by Kelly Meding
* * *
The response time for reported gunshots was idiotically slow. We were in Alex’s Jeep, emerging from the underground parking garage and into daylight, before I heard the first siren. He turned north and chose a roundabout way back to the Wharton Street Bridge. It took us deeper into the heart of Parkside East, past high-rise apartment buildings and the first hints of residential houses.
The bullet graze had oozed through the bandage, which barely covered swollen skin. His eye would blacken eventually. During the five minutes it took to fill a backpack with supplies, lash our houseguests to the dining room furniture, and put on a fresh shirt, he’d lost the deer-in-headlights look, and adopted the attitude that must make him a good med student—stern rationality in the face of insurmountable odds.
I just kept an eye out, waiting for hints of a mental breakdown. God knew he was due.
The burns no longer itched, and my skin was as smooth as it had been before the attack. The dozen or so glass cuts on my arms were also healing. I’d shed my borrowed clothes and slipped into fresh jeans and a T-shirt. The change made me feel mostly human again. The only thing I couldn’t help was the bloodstained sneakers. It was that or leather sandals—not great for kicking and running.
“Where are we going?” Alex asked.
“Back downtown, eventually.”
He turned down another residential street, lined with trees that sported dog-proof fences, sidewalks without cracks or weeds, and houses that cost more than an entire block of Mercy’s Lot real estate. I felt intimidated by the wealth. While Chalice and Alex belonged in such a high-class area, I did not. I grew up in the city; I felt out of place in the suburbs.
“How long have you lived here?” I asked.
“About six years. St. Eustachius has one of the best orthopedic centers in the country, and that’s what I wanted to do.”
“Wanted?”
He shrugged one shoulder. “Something tells me I’m not making it to class tonight.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s not …”
“It’s not what?”
Another right turn angled us south, back toward the river and bridge. He gripped the steering wheel, seeming to debate his reply. “I was going to say it’s not your fault, but in a way, it is. It’s just not your fault on purpose, if that makes sense.”
“It does.”
It wasn’t as if I’d chosen Chalice’s body. But everything that I’d done since waking up in it—including taking my shit fest into the middle of Alex’s mundane life—was most definitely my fault. He was missing class. He was being chased by the Triads. Glass and blood and two men tied up with Lycra exercise pants decorated an apartment to which he couldn’t return.
“You’re right, Alex,” I said. “This is my fault. I want to tell you that when it’s over, your life will go back to normal, but I can’t. I can’t promise you anything.”
“Then how about we make a deal? I’ll help you to get Wyatt away from the people holding him and if, by some miracle, we manage to survive it, you two disappear. Just get out of the city and forget this thing about clearing your name.”
The pleading tone of his voice hurt, but it wasn’t a deal I could make. And it had little to do with my tarnished name.
“I’m sorry, Alex, but I can’t agree to that, and it’s not because I don’t want to now. I have two much bigger reasons why I can’t leave town, and foremost is the alliance. You cannot imagine how devastating a united uprising would be to humanity. If the goblins and the vampires go against us, other races will divide, and not everyone will be on our side. It would be like the United States standing alone in a world war against the entire eastern hemisphere. We would lose, and we would become no better than the domesticated animals we keep as pets and food and labor. Exposing this truce before it happens … I have to try. Do you understand?”
“I’m trying to,” he said after a prolonged silence. The Wharton Street Bridge loomed in the distance, gray and stark. “It’s a little difficult to accept the idea of goblins running around the city, much less warmongering with vampires.”
“I know it’s not as exciting as dissecting a cadaver for anatomy class, but bear with me.”
That elicited a tentative smile. “What’s the other reason? You said you had two.”
I considered asking him to pull over, not knowing how he’d react. And the last thing we needed was a fender bender. “Because I’m running on borrowed time. Resurrection is temporarily stable at the best of times, but it’s not permanent. I’m only borrowing Chalice. I had seventy-two hours from the moment I woke up yesterday afternoon at quarter after four. That’s all I get.”
