Renegade

by Rachel Starr Thomson

  She straightened out of her crouch and lowered her sword as the men came around the bend, six of them, armed. Two of them went after the beast with a leash made of chain links; the others stalked into the water toward April.

  “Don’t try to run,” the leader announced.

  “If you didn’t notice, I’m not,” she said.

  This time the men produced more chains, with fetters, and April sighed as her sword dissolved. She held her hands out and let them bind her. The leader approached and nodded at the chains.

  “That’s for the trouble you caused us,” he said. He motioned toward the beast. “You’re smart, I’ll give you that . . . don’t know how you knocked him off his course, but it’s a good thing for all of us you did.”

  “What exactly do you get out of this?” April asked. “I doubt you’re doing this for giggles.”

  The man smiled. He was younger than some of the others, maybe thirty-five, but his face was scarred and his eyes were hard. “What do you think I get? Lots and lots of money.”

  “Is that worth it? I’m not the only one you’re going to hurt if you work with Bertoller.”

  “Do you think I mind hurting people?”

  She gave up trying to talk to him as he grabbed her arm and shoved her forward, barely catching her when she stumbled in the waves. To them, her escape had to look like sheer annoyance—a mad dash for freedom that had availed her nothing and cost them time and energy in chasing her.

  They had no idea how much the escape actually had availed her—how much the encounter underwater had changed things for her.

  Even she didn’t really have much of an idea of that.

  She only knew that it had. And in the confidence of that knowledge, she found that she was not afraid.

  * * *

  Chris’s fingers shook with adrenaline as he dialled a number on the pay phone, praying this would work. It was his third call—the first to Lieutenant Jackson, who promised to send out cops to look for Miranda, the second to information to get this number.

  Someone picked up. A man.

  “Is this Andrew Hunter?” Chris asked.

  “Yes. Who is this?”

  “My name is Chris Sawyer. I don’t have a lot of time to explain, but sir, someone has your daughter.”

  “My . . . who is this?”

  “I want to help her, but I need a car and someone to back me up. Can you meet me?” He named the little town where he’d found himself when he emerged from the woods, a forty-five-minute drive from Lincoln.

  “I’ll be there,” Hunter said.

  Chris specified a meeting place—across the street, at the post office where he’d spotted several fairly big men working. Might as well add extra backup if Bertoller’s men tracked him somehow.

  He hoped reaching out to Andrew Hunter was the right thing to do. He knew nothing about the man.

  He just knew that if he was a father, and his daughter was in trouble, he would want to know. Would have a right to know. A right that Jacob had been denying this man far too long.

  Andrew Hunter arrived half an hour later—having sped all the way from Lincoln, if Chris had to guess. He was tall, fit, even athletic, but with an earnest expression and glasses that gave him a bookish air. He cut straight to the chase.

  “What do you know about my daughter? What’s going on?”

  “Miranda’s been kidnapped,” Chris said. “I want to find her, but I’ll need your help.”

  It was a long story, and Chris told it, keeping his voice low, while they drank coffee in a small cafe next to the post office. Hunter clutched his cup like a lifeline when Chris referenced Julie’s being shot—“although the eyewitness says she wasn’t killed,” he said, fudging the story a bit. It might be better not to bring up strange lights and resurrections at this stage of the game.

  “When I saw the news about Julie, I didn’t know what to think. I’ve been trying to reach her for years,” Hunter said when Chris stopped. “Called, sent letters. I even tried to see her—three times—but she wouldn’t come out of the house. The third time they just ran me off the property.”

  “It’s possible she didn’t know you were there,” Chris said, choosing his words carefully. “The man leading that group—”

  “Jacob,” Andrew said bitterly. “The man who ruined my life.”

  “Him. I’m not sure he told Julie you were writing. I found your letters in a file cabinet in his office. That’s how I knew to contact you.”

  Andrew stared into his coffee cup, and Chris continued. “Miranda certainly didn’t know—she thinks you’re dead. She was with me when I found the files, but I didn’t tell her . . . figured it was better for her to find out under different circumstances.”

  “I’ll do whatever it takes to get her back,” Andrew said.

  Chris smiled. “Yeah. I thought you would.”

  “But why call me? Why not call the police?”

  “I did call the police,” Chris said, “but I’m going in on my own too. I’ve tangled with these people before, and the police aren’t . . . well. There are unusual circumstances. I wanted someone to back me whose stakes were as high as mine.”

