‘‘Collin!’’ Julie screamed, exiting the car at last. She bolted to his side and helped him to his feet. Every part of his body ached, his mind bordering on delusion. It was the most brutal attack he’d ever suffered, which, given his history, was saying a lot. The fact that he’d made it out in one piece was as surprising as it was confusing.
Julie practically had to drag him as she gently placed him in the passenger’s side of the car. When she was safely in the driver’s seat, Grant mumbled through split, bleeding lips, his eyes only half open.
‘‘Where’d he go?’’
Julie followed the Thresher’s line of exit and it finally hit her. ‘‘Wait, isn’t the asylum that way?’’
Grant would have thought he was out of adrenaline, but somehow it spiked once more.
‘‘GOOO!’’ he bellowed.
Drexel’s bullet only grazed Morgan, though his aim had been true. Something threw him off balance, slamming into him from the side.
On the floor now, Drexel turned to see that Alex was on top of him, kicking and tearing with everything she had. It was a feeble effort; she was unable to cause the big man any pain. He plucked her off of him with one arm and flung her across the room to join Morgan and the boy on the ground.
Morgan was unconscious, bleeding from the graze just above her left ear.
The gun had fallen out of Drexel’s hand when Alex pushed him, so he freed the baton that was dangling from the other side of his belt.
‘‘Big mistake, girly-girl,’’ he growled, returning to his feet, spinning the stick threateningly in his hands. He advanced on them.
‘‘Not as big as yours,’’ said a quiet, gravelly voice from behind.
Drexel spun but was too late.
The Thresher was on him in a burst of furious motion, the stick flying free of Drexel’s hand along with the belt it had been attached to.
The gun was nowhere in sight as the Thresher stood atop him, eyes flaring.
‘‘Do you know what your mistake was?’’ the Thresher said calmly. ‘‘It was getting in my way.’’
‘‘You,’’ Drexel breathed, recognizing the other man. Then he laughed. ‘‘This is a pretty bold move, don’t you think? Crashing a party where you’re severely outnumbered?’’
‘‘The only person outnumbered here,’’ said Grant’s weary voice from the front door, ‘‘is you, Detective. Your keystone cops ran when they saw him coming,’’ Grant nodded toward the Thresher. ‘‘I’m getting the feeling that you two have already met.’’
Drexel threw the Thresher off of him, toward the hallway, and surprised everyone with the fluidity of his massive frame lumbering in the Thresher’s direction. The other man was already on his feet, but Drexel crashed into him like a linebacker, plowing him through the double doors.
The Thresher didn’t stop to think. He gave in to instinct, springing straight up and driving his fist into the air. It collided with Drexel’s chin and knocked him backward onto his rear end.
Drexel had barely hit the ground when he swung his meaty arm into the Thresher’s head. Drexel was on top of the other man now, but the Thresher kicked him backward over his head—an astonishing feat for his lithe frame. Drexel swept the Thresher’s feet out from under him and the bald man landed with a heavy thud. Drexel jumped to his feet and ran for the front door.
Grant stepped aside, out of his path, but the double doors sprung to life, crashing together in Drexel’s face as he reached them. Then he was flying through the air, and landed roughly on the cracked cement at the bottom of the front steps.
Drexel regrouped fast and threw himself onto Grant, pinning him to the ground. He pressed both hands against Grant’s larynx, and Grant fought the sudden weariness rising within him.
Sleep was a tangible thing that he could reach out and touch . . . and he wanted it . . .
Instead he turned his head to the side and focused on the Thresher, who was approaching.
But he couldn’t focus. The world was too dark.
Drexel spoke.
‘‘You probably think I’m just a dirty cop who dabbles in profiteering, making shady choices to get ahead. You may even think I’m redeemable. But I want you to know the truth about the man who defeated you, Grant: I crave the shadow. The thought of breaking all two hundred and six bones in your body, one by one, slowly . . . before I let you die . . . It gives me cold chills.’’
Grant could barely keep his eyes open as the darkness took hold of him.
But instead of passing out, the pressure on his throat eased up and he could see again.
