by Rob Thurman
"Some lifetime." I kicked the table hard enough that it slid several feet across the stained and scarred plank floor. "Wouldn't you like to have a real job instead of just a string of crap details? Wouldn't you like to have a home instead of some piece-of-shit apartment? Wouldn't you like to have a genuine relationship with someone like Promise instead of… shit… nothing but one-night stands?" I know I wanted it for him even if he tried to deny he might want it for himself. And I wanted other things. I wanted the hope of touching a springy red curl, of rubbing the pad of my thumb softly across amber skin. I wanted to count freckles and see if they really did number as stars in the sky. I wanted to sit across from Georgina and have her tell me why she lied, and I wanted the reason to be one I couldn't question. All fairy tales are impossible, but I wanted this one badly enough to stick around and risk the brutal slap of reality.
"Don't you want all that, Nik?" I repeated.
There was silence, not accusing, just thoughtful. When he finally spoke, the grimness was replaced by unshakable conviction. "I'd like those things, yes. But there is something I want more… my brother alive. And, Cal, if I have to knock you unconscious and drag you out of town to keep you that way, then that is exactly what I will do." And just like that, the conversation was over. I could keep talking, but it would be pointless. The set of his shoulders, the flattened line of his mouth—all indicated that Niko was not in the mood for negotiation. In spite of that, I might have pushed. I normally did. But not now, not when I could see the bedrock of his stubbornness was still iced over with pain.
"Go to bed, Nik." Leaning over, I pulled the table back into position. The remote had fallen to the floor, so I retrieved it. "Four hours, and then I kick your ass out of bed."
"Cal…"
"Nik," I mimicked softly before grinning faintly. "Your towel's slipping."
He took a grip on the wayward terry cloth and gave in. "Four hours. No more." Then he disappeared down the hallway, his step slower than usual.
Four hours he would get. Four hours and then, if I could pull it off, four more. I could stay awake for eight hours, no problem. Considering what I would see when I closed my eyes, insomnia was my friend anyway. I'd lived through Niko's being engulfed by Abbagor once already; I wasn't looking forward to any repeat showings.
Turning the television's sound back up to a soft murmur, I stood and went to double-check the lock on the door. There were no windows to check, not the sort that locked. We had only the one window, but it was a doozy, taking up most of the far wall of the living room. I had no idea what the building had been years and years ago, but our apartment definitely had an unfinished quality to it. The ceiling was high enough to have any real estate agent dancing in glee, but it was also full of exposed wiring and rusty pipes. The floor was directly out of some run-down warehouse off the river minus the fishy smell. The super had put in a bathroom and kitchenette; those were the only modern touches. It was a dump, no doubt, saved only by the window. At night a thousand city lights glittered through the glass. It was like having your own personal view of the Milky Way.
Flicking off the lights, I sat on the couch, ignoring the TV and watching the window instead. Promise wasn't the only one who missed the stars. But as with most things in life, sometimes you just had to make do.
I didn't doze off. Niko and life itself had trained me better than that. But I did let my eyes unfocus and my mind empty as my ears stayed alert for any suspicious sound. It was a state I'd gotten used to over the years. Restful but ready. So when I first heard it, I was off the couch and down the hall before my thoughts fully kicked in. My body automatically reacted, even though the sound wasn't suspicious, just out of place. Unfamiliar. Wrong. The rustle of sheets, the shifting on a creaking mattress, it was the sound of a restless sleeper. But I was the only one of those in the apartment—at least I had been until tonight.
In the doorway to the bedroom, I hesitated as Niko struggled for his life a second time that night. He wasn't like me. He didn't toss and turn, kicking the blankets to the floor. His throat wasn't tight as he choked back a shout. His reaction to the terror of a nightmare wasn't the same as mine, no, but that didn't make it any less disturbing or any less desperate. As I watched, he changed position again. It was just by a few inches, but it still set the mattress to a subdued singing. His lightly stubbled jaw tensed until the bone was silhouetted through skin like old ivory. A solitary hand released its fistful of sheet and slid under the pillow to grip something a bit more substantial and a whole lot more deadly than a handful of cloth.
