“What?”
“The kid. The one who told us about the meeting. I saw him before they all ran.”
“What do you think that means?”
“It means he lied. All that song and dance about his girlfriend and how he isn’t into that stuff himself.”
For some reason, Tyler found this hard to process. “Why would he lie?”
Chris sighed heavily. “To get us to crash that meeting.”
“Why?” Broken record. But the miles were passing under the truck tires and occasional highway lights, and Tyler didn’t find he could think clearly enough to ask anything more intelligent.
Besides, he was unhappy about Mary’s parting words. They’d meant he wasn’t supposed to keep secrets. He wasn’t supposed to hide what he had been doing all day. But these were Chris’s secrets, not his. He was Oneness; he loved being Oneness. But Chris wasn’t. And he was Chris’s friend.
In the back, Chris shifted positions and roared again.
“Pain meds not helping?” Tyler asked once he calmed his heartbeat from the unexpected yell.
“They’re working,” Chris said, barely unclenching his jaw.
“What did he say to you? Before you tried to hit him?” Tyler asked.
Chris didn’t answer. Then he said, “Nothing.”
Fine. So they would all have secrets.
“How did he . . .”
“Wasn’t human,” Chris said. “You see his eyes?”
“Yeah.”
“That was a demon.”
“Yeah.”
They were silent. The city was far behind now; the highway had gone dark. The painted lines of the road lit up as the headlights hit them and disappeared in a high-speed, monotonous flow.
Chris was not Oneness. He and Tyler did not have the spirit connection he shared with the cell and even with the Oneness in Lincoln. But they had been friends for years. Chris had taken Tyler in after his parents died and brothered him through the hardest time of his life. And the connection forged in those years was real, and perhaps just as supernatural as anything Tyler was experiencing now.
So they knew much of what the other was thinking as they drove through the dark toward home.
They had both seen demons for the first time when Reese came to them. Two had attacked them. Later they had encountered the core. Demons had run them down on the road and attacked them in their house. They had seen them inhabiting the bodies of animals—birds and bats. They had even seen them in human beings—the thugs who accompanied David had been possessed. But there had been something different about that. Those men had seemed dumb, deaf, absent, and easy enough to deliver from the powers controlling them.
They had not seen a human so perfectly in concert with the demon that possessed him before.
They were equally shaken at having done so now.
A pair of headlights appeared around a bend in the road. A truck, Tyler thought, barrelling down the opposite side of the highway at a speed that was too fast but typical for a night out here. It was a ways off, and Tyler made a note to himself that he was glad it was on the other side of a concrete divider.
Then he realized it wasn’t.
It was nearly on him. He swerved.
Then braked.
Blinding headlights.
That was the last thing he remembered.
* * *
The common room in the cell house was still as death.
Reese, Mary, April, and Richard looked at each other with bloodshot, weary eyes, silent in their seats across from one another.
They were uncertain what had happened. But certain that something had.
The Oneness were servants. Fundamentally. And part of their service was war. They warred in more than one way. Sometimes with swords and strategy and skill. Reese had fought that way all her life, alongside the twins and Patrick and others from the Lincoln cell. But sometimes they warred with fasting and with prayer. The latter was not at all what most people imagined it to be. In its most intense and raw it was not much like war at all. It was like being pulled into a current and tumbled through the white waters of a river flowing through jagged mountains and down cataracts, sometimes simply submerged and other times coming up for air and views unlike anything seen from land. This was the warfare in which Richard excelled.
Prayer was surprising, sometimes. They had all seen Chris. And they had all felt Tyler—felt his fear and inexperience and done what they could to make up for it. But they did not know how successful they had been.
In the middle of the meeting, Reese had tried to raise Chris on his cell phone. No answer—not a huge surprise, or necessarily a bad sign, since the phone had bad services and half the time a dead battery anyway. But it did nothing to comfort them that they couldn’t reach the boys.
A knock at the door raised their heads, but slowly, without surprise. It wasn’t always easy to come back to the physically oriented world.
Mary stood, but the door opened before she could reach it. Diane came in and hung up her coat on a rack by the door.
“I couldn’t sleep,” she said. “Apparently neither could any of you.”
“We’ve been in prayer,” Richard said.
Diane nodded and pursed her lips. “My boy’s in trouble, isn’t he?”
“We think so,” Mary answered. “He and Tyler.”
“What are we going to do about it?”
“We?” The word slipped out of April’s mouth before she could stop it.
“Yes, we,” Diane said, with a look that tried to be a glare but couldn’t manage it.
They were not quite used to having the prodigal back, but it felt good.
“So what are we going to do?” Diane asked again.
Richard cleared his throat. “We’re going to try to find the hive.”
Diane almost laughed. “Haven’t they been looking for it in Lincoln for months already?”
“Yes.”
“Then why do we think we can do this when they couldn’t?”
Reese answered. “Because Tyler is with the hive. We think. So we have an in. The Lincoln cell never had that . . . and our vision was darkened. Because of David. We didn’t know the source of the confusion, but we felt it.”