Alex stood above the both of them, holding Drexel’s gun in both hands. But she held it steady, unwaveringly trained on him.
The detective twisted to look up. ‘‘You wouldn’t . . .’’ he said.
The Thresher appeared over Alex’s shoulder and inspected the situation, the fury evident in Alex’s eyes. ‘‘I rather think she would,’’ he said simply.
But before Alex got the chance, the Thresher’s sword was out again and Drexel’s weight atop Grant was gone. He sat up gingerly and saw the Thresher holding Drexel at knifepoint. Drexel was seated on the ground, back up against the driver’s side of Grant’s car.
Grant gasped angrily for air. Not knowing where the strength within him came from, he stood and wrenched the gun from Alex’s hands, joining the Thresher to look down at Drexel in victory. He leveled the gun on Drexel’s head.
‘‘Shall I finish it,’’ the Thresher whispered, ‘‘or will you?’’
The pain and the rage were fueling his movements now, yet Grant’s finger hesitated on the trigger. It would be so quick, so easy, to pull that trigger. He didn’t even need the gun in his hand. He could just think it, and Drexel’s head would pop like a grape.
‘‘No, Grant! You can’t!’’ Julie shouted, emerging from the other side of the car. ‘‘Never give in, never surrender! Remember?’’
She rounded the car slowly, watching the fire in Grant’s eyes blaze.
Her hand grasped the top of his right wrist, and held to the bracelet there. ‘‘Don’t forget who you really are,’’ she said softly. ‘‘Don’t throw away the goodness inside of you—not for him.’’
Grant watched Drexel, saw the fear in his eyes. And suddenly, he stepped back, breathing slower. He turned to Julie with tears in his eyes and embraced her.
‘‘You called me Grant,’’ he whispered in her ear.
She pulled away and smiled.
The Thresher watched all of this dispassionately. ‘‘If that’s your decision . . .’’ He brought the sword up and was about to strike . . .
‘‘Payton?’’ asked a voice from the asylum doorway. A disbelieving voice.
Grant knew that voice.
In the reflection of the blade, he saw her approaching. White hair . . . Middle aged . . .
It was Morgan.
But no, it couldn’t be Morgan.
Morgan never goes outside the asylum.
Not for anything.
But there she was, standing on the front steps. She moved slowly forward, daringly stepping within striking distance of the Thresher, but she wasn’t looking at his sword.
She was looking into his eyes.
The sword came away from Drexel’s neck, and everyone there watched in stunned silence as the blade fell to the ground.
No, that wasn’t quite right.
The Thresher had thrown it down.
Morgan stared at the man before her, dumbfounded.
‘‘Payton?’’ she cried. ‘‘Is it really you?’’
‘‘No, love,’’ his soft British accent intoned. ‘‘Payton is dead.’’
The blood drained from Morgan’s face.
‘‘You left him to die,’’ Payton said. ‘‘Remember?’’
45
Morgan and Payton stood five feet apart, faces grim, staring at one another. This run-down courtyard, continents away from where they’d last been together seemed hardly the place for a reunion.
<
br /> Yet here they were.
Morgan looked into Payton’s eyes. The eyes she remembered so well. The eyes she could get lost in and feel safer than anyplace else in the world.
But she barely recognized them. Their warmth had been replaced by a steely coldness that chilled her to the bone.
A small crowd began to gather, pouring from the front door. And Alex stood by, watching with tremendous interest. But Morgan and Payton noticed none of this. The world was empty to them, aside from one another.
They heard nothing else, saw nothing else. Refused to blink.
Neither of them spoke. Morgan was still flushed with shock, but Payton faced her calmly, hands clasped behind his back. Birds and crickets chirped in the surrounding trees, but otherwise not a sound was heard.
Grant watched, waiting for someone to speak. Considered speaking himself to break the tension but decided against it.
This man who stood before them—this warrior with a sword who had attacked and nearly killed him, and moved faster than anyone could see—this couldn’t possibly be the man Morgan had once been in love with.
Could he?