I knew better than to try to shake Niko awake from the dream. He wouldn't gut me, half asleep or pot, but it might still give us a nasty moment. Whenever possible, I was all about avoiding the nasty moments. Instead, I stepped closer and murmured, "It's okay, Cyrano. There's no one here but us chickens. Go to sleep." Whether it was my voice, the familiar nickname, or even my scent, it worked. Niko's face smoothed out, the taut set of his shoulders relaxed, and he slid deeper into a more restful sleep. My brother… humans in general… didn't have the developed sense of smell I did, but even so, they had a better one than they gave themselves credit for. I remembered reading once (a Niko-assigned book, of course) that memory was more intricately linked with smell than any other sense. It might be that Niko could pick me up, at least on a subconscious level. I wondered what I would smell like to him. Hamburgers and chili dogs? T-shirts washed with dish detergent because I was too lazy to go to the Laundromat? If laziness itself had a smell, I was bound to reek of it.
Niko, on the other hand, smelled like home. It sounded trite as hell, but it was true. I wasn't saying he smelled like homemade cookies or baking bread. I hadn't had that kind of home—probably no one outside a Disney movie had. No, Niko didn't smell like an amateur bakery. He smelled like steel, sharp and deadly. He smelled like the oilcloth he used on his blades. And he smelled green. That must've been all the health food he ate. Unusual smells for the average person maybe, but they were all the things that had kept me safe, alive, and sane all these years. If that wasn't a definition of home, I didn't know what was.
"Night, Nik," I said under my breath, slipping back out of the room and pulling the door closed behind me. In the hallway, I leaned against the wall with my arms folded, and stared into darkness. I hadn't asked Niko what it was like to be trapped inside Abbagor. I wasn't sure he would tell me. Wouldn't it be a stupid question really? Kind of like asking someone how it felt to be in hell. Hey, just how hot is it down there, huh? Is it the heat or the humidity? And, hey, is that torture and disemboweling by demons really as bad as they say it is? Jesus. There's a sheer level of awfulness that's incapable of being put into words, a terror so intense it can't be expressed. But in the end, even if Niko couldn't tell me exactly what it was like, couldn't articulate the godawful horrific details, he could tell me one thing. He could tell me how he felt. Then and now.
I didn't know if it would help; I was no psychologist. But if it'd help me regain the crown of nightmare king, I'd give it a try. Niko needed his sleep. It took a huge amount of energy to mercilessly nag me day in and day out. Mind settled for the moment, I pushed away from the wall. It was time for another sweep. The locks on the door were excellent, but nothing was foolproof—in locks or life.
Chapter Ten
Niko slept through until morning. It was proof positive he'd needed the rest more than I did. Being injured knocked a person down a peg or two no matter how much a superninja he fancied himself. My good turn didn't count for much, however, because when Superninja finally rolled out of bed he was pissed.
I looked up as an inarticulate growl rolled through the kitchen, and raised cheerful eyebrows. "Is somebody a cranky monkey?"
"You didn't wake me." He stood by the table, sweatpants slung low on his hips, bandages still mostly in place. The burn on his neck had darkened in color and looked less painful. "I told you four hours. Did you lose the ability to count sometime during the night? That is, assuming you ever had t
he skill to begin with."
"I lost my watch. You want some breakfast?" I rose from the chair and moved to the refrigerator. "We never did make it to the store, but I think there's a couple of eggs left."
A hand fastened on to my short ponytail and held me firmly in place. "The perfectly ticking watch on your wrist?" The silky smooth voice tightened, as did the hand on my hair. "Is that the one you're referring to?"
"Okay, you're not in the mood for eggs," I said mildly. "How about some cereal?"
His hand released my hair. "I could put your watch in a place it would be much harder to ignore, Cal. Do not push me." Turning, I watched as he dropped into a chair and rubbed a hand over his face before reluctantly admitting, "Cereal would be all right."
Searching the cabinets, I found a box that wasn't geared toward five-year-olds, and filled a bowl. "No marshmallows or cute little prizes. It's your lucky day." Placing it in front of him, I fetched the milk and poured it over the cereal. "There you go, Mikey. Dig in."
He took a spoonful, chewed, and swallowed without pleasure. "I hope I'm safe in presuming there was no trouble last night."