“And when we find it? We aren’t the Lincoln cell. Reese is the only real warrior among you. No offence.”
“None taken,” Richard said. “We aren’t going to fight the hive that way. We can’t . . . don’t forget, the hive is not just demons. It’s people. We don’t fight people.”
“Great,” Diane said, making her weary way to the couch and sitting down next to April. “So what do we do with them?”
“We help them,” April said.
Diane shook her head. “Why doesn’t this feel like a plan of action to me?”
“I’ll go back to Nick’s mother tomorrow and find out if she knows anything at all about the man who came to her house . . . his name, how to find him. We think he’s our first link.”
“So we track him down and then . . .”
“And then we see where he leads us, and what they need to become free,” Mary said.
Diane raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t you come here to get away from this kind of thing?”
“I never tried to run,” Mary said. “We had a quiet season. That’s all.”
Reese smiled sadly. “I feel like I should say I’m sorry.”
“You’ve had quite enough of that,” Mary said, wrapping her arms around the younger girl. “No more. Now, sleep. Everyone. Tomorrow is going to be a sea change for us all. Best we’re prepared.”
* * *
Tyler awoke to the sun in his eyes. This surprised him, and for a moment he wondered why. Then he flashed back, for an instant, to eyes full of headlights, and he realized he was surprised to be alive.
He tried to lift his head and couldn’t. It was too heavy. Hands? Arms? All heavy as weights.
He was lying on his back in a bed, but it wasn’t a hospital—he was fairly sure of that. No
smell of antiseptic, no machines beeping or humming. The light filling the room was all natural; there were no fluorescent bulbs overhead.
The ceiling was stucco, and he could see all four corners from his position on his back. This was a house. He was in a small bedroom.
With concentrated effort he managed to turn his head. Definitely a bedroom. The walls were wallpapered with a blue and white pattern, somewhat Dutch and very busy. Old-fashioned. A bedside table sat next to the bed with a book—a paperback novel that looked like it was supposed to be uplifting and inspirational—and a lamp, which was not on. A glass of water sat untouched beneath the lamp shade as well.
He was horribly thirsty, but he couldn’t lift his hand to reach for the glass. He heard a garbled sound and thought it was himself, calling for assistance.
He didn’t really expect anyone to answer, but his door opened, and a blonde head poked in. It was tousled, female, and young—maybe fourteen. Not at all what he expected.
He wasn’t sure what he did expect.
Seeing him awake and looking longingly at the glass, she pushed the door all the way open and padded across the floor. Carpeted, he guessed from the total lack of sound.
“Do you want a drink?” she asked softly. It was an entirely feminine voice—sweet and quiet.
He managed a slight nod. Enough to communicate yes. She raised the glass to his lips and gave him enough to quench his raging thirst for the moment. She watched him intently as he drank, her bright blue eyes peering into his face.
With no warning at all, he violently missed his mother.
Rosanna MacKenzie had always wanted another child. In her earnest, never presumptuous way, she had sometimes expressed that she wanted a girl. Perhaps that was why the gut-wrench now—because this young girl on the cusp of becoming a young woman looked like she could be Tyler’s sister. But the dream never came true. His parents tried for another child for ten years, and then, in a car accident, they died.
Car accident. Tyler’s insides twisted completely around, the paralysis lifted, and he rolled onto his side and dry heaved, gasping, feeling all the physical effects of terror he had not been conscious to feel last night.
The girl ran from the room.
When the fit passed, he cried.
He missed her. He missed them. So badly. And it had been so long—so many years, and hardly any years at all. Thirteen. Was that possible? Had he lived more than a decade alone?
Chris had been there, his stalwart protector, his best friend. They lived with Diane until they turned eighteen, and then they bought the cottage together and fished as though they didn’t know that the world expected more from young men than a life on the water, paying as few bills as possible and never really planning ahead. Theirs was a camaraderie few ever knew; a deep understanding and love they would die for. And yet, all the time, Tyler was alone. Alone in a grief no one else could share.
Until the Oneness.
Until connection, unity, love that was not a feeling but a force, and that force held the world together.
That force had begun to heal things in Tyler that he had spent thirteen years trying to sedate.
But now it was all broken open, all raw, all dry heaving in a room he didn’t know in a place that was as strange to him as the moon. The accident had broken it all up and ploughed his soul and cast up stones.
When the sobs he could not control subsided, he realized that Chris might be dead.
This time he did not cry. His resolve hardened and his fists clenched, and he tried to sit and call for someone.
His voice would hardly carry.
But someone came.
The door cracked and the girl came back in, leading a tall, bearded man by the hand. His cheeks were almost pink behind a thick black beard, and his dark eyes were a strange mix of stern and sparkling.
“Lie still,” he said. His voice was not loud, but it boomed.
Tyler ignored the instruction and continued to struggle to sit. “My friend . . .”
“Is fine,” the tall man told him. “He’s resting. Better than you are, I might add.” He raised an eyebrow, and Tyler relaxed against the cushions.
“What happened?” Tyler mumbled.
