The Drought and Deluge was dark when I arrived. The sign in the window declared it closed, but I knocked lightly on the glass, peering inside. The daylight spilling in revealed part of the interior—the chairs stacked onto tables, the edge of the bar—but the far corners remained in shadow. I hesitated a moment, listening for some sound from within. I wasn’t certain my dream had been a Knowing, but by now I knew better than to chance it. And if I wanted to find out whether or not Iris might be alive—and near—there was only one person I could ask. Thankfully, getting my driver’s license meant I no longer had to rely on Leon or Gideon to take me places. It also made it considerably easier to meet with demons in secret.
I tested the door. Closed apparently didn’t mean locked. I pushed it open and stepped inside.
“Shane?” I called. Silence answered. Dust motes hung in the air, turning gold in the light. The faint smell of alcohol drifted to me.
I moved forward slowly, feeling a sudden lump in my throat. My footsteps were loud in the stillness. I hadn’t been in the club since the fight with Susannah, and now I had to suppress the urge to retreat. The walls had been recently painted, I noticed—a dark blue that turned black where the sun didn’t touch it. The broken furniture had been replaced and the carpet looked new, but the very air felt heavy, full of memory. My gaze skimmed along the walls, across the tables and booths, and my thoughts slid down dark paths. For a second I could almost see the scene replay, burned like an afterimage. There. There was where my mother had been shot. There she’d lain bleeding.
There was where Drew had fallen. Drew, who had hunted Susannah from San Diego to the Cities—to fight her, to face her, to die for his charge. There he’d released his last breath.
“I’ve been thinking I ought to have sent your Kin a bill. I had to redo the entire place. Bloodstains didn’t do much for my decor.”
I turned toward his voice. “Shane?”
I found him near the back of the room, seated at the edge of a table. He was facing the mural of the Beneath he’d painted. I gazed at it as I approached him: the Minneapolis skyline, bleak gray and white shapes below a canopy of bloodred stars. Parts of it appeared to be fresh. There were broad, haphazard brushstrokes at the bottom edge of the mural, long gashes of red that seeped toward the ground. I could smell the paint, and now that I looked closer, I could see a trace of it on his hands.
When he didn’t speak, I asked again, “Shane?”
“I heard you the first time, sweetheart. I simply neglected to respond.”
“Uh…are you okay?” It seemed an odd question to ask a Harrower—by definition, they weren’t ever really okay, neutral or not. But something felt off. Not a Knowing—I’d never gotten any sense from Shane, at all—but something in the tone of his voice. A hint of disquiet. An edge.
Or maybe it was just the fact that he was sitting alone in the dark, staring at a decidedly unsettling painting.
“Perfectly.” He hopped down from the table and faced me, smiling. I wondered if I’d imagined it. He looked as he usually did, dressed in gray jeans and a dark green Drought and Deluge shirt that matched his eyes, his blond hair carefully tousled. And his smile was warm, genuine. All human, no hint of Harrower. “How may I be of assistance? I’m assuming by your presence here that you do, in fact, require help.”
He stepped toward me. His feet were bare. There was a smear of paint on his shirt, as well. A thin slash of red on his sleeve.
“Not help exactly,” I said.
“Out with it, angel.”
“You know my cousin. Iris.”
He nodded. “The girl we fetched up from the dark depths of Beneath, only to discover that she was far happier there than here.”
“I’m not sure happy is how I’d describe Iris,” I said.
“You’ll note the word I used was happier. Referring to a spectrum of emotion, not a stopping point. When it comes down to it, that’s all any of us have, isn’t it? Relativity.” He pulled two chairs from the table and offered one to me, seating himself backward on the other. He draped his arms across the chair’s back. Tilting his head slightly, he peered at me. “But that’s not the purpose of this tête-à-tête. Shall I hazard a guess? You fear a family reunion is imminent.”
I remained standing. “Is it?”
“How should I know?”
“I was wondering if you’d seen her. If you know where she is.”
“I haven’t Seen much of anything of late, I’m afraid.”
“I meant Beneath,” I said.