He stopped behind an idling Honda. Opposing traffic flowed across the bridge while we waited to make a left turn. He shifted his upper body to face me more directly. I didn’t see the expected surprise—only sadness. “Why so short?”
“Like I said, the magic is unstable.” I chewed on my lower lip. “Anytime magic is used, it upsets the natural balance of things. Usually it’s self-correcting, but this is different. I died three days ago because I was meant to die. It was my time, no matter what Tovin said.”
“Who’s Tovin?” Alex asked.
I waved one hand in the air. “Never mind, because that’s not the point. It happened because it was supposed to happen, but when Wyatt brought me back, it upset the balance. Everything I do, everyone I interact with, is affected by my presence. There are consequences, and they compound with every extra hour I’m alive.”
“What sort of consequences?”
A car honked. The Honda had made its left. Alex hit the gas. We shot forward and barely managed our turn before the light changed back to red. Up onto the bridge, and toward the heart of downtown and Mercy’s Lot.
“What sort of consequences, Evy?”
“You, Alex. You should be busy planning a funeral right now, and while that’s depressing and terrible, it’s a far cry from being on a Triad hit list. You never would have been dragged into this if I’d stayed dead.”
“So what happens when your time limit is up? What happens at four o’clock, the day after tomorrow?”
“You get to bury Chalice. And I go back to being dead. Heaven or Hell or limbo, I don’t know, but I go back and the world turns without me.”
“Wyatt?”
A chill wormed down my spine. “He made a freewill deal with an Elder.”
“What’s that mean?”
“It means that when I die again, Wyatt loses his free will to an elf named Tovin.”
“I still don’t—”
“In some ways, he’ll be no better than dead. Does that simplify it? Imagine losing your ability to make decisions; to take a piss without permission; to fucking love someone.”
Alex had paled considerably during my mini rant. “For how long?”
“Forever. There’s no statute of limitations on this particular brand of magic bargain.”
On the other side of the bridge, I directed him to go south. The background static, all but gone while in Parkside East, tickled the back of my mind. I concentrated on it, somehow comforted by its presence. Like an invisible security blanket.
We managed three more blocks before Alex spoke again. “You said you lost part of your memory, right?” he asked.
“The final three days of my life, yes.”
“Have you tried hypnosis?”
“Are you serious?”
“Chalice believed in it.”
“I’m not her.”
He flinched. I regretted the barb. I wasn’t Chalice, but I didn’t have to be insensitive to his suggestions. I believed that all manner of creatures roamed the earth and that we were on the brink of a species apocalypse, but I couldn’t bring myself to believe in something as small as hypnosis? Tragic.
“Have you ever seen it work?” I asked.
“At a carnival once.”
I snorted. “Not exactly a ringing endorsement.”
“What have yo
u got to lose?”
Respect? I bit my tongue. Being around Alex encouraged me to curb the more serious side of my sarcastic nature. It was as inexplicable as it was annoying. But he seemed so gentle—pain-induced cussing aside—that I hesitated to bring out the big guns.
“This isn’t a crystal ball psychic, right?” I asked. “Just a hypnotist?”
“Sure, yeah. How about your shrink?”
“My what?”
“Sorry, Chalice’s therapist. She was going to counseling for a while. She never told me what for, and I was too self-absorbed to ask, but the lithium prescription kind of gave it away.”
Depression. Yikes. But the shrink gave me an in that—
Shit. The gremlins. “I don’t think that will work.”
“Why not?”
I explained. He pulled his lips into a taut grimace. I patted his knee. “Sorry you asked?”
“A little bit, but even if there’s no record of her being a patient, the doctor will remember her.”
“Yeah, but we don’t have time to make an appointment. I’ve only got two days. I like the idea, but let’s table it for a while. I need to concentrate.”
“On Wyatt?”