“You narrowly avoided a head-on collision. You missed the truck but not the median. As far as we can tell, your friend was thrown out of the car, and you barely avoided being crushed. We pulled you out. We happened along after the accident. I would guess you weren’t out there more than an hour.”
“Who are you?” Tyler asked.
“My name is Jacob,” the man answered. He lifted the hand that was still being held by the girl. “This is Miranda. The women of our community took care of you most of the night. They’re keeping most of us out, but you’ll likely have more visitors if you want them. If you don’t, just ask them to leave. They’ll go. I’d advise you to eat or drink whatever you’re given and cooperate with the ladies. They know what they’re doing.”
Tyler almost asked the question: “Are you Oneness?” But the words wouldn’t quite escape. It seemed he shouldn’t have to ask that. That if they were Oneness, he would simply know.
And yet, there was something familiar about them.
And the Oneness didn’t always recognize each other immediately—at least he didn’t think they did. Diane had managed to live without anyone but Mary knowing for years. Sometimes connection was heightened; sometimes it wasn’t. And none of them had been able to recognize the truth about Reese or about David.
Still, the question didn’t come out.
“We’ll leave you now,” Jacob said. “If you need anything, call. Someone will be near the door to hear you. Sleep would be a good idea.”
“I’d like to see Chris,” Tyler ventured. Weariness, emotional now as much as physical, was pressing him down on the bed. But he wasn’t sure he wanted to be alone with his thoughts and memories and aches.
“He’s asleep,” Jacob said with that curious mixture of sternness and charm in his tone. “As you really should be.”
“I’ll try,” Tyler conceded.
“We can bring you something to help you,” Jacob offered. “A tonic of some kind?”
“No, thank you,” Tyler said.
“You are already on pain medication. If your limbs feel heavy, that’s the reason.”
Good to know. The almost-paralysis had been unnerving.
Jacob and Miranda left. In spite of himself—and perhaps because the meds were doing more than just making it hard to move—Tyler slept.
Chapter 5
April winced as she walked up Nick’s street to the sound of a couple screaming at each other in a driveway. The woman was drowning the man out, ironically threatening to call the police on the one who sounded like he was just trying to defend himself.
April momentarily considered getting involved, but instead she kept walking, eyes turned away from the couple, letting them work it out. Only their words, their spirits, were violent.
In her joy at getting Nick away from the turmoil in his own home, she hadn’t thought about the turmoil in the rest of the neighbourhood. But she was glad, now, that he wasn’t here listening to the stream of profanity flowing from the woman’s mouth, and soaking up the general sense of hopelessness, anger, and chaos that characterized this place. For the most part the fishing village was quiet and peaceful; people weren’t wealthy, but neither were they poor, and most inhabitants had chosen to live here, chosen the lifestyle and the view against the cliffs. This block, and another one street over, constituted the only really rough section of town.
Shelley was sitting on the cracked concrete of her front step. She was despondent and almost certainly drunk. When she saw April, she frowned as though trying to remember who she was and then said, “Did you bring my kid back?”
“No,” April said quietly, sitting down on the step next to Shelley like she belonged there. “He’s really happy at the house. You should let him stay a while.”
“He’s a good kid,
” Shelley said.
“Yeah, he is.”
“He deserves a good mother.”
April almost said, “He’s got one,” but she stopped. She wanted the words to be true. Shelley tugged at her heart almost as much as Nick did. But she wasn’t really sure she could tell her, even for the sake of compassion and in hope, that she was a good mother.
Shelley let out a long groan and leaned her head back against the doorpost, and they sat like that for a minute, looking down the street toward the bay and letting the humid breeze cool their faces. The smell of salt hung heavy in the air, weighing down April’s lungs even as it made her feel more alive. Overhead, the blue sky was flawless. The sun shone down on cracked curbs and no sidewalks, grass growing too high in yards and dented metal garbage cans that had been left out after the last pickup day. Like most environments, the street reflected visibly the invisible things of the hearts that lived on it, and engrained them more deeply. It fell apart because these people had so little pride, so little care, so little dignity. But how could they, when they lived here? Catch-22.
“So what do you want, anyway?” Shelley asked abruptly.
April hugged her knees to her chest. “Well, I was wondering about that man. The one who wanted to take Nick away.”
Shelley eyed her suspiciously. “You change your mind? Going to send Nick there after all?”
“No, no. I wouldn’t do that. I want Nick living with me.” April hesitated. “I just wondered if you knew anything about him. Did he tell you his name?”
“Yeah,” Shelley said. “Some kinda doctor or something.”
“A child psychologist, you told me,” April reminded her. “Did he say where he was from?”
“Lincoln,” Shelley answered. Bingo.
“And his name?”
Shelley grimaced. “Dr . . . something.”
“Do you remember his first name?” April prodded, hoping for anything to go on.
“Started with a V. Sounded Italian or something.” Shelley laughed. “Vino.”
“Maybe Vincent?” April guessed.
To her surprise, Shelley looked surprised and nodded. “Yeah, yeah, I think so. Dr. Vincent . . . something not Italian. Smith.”
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