I sat down opposite him, slouched over the table, and rested my chin on folded arms. "Actually I beat off a horde of zombies, all by myself. Even had one hand tied behind my back. It was quite a show."
A disparaging snort was the only comment on my imaginary heroics. "At least tell me you've started packing. Throw me that crumb, if you please."
"No reason to pack. I'm not going anywhere," I remarked amiably, then added before he could get a word out, "Nik, about Abbagor…"
The spoon was slammed down on the table with force. "Absolutely not. You are not changing the subject just like that, little brother. We decided this last night. We are leaving as soon as we obtain transportation. Today or tomorrow, no later."
"You decided, Niko. There was no 'we' in that decision." Since he seemed to have given up on his cereal, I snaked a hand over, pulled the bowl close, and helped myself. "But forget about that for a second. I want to talk about what happened under the bridge."
"Forget?" Niko wasn't at a loss for words. How could he be, with that overgrown vocabulary? But he was as stymied as I'd ever seen him. "Forget?" he repeated incredulously. "Forget that you're all but throwing your life away? That should be quite the trick. Do you have any suggestions how I'd go about that?"
"You could talk to me about Abbagor. That might take your mind off it," I pointed out promptly, licking milk from the spoon.
His eyes took me in with disbelief before he shook his head and pushed his chair back. "I'm going to wash up. When I'm finished we'll discuss this in more detail… while we pack."
I stretched out a leg to hook the leg of his chair and hold it in place. "I don't think so."
"If you value that leg, Cal, I'd remove it." His tone was icy, sharp, and utterly serious.
"I can get around on just the one." I was just as serious and just as determined. "Troll. Talk. Now."
He stared at me for a long, silent moment before his chest expanded in a lengthy exhalation. "Fine. Abbagor is the subject on the table. What do you want to know? What is so important it simply can't wait?"
You, I thought to myself. Aloud, I said, "It's those hands." I didn't have to fake the repulsed curl of my lip. "I can't stop thinking about the people, you know? Were they still alive? How long were they trapped like that? Shit. Were they even still people at all?"
Unblinking, Niko replied neutrally, "There's no way of knowing."
I pushed the cereal bowl away. "Yeah, probably not. But… shit… what the hell must those poor bastards have felt?" That was the question, and it was one only Niko could answer.
"Felt." He rolled the word around on his tongue and laid his hands flat on the table. No nervous twitches for my brother. "How they felt. I imagine they felt like Jonah in the belly of the whale—only Jonah had some breathing room. He wasn't smothered by crawling, pulsing flesh. He wasn't wrapped so tightly he couldn't move even an inch, couldn't breathe even if there'd been oxygen. There were no tentacles probing at his mouth, trying to get inside and pump him full of God knows what." This time he did blink, just once. "And I don't think Jonah heard a thousand voices telling him, 'Welcome, brother. Welcome home. Welcome to hell.'"
I'd been wrong. It could be put into words after all, words that almost made me wish I were deaf. "I guess Jonah was one lucky son of a bitch, huh?" I said numbly.
"I guess he was," he commented, as matter-of-factly as if he'd been talking about the weather.
What the hell could I possibly say that would make that better? Nothing. Nothing I could say could blunt the horror of what Niko had experienced—but maybe… maybe there was something I could do.
The soggy clump of shredded wheat flew from my spoon and hit Niko's cheek dead on. It clung there for a second before slowly sliding down, leaving a milk trail behind it. Then I scooped up another spoonful and ate it with relish, as if I hadn't a care in the world. Frozen as an ice sculpture, Niko stared at me silently, the color leaching into a face that was still a shade too pale. The wad of cereal dropped off his chin to hit the surface of the kitchen table with a splat. I raised my eyebrows innocently. "Problem?"
He didn't bother to get up and go around the table. Instead, he came over it. The bowl went flying, cereal and milk falling every which way. My chair and I also went flying, results of a tackle that would've done the NFL proud. I managed to get a knee in Niko's stomach and flip him off. Before I could move, his hand latched on to my ankle. Swiveling my hips, I turned, planted a foot in his abdomen, and pushed hard enough that he slid several feet on the cheap linoleum floor. Scrambling to my feet, I ran. Two steps later he caught up with me and I was tossed through the air like a child's Frisbee. Landing on the couch, I was struggling to sit up when the heel of a hand jammed under my chin with ruthless force. It was a good move, kept your opponent's head hyperextended. Could be painful if done wrong, could be lethal if done right.