Was I wearing a sign? “Yeah, sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry, Evy. He’s important to you.” Jealousy dripped from his words. His brain still had a difficult time distinguishing me (Evy) from the body that I inhabited. The befuddlement tempted me to just ditch him at the next block, but that was a death sentence. As soon as Tully and Wormer were found, Alex Forrester would be a wanted man.
Just like me.
But he was correct—Wyatt was important to me, and not just because of the investigation or our past. My resurrection bound me to him in a way I still didn’t understand. Since the moment he entered that burger joint, I had missed him. Physically missed his presence, like an amputee misses a leg or an arm. He was gone, and I was incomplete.
“He’s more than that,” I said.
“I figured.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
He looked straight ahead, eyes on the traffic in front of him. “I’ve heard women talk about guys like that, with that tone.”
“We have a tone?”
“Forget it.”
“Oh no.” I turned sideways in the seat, giving my full attention, and he squirmed. “What tone?”
“You’re like a dog with a bone, that’s all.”
“You should see me when I really want information from someone.” I cracked my knuckles for effect; he winced.
“I just …” His fingers flexed around the steering wheel. “I mean, I’ve never even met the guy and I’m a little jealous. Just ignore me for a while, okay?” Humor speckled his words, so I let it go. “Where are we going again?”
“Lincoln Street Bridge. I need to check on a friend.”
He nodded and moved into the right-turn lane. “Lincoln Street it is.”
Chapter Fourteen
52:17
A coat of fresh, black tar covered the underside of Smedge’s bridge. Every available cement surface was coated with the oily substance that prevented bridge trolls from rising. Smedge had been forced to relocate. The city had a plethora of bridges—footbridges, overpasses, train bridges—and an almost equal number of trolls. Finding another home would be difficult. Until he surfaced and sent word, I had no way of contacting my last Dreg ally.
Alex remained in the car with the engine running while I inspected the area. He hadn’t argued, and I appreciated his growing trust. The footprints in the dust were inconclusive. Average shoe sizes, bipedal, and at least four different people. They left nothing behind. Even the body of the hound I’d killed the day before was gone, every drop of blood washed away. Someone was being careful. Too careful.
I climbed back into the passenger seat and stared at the dashboard, willing an idea to come to me. Something more productive than sitting around and waiting for dusk and the promised phone call from Rufus.
Staking out the phone booth was a good idea. That prevented someone else from getting there first and laying a trap—assuming he even called. I wanted to trust Rufus; his Triad was merely reacting to the information at hand. Their leader had been kidnapped. They needed to get him back at any cost. I understood that sort of blind devotion.
“Your friend’s not here?” Alex asked.
“No, he’s not.”
“So what now?”
It was time to do the one thing I’d been avoiding—go to the place I didn’t want to venture without Wyatt by my side. It could jog my memory, and I wanted Wyatt there when it did. He would understand without my giving him the details. Alex—bless his innocent little heart—needed everything painted in broad strokes. But as much as I hated going, I couldn’t just sit on my ass for four hours until the sun set.
“We go farther south,” I said. “Over the Anjean River, and follow the train tracks to the East Side.”
“What’s over there?” Alex asked, shifting the gear back into Drive.
“An abandoned train station. That’s where I died.”
* * *
“So how does one become a Dreg Hunter, exactly?” Alex asked.
Neither of us had spoken in the ten minutes it took to reach the East Side, and his question came without preamble. I could only imagine what was going on in his head. “We recruit, same as anyone else.”
“Not quite like anyone else. You can’t exactly set up a booth on Career Day.”
I snickered. “We tend to do our recruiting at juvenile detention centers and orphanages.”
“Seriously?” His hands gripped the steering wheel a little tighter.
“As a vampire bite. Though the recruiters don’t wear suits or ask for references. They want kids who are looking for direction, kids they can train to kill.”
“You say that like it’s normal.”
“Normal’s relative. When Bastian recruited me, I was barely eighteen, and my biggest goal at the time was avoiding an adult prison sentence for B&E.”
