knowing that you knew it but being entirely unable to spit out the words. “It's nothing.”

  Wendy heaved a deep breath and he wrapped a cool arm around her waist. “Let's go see your friend.”

  Careful inspection of Eddie's body proved Wendy's theory correct. Eddie's soul was nowhere near his physical shell. A length of his cord was there, extending from his navel in a thick cable that appeared, after close examination, to have been chewed off, but the soul that should have been attached to such a vibrant, healthy cord was completely missing.

  “It's just like my mom,” Wendy whispered, brushing the side of her hand across Eddie's cheek. She turned away, swiping quickly at the corner of each eye.

  Mrs. Barry, looking up from her place at Eddie's bedside, wiped her puffy eyes with the corner of a hospital towel. “What was that, Winifred?”

  “Nothing, Mrs. Barry,” Wendy said meekly. “Nothing important.”

  “You're such a good friend, dear,” Mrs. Barry said, grasping Wendy's wrist with fingers wiry and lined with wrinkles. Losing her husband had aged her prematurely, made her bony and wan; losing Eddie appeared to have sped up the process. Though she couldn't be positive Wendy was almost sure that Mrs. Barry's hair was greyer at the temples than before, that the lines bracketing her mouth were deeper. Though she didn't voice her opinion, Piotr, prowling around the tiny room, apparently agreed.