I grinned up into narrowed, steel-colored eyes. "Feel better?"
The eyes narrowed even further to nothing more than molten slits. Niko lowered his face until it was a bare inch from mine. "There was one thing Jonah didn't have, however," he said with chilling calm, forcing my head back another half inch.
"What was that?" I croaked as the tension on my neck increased.
"The absolute knowledge that there was someone who would get him out." He released me and slapped my cheek lightly with a sigh. "I guess he wasn't quite as lucky as me after all."
I sat up and rubbed my chin with a wince. "Why is it I can never get that move to work on you?"
"Because you never practice, Grasshopper." Leaning back, he tilted his head toward me with a faintly rueful air. "Thanks for the distraction, Cal. I do believe I needed it."
Snorting, I jabbed my elbow into his ribs. "Go take your shower, Cyrano, before you make me cry like a little girl."
He gave my offending elbow a painful pinch to the nerve. Ignoring my yelp, he stood and stretched, careful of his burns. "All right, then, a shower." Pinning me with a demanding gaze, he went on, "And afterward we pack."
"Afterward, we pack," I lied with ease, and nodded. Let the man have a few minutes of relief before we started that argument up again. I wasn't sure if he believed me or not, but he gave in without further comment and disappeared into the bathroom. Within seconds I heard the door close and water running. Then I heard him call out.
"Cal, what in the world have you done to the mirror?"
Oh, shit. I'd forgotten about that.
It had been Alice again. I'd stuck with the name I'd given it at the Waldorf. It was a good one as any for something living through the looking glass. Of course, it wasn't the original Alice. I didn't think a little blond girl who was too nosy for her own good was really responsible for scaring the crap out of me—at least I hoped I wasn't that far gone. Then again, considering I hadn't actually seen anything in the mirror last night before I'd covered it up
with a towel, maybe I was a few fries short of a Happy Meal after all.
I'd heard it a few hours after Niko had had his nightmare. Another unusual sound, but this one wasn't that of a restless sleeper. But neither was it dramatic or even that spooky, not really. It was a humming. Faint. Barely audible, but melodic. It wasn't ominous in the slightest until I realized where it was coming from. Then instantly it became eerie as hell. Tracking down the sound, I'd padded down the hall on silent feet. With one of Niko's spare knives in hand, I stopped by the bathroom door. The humming had continued, and it was definitely the product of vocal cords, but not mine or Niko's. Even if I had somehow missed hearing Nik getting out of bed, I would've recognized his voice. What I was hearing wasn't it.
Feeling my stomach clench like a fist, I'd pushed open the bathroom door with careful fingers. The musical murmur lowered to the faintest whisper as I moved into the room. I didn't turn on the light. There was enough illumination from the single bulb in the kitchen drifting in to cut the edge on the velvety shadows. I could make out the tub, the toilet, the yellowing porcelain of the sink, and nothing else. Empty. I'd always heard about the alligators in the sewer, but I seriously doubted one was singing a ditty through the pipes. I switched the blade to my other hand as I scowled and wiped a moist hand on my sweats. I did not need this shit.
Swiveling on my heel, I listened hard. In an instant I pinpointed the source of the rhythm, even fainter now but still clear as the chiming of a bell. The mirror. It was coming from the mirror. Goddamn it. Not this, not again. I'd pretty much managed to convince myself the episode at the Waldorf had been a fluke, just a hiccup of my nervous system. But here was the hiccup again, only this time it was more tangible and a helluva lot harder to dismiss as just a fluke.
I raised my eyes to the mirror over the sink. It was harder to do than it sounded. What is it about mirrors anyway? In nearly every B movie, a mirror is gleefully waiting to spring a demonic reflection back at anyone who passes. Movies, books, episodes of those creepy half-hour TV shows—evil mirrors were a common theme in all of them. So when I looked into that mirror, it was with the dread of a twelve-year-old—never mind I'd seen and fought monsters all my life. A dark room, a haunted mirror, it was enough to make me feel like a knee-knocking kid, who wanted nothing better than to pull the covers over his head.