She had certainly never mentioned that he knew how to fight. The way Morgan had described him, he sounded more like a hopeless romantic.
Payton extended his right arm to point at Grant.
‘‘If you lot knew who this man really is,’’ Payton seethed, ‘‘you wouldn’t be helping him. You would beg me to kill him.’’
Morgan didn’t flinch, though a trickle of blood from her head wound dripped onto her shirt. ‘‘I do know who he is. It’s you that concerns me.
You look like Payton . . .’’
Payton took a step closer to her, a mixture of emotions broiling just beneath his surface. ‘‘Oh, it’s me. No parlor trick. But I am not the man you remember with that flawless memory of yours.’’
‘‘Certainly not,’’ Morgan stood her ground. ‘‘The man I knew was a man of peace. He would never have taken another life.’’
‘‘Nine years is a long time, love.’’
Morgan tried to keep up a composed appearance, but her breathing had changed, her eyes were shifting around, and her entire body had become tense. ‘‘I don’t understand. Any of this. What’s happened to you?’’
‘‘You happened. That day in France, when I pushed you out of the way of the cave-in, only to have you leave me for dead while you saved yourself. Everything that happened to both of us after that was a direct result of your decision. You could say it was a defining moment.’’
‘‘You can’t possibly think I left you in that cave, knowing you had any chance of living. I held your hand until it went cold, I can still remember—’’
‘‘Did you have any idea how much I lived for you?’’ he spat, taking a step closer to her. ‘‘Did you know that if it had been you buried beneath the earth, I would still be there, holding your hand? I would have found a way to get you out. I would have done something . . . After I was Shifted, you were the one bright spot in an existence turned upside-down, the one source of hope I had. I would have done anything—’’ He broke off, looking away. Then his gaze pierced hers again. ‘‘If it had been you, I wouldn’t have been able to live. Do you get that? Did you have any clue how deep my feelings ran?’’
Morgan went pale, then she whispered, ‘‘I don’t think I did.’’
‘‘You want to know what’s happened to me?’’ Payton said, his voice rising. He took another step closer until mere inches separated them.
‘‘I did what I had to do, to live without you.’’
She looked down.
‘‘Forget the man who loved you,’’ Payton went on, right in her face. ‘‘I am not that raving mad, lovesick child who held to the notion that love could make anything better. That man died nine years ago. You won’t be seeing him again.’’
A few tears escaped Morgan’s eyes as she whispered, still looking down, ‘‘Who has taken his place?’’
‘‘Someone you don’t want to know.’’
Morgan, Grant could tell, was using every measure at her disposal to keep her composure. He had always known her to be so calm and wise, that even in the short time he’d gotten to know her, he could see that now she was in a turmoil that was unprecedented. She closed her eyes and squeezed out a few more tears while Payton stared her down, daring her to respond.
She took several deep breaths and then forced herself to look at Payton once more.
‘‘What do you want with him?’’ Morgan quietly asked, nodding to Grant.
Payton answered slowly, over-pronouncing his words as if he were speaking to a child. ‘‘I want him to die.’’
‘‘Grant is not your enemy.’’
Payton blinked for the first time since spotting Morgan. His eyes shifted over to Grant and then back to Morgan. His body weight shifted back a bit, the slightest hint of confusion creeping across his features.
‘‘His name is Grant?’’ Payton asked suspiciously. ‘‘Grant Borrows?
This man is the great ‘savior of the Loci’?’’
Morgan nodded, noting his sudden change.
Payton took a full step back and stared at Grant, a dazed sort of doubt overtaking his features. No one spoke. Grant looked back at him in confusion.
‘‘But he wears the Seal,’’ Payton said in clench-jawed protest.
Morgan studied him. ‘‘The what?’’
‘‘This can’t be.’’ Payton looked all around, at the ground, at the sky, at everyone present. ‘‘Unless . . . unless I have been misdirected.’’
‘‘Hey, Drexel’s gone!’’ Alex shouted.
Everyone turned to look, and the detective was nowhere to be seen. The woods closed in thickly around the asylum, and he’d slipped off when Morgan appeared. Grant knew he was out there, but they’d never find him now.