“As did I.” There was that edge to his tone once more, an undercurrent I couldn’t quite read. But I didn’t get the chance to question him further. With one smooth motion, Shane rose from his chair and crossed to me, taking hold of my hands and turning them so that the bandages on my palms were visible. His skin was cold; I flinched. “What happened to your hands?”
I pulled free from his grip, shoving my fists into my pockets.
He gave me a searching look. “Bad dreams, is it? What did you see?”
“Iris. I saw Iris.”
“I wouldn’t fret overmuch. The wolf has lost its teeth. I expect she’s little threat without Patrick Tigue, and your mum was kind enough to see an end to him.” When I didn’t answer, he raised his eyebrows. “But I gather that’s not the source of your distress. What is it, then? You worry what frightful secret she might let slip? How is our demon-in-disguise these days?”
“He’s fine,” I said quickly.
Shane smiled again. “Naturally he is. You would hardly tell me otherwise, would you? That’s a perilous path you tread, angel. Have a care where you step.”
“I’m not here to talk about Gideon.”
“Verrick,” Shane said, stretching the syllables. The word was loud in the quiet around us. “Speak his name. Give voice to what he is.”
“I thought you said it wasn’t your business.”
He shrugged. “It isn’t, particularly. The choice is yours, if you wish to plummet off this cliff. I’m merely pointing out the edge.” He moved away from me, standing in front of his mural. He glanced up at it a moment before continuing. “It’s near time I quit this Circle. I should hate to overstay my welcome. And a man who doesn’t age can only linger in one locale for so long.”
That surprised me. “You’re leaving?”
“Sooner rather than later, I think. On the chance that we don’t meet again, let me give you a bit of parting advice.” He paused again. He stepped up to the wall, raising his hands and pressing his fingers against the mural, tracing the grooves of the paint. “You have a good heart, angel. Try not to lose that.”
I watched him dubiously. “What, that’s it? No cryptic warnings or dire predictions?”
“You wouldn’t like the only warning I have to give. I told you once before, and you preferred not to heed it. But since it bears repeating, I’ll say it again.” He turned toward me. His voice went soft, almost gentle. For once there was not a hint of humor in it. “Audrey, that boy is not your friend.”
I swallowed. I didn’t answer, and Shane didn’t seem to expect it. He returned his attention to the painting. But this time when he pressed his hands against it, his fingers had shifted into talons. With slow, deliberate slashes, he raked his claws down the mural, leaving wide gouges in the paint. Once, twice. Again. Again—until a series of scratches cut across the cityscape. Red and gray flaked out in long curls all around him. The sound of the scraping sent a shiver down me. He clawed across one of the buildings, then another. The stars fell to the floor to rest near his bare feet.
“Take care, angel,” he called to me.
Unnerved, I turned and left.
Wednesday morning was hot and bright, the sun already boiling by eleven a.m., when Tink and I made our way to the bleachers to watch Gideon’s baseball game. I was Tink’s ride, since she’d almost hit a turkey on her way home from the mall on Monday and was now refusing to drive. She said it was the least I could do to make up for all the times she’d played chauffeur for me
—which was, at my count, twice. Not to mention the fact that I refused to lend her Leon.
“He’s my boyfriend, not a taxi,” I told her as we left the parking lot and headed toward the stands. Tink’s mother had loaded us up with water bottles and a cooler full of chicken salad sandwiches, all of which Tink was making me carry. The grass was damp from the sprinkler system, stray bits of green sticking between my toes.
Tink sighed. “If I had to be given powers, why couldn’t I have gotten something useful?”
I wouldn’t have called the enhanced strength, speed, and healing that came along with being a Guardian useless, but I didn’t argue.
We found a spot on the bleachers that Tink claimed guaranteed us the best view of the players, but unfortunately didn’t offer much in the way of shade. I’d forgotten sunscreen, and the sun was busy adding a new batch of freckles to my nose. And since my shoulders were already slightly red from an afternoon I’d spent swimming last week, I figured I’d be lucky if I didn’t turn tomato. Tink, however, wouldn’t hear of relocating.
“You must suffer for the greater good,” she decreed.