“Whose house did you break into?”
“The guy who ran the McManus Juvenile Detention Center. The one I was in for most of my teenage years.”
“Why’d you break into his house?”
“So I could beat the shit out of him. Payback for beating the shit out of me a couple of times.”
The steering wheel creaked; his knuckles were white. He stared at the road ahead, shoulders tense. “And orphans?”
“No one’s there to miss us when we die.”
“Someone obviously cared when you died.”
“I meant at Boot Camp.”
“What’s that?”
I blew hard through my teeth, glad we were nearly to the train station so the conversation could end. “They don’t just put a knife in our hands and tell us to kill, Alex. We have to survive Boot Camp first. The ones who live become the Hunters.”
“And this is legal?”
“Probably not, but it’s necessary. Why do you think you’ve never heard of us before today?”
“What about Wyatt?”
“He’s definitely heard of us before today.”
“He’s your Handler, right?” Alex asked, exasperation leaking into his words. “Do they do Boot Camp?”
My lips parted. It was a question that, in four years, I’d never actually pondered. Handlers knew what they were doing; it wasn’t my job to ask how they learned it. “I’m sure they’ve got their own training requirements. Think of Hunters as the prizefighters and Handlers as their coaches.”
“Some of the best coaches are former players.”
I shrugged. “If any of the Handlers are former Hunters, no one talks about it. We do our job, we save lives, end of story.”
“Okay.”
Trees green with spring leaves surrounded the station. It felt desolate and lonely, the perfect place for a kidnapping. Ten-foot-tall chain-link fencing lined the perimeter, but the lock had long since vanished. Alex drove through t
he empty parking lot, cracked and overgrown with grass and dandelions. Space lines had faded away, leaving behind a sea of grayed asphalt and little else.
The station itself was two stories tall—an old-fashioned gabled style with peeling red walls and white trim. Boards covered windows long devoid of glass. Childish graffiti marked dozens of teenage dares and initiations. The platform on the rear, facing the tracks, was warped and defaced and probably rotting in a dozen places. It smelled of fuel and decay.
Alex parked close to the building. He turned off the engine and reached for the door handle. I put a hand on his arm.
“Give me five minutes,” I said. “If I don’t come out, I want you to drive away like a bat out of Hell. Do you understand?”
He seemed poised to argue the point. Instead, he nodded.
I took a tire iron—the closest thing I had to a weapon—out of the trunk. Avoiding the platform and its potential fall hazards, I entered through the front. The door sported a brand-new padlock. It hung loosely on the hinge. I brushed a finger across its surface—no dust. Someone was there. My heart thudded; I willed it to slow. I wanted to warn Alex away, but curiosity drew me inside.
The knob turned without squeak or protest. The hinges were oiled. The thick odors of dust surprised me. My nose twitched. I pinched it to force back a sneeze.
The lobby was empty, illuminated by gaps in the boarded windows. The dusty floor sported a trail of footprints and smudges, all leading past the rows of glass ticket booths to a rear door marked PERSONNEL. I tiptoed toward it, following the trail, silent as the dead. Wood creaked, but not under my feet. Somewhere lower.
At the door, I stopped to listen. No voices, no footsteps. My hand ached, and I flexed my grip on the tire iron. It helped, but my heart still pounded like machine-gun fire. I wanted Wyatt—his gun, his courage, and his powers. I was weak in Chalice’s body, and I despised myself for it, but I had to press onward. If I quit or failed, Wyatt could die. No matter what Tovin demanded of him later, I couldn’t be responsible for his death. No one else I cared about was going to die before me.
The doorknob gave the tiniest squeak, which the hinges echoed. On the right were ticket windows long empty and relieved of their glass inserts. To the left was a staircase that descended into a distant light source. The old, grayed wood looked loud and dangerous, but I had no other way down. Progressing one foot at a time, I went down three steps before one creaked.