Still Morgan was undeterred from her conversation with Payton. ‘‘Does that mean you won’t harm Grant?’’ she asked.
Payton turned sharply as he kicked his sword off of the ground, caught the handle, and swished it until the tip was poking Grant in the chest, all in one movement. Julie cried in protest but Grant pulled her behind him with one hand.
‘‘Even if he is this man ‘Borrows,’ he is still wearing that,’’ Payton nodded at Grant’s ring. ‘‘And the time of the Seal is nearly upon us. I have sworn by blood to prevent his coming, and I will fulfill that vow. But this matter of identity must be resolved.’’
Grant opened his mouth to explain, but he couldn’t think of anything. He was too exhausted. And Payton was already walking away anyway, sheathing his sword.
As he mounted his motorcycle, Grant called out, ‘‘Hey!’’
Payton turned his head.
‘‘Where’d you get that sword?’’ Grant asked.
Payton roared the bike’s engine to life.
‘‘It was constructed centuries ago for a singular purpose,’’ he replied. ‘‘To slay the Bringer.’’
46
‘‘He always had quick reflexes,’’ Morgan explained an hour later to Grant from behind her desk in the Common Room. Fletcher had joined them, and Julie sat beside Grant, applying bandages to his cuts. ‘‘I never made the connection until today that his reflexes could be his mental gift . . .’’
She was silent for so long that even Julie stopped what she was doing—applying a large bandage around Grant’s stomach—to look up.
The stillness of the room caught up with her finally, and Morgan snapped out of her reverie.
‘‘I’m sorry,’’ she said. ‘‘I can’t reconcile the man I knew with the man we just met. And I can’t help suspecting that it’s all my fault . . .’’
Grant allowed her a moment before he spoke again. ‘‘I don’t understand how extra brain power enables his body to move faster.’’
Alex approached from behind. ‘‘Your physical body is regulated by your mental processes,’’ she said. ‘‘It’s basic physics, sweetie. The neurons that sen
d commands from his brain to the rest of his body move at an accelerated rate—that’s his mental gift. It’s all connected, so his muscles are able to react equally fast. But it only gives him a quick burst of speed. He couldn’t maintain it.’’
‘‘Oh good, it’s the turncoat,’’ Fletcher mumbled.
‘‘So, he can’t run that fast?’’ Grant asked.
‘‘He could for a few seconds. Enough to get out of sight, disorient his target.’’
Grant, Julie, and Fletcher were so caught up in her explanation that they never saw Morgan rise from her chair as Alex was talking. The pop they heard was their first indication.
Morgan had shoved Alex roughly into a chair and smacked her across the face.
‘‘Do you know how hard we’ve worked to keep this place a secret!’’ Morgan shouted at Alex, her hands on the chair’s armrests, leaning in. ‘‘To have found a place where we can live without worrying about being found? Did thoughts like these even cross your mind while in Drexel’s custody, or did you ever manage to stop thinking about yourself?’’
Alex glared at her as everyone watched.
‘‘I didn’t tell him about this place. I did tell him about you, Grant,’’ she added with a fleeting glance at Julie, ‘‘and I would have told him more if he had asked me. I couldn’t stop myself.’’
Grant studied her. ‘‘What, he used some kind of truth agent on you?’’
She nodded.
Morgan was taken aback by this, and returned to her chair, sullen and dismayed. ‘‘I’m sorry.’’
‘‘Wait a second,’’ Julie broke in. ‘‘Just thought of something . . . Pay-ton called your ring a Seal. The Seal. He said its ‘time’ was almost here.’’
Morgan turned to Julie, picking up on her train of thought. ‘‘And Marta told me that Grant would find out the truth soon. Then there is the prophecy on the stone tablet.’’
Grant finally caught on. ‘‘Whatever’s happening to me—the Shift, the powers, the Forging, all of it—it’s unfolding according to some kind of timetable.’’
‘‘You know,’’ Fletcher griped. ‘‘I had this figured out weeks ago, but does anyone ever listen to me?’’
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