The greater good being the opportunity to ogle boys from the optimal angle, I assumed. “I’m taken, remember?” I said.
“That doesn’t mean you can’t appreciate.”
“I appreciate Leon.”
She rolled her eyes. “Suit yourself.”
“I thought you’d sworn off boys for the summer, anyway,” I reminded her.
“Touching, not looking.”
Which was her final word on the subject. She stretched her feet out in front of her, removing her flip-flops and plucking at the blades of grass her toes had collected. Tink herself had managed to tan without burning, and the sun had bleached her blond hair even lighter. She’d foregone glitter today, but her toenails had been painted to match her bright red sundress. She appeared to have fully recovered from the fight with the Harrowers. Since she normally avoided any mention of Guardians or the Kin—and for once I was inclined to agree with that practice—I wasn’t planning to question her about it. But, to my surprise, she brought up the topic on her own.
“Warning,” she said, muttering under her breath so that I had to lean close in order to hear her. “Ryan might be giving you a call to ask about Saturday night.”
“Why? What more does he want to know? Harrowers showed up, we killed them. Isn’t that the whole purpose of patrols?”
“Leon killed them,” Tink said. She gave a quick glance around us, but though the bleachers were about half full, the only person close enough to overhear us was a harried-looking woman yelling into her phone. “And he only killed one of them. The other just sort of…died.” She shuddered. “Anyway, I guess Ryan wants to know if there’s some detail we missed. There haven’t been any Harrower attacks at the other Circles for months. Just here. Just us, actually. He thinks there must be something going on.”
“Wait, he’s worried because Harrowers aren’t attacking us? Are you sure he’s not just bored because school is out and he doesn’t have any students to torment?”
“Do not ask me to explain that man’s logic. It is far beyond my ability.”
Any further discussion of the Kin was put on hold by the start of the game.
I knew a few of the other members of Gideon’s team. Stanley, their starting pitcher, went to school with us, and the left-fielder, José, had been friends with Gideon since we were kids. Tink singled out the first baseman—neither of us knew his name—as her eye candy for the afternoon, and she spent most of her time giving him very obvious looks. I focused on cheering for Gideon, who was playing shortstop.
We sat through two innings before Gideon came up to bat, at which point Tink immediately started hooting and hollering so loudly that the woman next to us, who was somehow still on the phone, shot her several disapproving looks—which Tink of course ignored. If anything, she increased her volume.
“You weren’t kidding about that ‘scream ourselves dizzy’ thing, huh?” I said.
She paused in order to shrug and say, “I’m just being supportive.” And then she went back to shouting encouragement. I laughed.
The first two pitches went wide, and Gideon didn’t swing.
I didn’t see the third throw.
Sudden Knowing shot through me, so intense it was almost blinding—too insistent for me to shut out. I bent double, fighting nausea and gasping in air. Distantly, I heard Tink’s voice, but her words didn’t connect. My senses were in chaos. There was no coherent scene or impression to this. It wasn’t a flicker of thought or memory, and no images flashed. It was raw awareness, sharp and painful, a perception that went beyond Knowing. Panic seized me, but the panic wasn’t mine. It came from somewhere else—from someone else. And it wasn’t alone. With it came an overwhelming sense of wrath. Something vengeful and angry sparked in the air, and was gone just as fast.
The chaos receded. Sound returned, noise exploding all around me: Tink’s excited shouting; an abrupt, booming crack. It took me a second to register that it was the slam of the baseball hitting Gideon’s bat. I glanced up in time to see the ball as it spun into the sky, sailing overhead before it disappeared from view. Then there was only wide blue above, hot, beating sun.
Tink went crazy. “Holy shit!” she shrieked, and then started jumping up and down on the bleachers.
I was still trying to slow the racing of my heart. I tasted blood and realized I’d bitten my lip. With effort, I cupped my hands around my mouth and did my best to cheer, waiting for Gideon to run the bases.
But Gideon didn’t run.
While José, who’d been waiting on first base, did a quick circuit and loped home with his arms in the air, Gideon walked hurriedly away from the plate and then scrambled behind the dugout.
Tink’s shouting ceased. She stared after Gideon. “What happened?”
“I don’t know,” I said, but I felt a surge of alarm. An echo of my Knowing. My throat constricted. Icy dread clawed up my spine. “I’m going to see if he’s okay.”
“Is that allowed?” Tink asked.
I didn’t answer. Ignoring the unsteadiness in my limbs, I leaped down from the bleachers and rushed across the field toward where Gideon had vanished.
When I found him, he was leaning with his hands against the dugout, nodding to something his coach was saying. His entire body was shaking. His helmet lay in the dirt at his feet, and his hair was sticking up in damp clumps.
The coach was worried about heat exhaustion. He kept pushing a water bottle at Gideon, which Gideon finally accepted—though he insisted he didn’t need to go to the ER.
“I’m just sick,” he said. “I haven’t been feeling well all week.”
After a while, the coach seemed to accept this explanation but still made the decision to send him home. He clapped a hand to Gideon’s shoulder. “That was a hell of a hit, Belmonte. Straight into the stratosphere.”
Gideon only nodded again.
“Are you all right?” I asked.
He turned and looked at me. His eyes were watery, his face slick with sweat. “I threw up.”
“You’re sick?” Tink asked, coming up behind me.
I stepped toward Gideon, but he flinched away.
“Don’t—don’t touch me,” he said. Then, after a moment he added, “Sorry.”
Worry gnawed at me. I wanted to comfort him, but I didn’t know how. I didn’t even know if it was possible. It wasn’t overheating that had caused his agitation, and it wasn’t illness.
He was afraid.
That panic I’d felt was his. It was in each word he uttered, each breath exhaled. It radiated out of him.
I knew then what had happened. Somehow, for the briefest of instants, the sleeper had stirred. Verrick had touched the surface. And Gideon might not understand what had occurred, but he sensed it. I thought of the swing I hadn’t seen, and the ball arcing above us. Whatever burst of strength he’d gotten in that moment, it hadn’t been human. It wasn’t
natural, and Gideon knew it.
You’re Kin, I thought, closing my eyes, willing him to believe it.
“Sorry,” he repeated.
“You don’t have to be sorry,” I said. “You’re the one who’s sick.” Like it was the flu, I thought. In a week he’d be over it.
“Are you going home?” Tink asked. “Are you okay to drive?”
“I’m better,” he said, though he didn’t particularly look it. “I’m just gonna go home and take it easy.”
I stepped forward again, and this time he didn’t pull away. I wrapped my arms around him, hugging him fiercely. I could feel the bones of his shoulders, the rapid drum of his heart.
Tink hugged him next, sliding her slim arms around him and squeezing him tight. “Someone arrest this boy,” she said once she’d released him, reaching upward and ruffling his sweaty hair. “He just broke the law of gravity.”
He gave her a thin smile. Then, with a promise that he’d call us later, he turned and walked toward the parking lot. We watched him go.
“You think he’s all right?” Tink asked once he was out of earshot.
I kept my tone casual. “If not, we’ll invade his house and feed him chicken soup.”
“Annoy him into feeling better. Good plan.” She grinned, heading back toward the bleachers, where we’d left our belongings.
My eyes lingered on Gideon’s departing form.
It was only a trick of the light, I told myself, the way the sun glinted on the grass, that made it seem—just for an instant—as though the shadow he cast was red.
That Friday was the Fourth of July, and though the closest Mom got to being patriotic was eating one of the red, white, and blue cupcakes Leon brought home from the bakery, she insisted we attend the fireworks at Powderhorn Park that evening.
Fireworks were something of a Whitticomb family tradition. When we’d lived up north, Mom, Gram, and I would sit in the grass and light sparklers, watching them sizzle and burn while fireflies glowed all around us. Four sparklers, always: one for each of us, and one for my grandfather Jacky, who had died when Mom was fifteen. Later, once we’d moved to the Twin Cities, the three of us would take a blanket and a cooler of watermelon and go from suburb to suburb, viewing a different city’s display each year.
Fire Fall Page 5