  “You found the right man,” Andrew said, fervently. “Stakes . . . what are yours?”

  “The girl I love,” Chris said.

  Andrew reached across the table, and they shook—a firm, strong handshake.

  “I’ll do whatever you need. Tell me what’s first.”

  “First . . .” Chris hesitated. “First, I give you the lowdown on the extenuating circumstances. These guys we’re going after are not just thugs. They’re plugged into some kind of spiritual power, and they’re going after more of it.”

  Andrew nodded. “Sounds like Jacob.”

  “What do you know about Jacob?” Chris asked.

  Andrew’s face flushed. “That he’s dangerous and the worst kind of thief. And very convincing and charming. He almost talked both of us into joining his community—Julie and me. We liked the rural aspect, and the way of life he was teaching—it was simple, cleaner somehow than what we were used to. But then he started sharing with me more of what he was into, just ‘man to man,’ he said. He was trying to harness some kind of spiritual power, and it was dark. I said I wanted nothing to do with it. Next I knew, Julie said she was leaving me and joining the community, and she accused me of betraying Jacob and falsely accusing him. He got to her somehow. Don’t know how, but he did.” He clenched his fists on the table. “When I heard about Julie being killed . . .”

  “Jacob didn’t shoot her,” Chris said. “But I won’t tell you he’s innocent. She got into trouble because of him. But listen, I’ve got good reason to believe Julie is alive. After we get Miranda back, I’ll help you find her too.”

  “Thank you,” Andrew said. “Anything I can do for you . . . you just tell me.”

  “I’ve got a few people I want to find,” Chris said. “I just might take you up on that.”

  “So,” Andrew said, “where do we start? Do you know where those men have taken Miranda?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know how to contact them?”

  “No, not that either. And I don’t think they’re interested in talking to me, so we shouldn’t expect ransom notes.”

  Andrew looked frustrated. “So how were you planning to get started?”

  “By asking someone who will know where she is.” Chris paused. “Someone with watchers everywhere.”

  Chapter 13

  Tyler stared wide-eyed as Jacob dragged the animal into the cleft between the dunes where he had stacked firewood. It wasn’t a deer—not big enough. Some kind of goat, he realized. It was still alive, and kicking feebly.

  “This is wrong,” he said, a salt breeze blowing in his face. Jacob ignored him, still dragging the goat toward the pile of wood. “This is wrong!” he said, louder this time.

  Jacob answered. “I am doing what I have to do. Don’t get in the way.”

  He hauled the goat up
and landed it heavily atop the stack of wood.

  “You really think this is going to work?” Tyler squeaked.

  Jacob glared at him, fiery-eyed. “Clam up and help me light the fire. No words—I don’t want you saying something that will mess it up.”

  Tyler hesitantly moved to Jacob’s side, and the bigger man clamped a hand on his arm. He stared up into his eyes.

  “No prayer. You understand me? You start reaching for the Spirit, and you will lose my chance to reach the help I need.”

  Tyler wanted to say, He would answer you too.

  If you’d let him.

  But he didn’t say it. He wasn’t sure it was true.

  Tyler felt his breath coming faster as Jacob searched his pockets for matches. The air was starting to darken, as it had when the flock had gathered overhead in the mountains. He could feel presences, personalities, wills, in the darkness, and they made his skin crawl.

  It didn’t matter what Jacob said—he couldn’t let this happen.

  “You can’t do this,” he said, raising his voice to make sure Jacob heard him.

  “Shut. Up.”

  “You can’t. You’re Oneness. You start playing with demons, and you’re going to make something terrible happen. This is wrong, Jacob. You have to stop it.”

  Tyler balled his hands into fists and stepped forward, ready to throw himself at the older, bigger man, and probably get the beating of his life. All he knew was that Jacob couldn’t be allowed to do this, and if Tyler was here for any reason, it was to stop him.

  Jacob found matches and bent to get the fire started, ignoring Tyler.

  So he did the one thing Jacob had commanded him not to do.

  Prayed.

  “Spirit!” he said loudly. Almost shouted. “Spirit, come and stop this! Come and carry us out of here!”

  He could feel opposition in the air around him—the invisible spirits squirming and glaring and protesting his action.

  “We are your sons!” Tyler called. “Come and help us!”

  Jacob launched himself at him.

  The expression in his eyes was murderous.

  Tyler jumped out of his way and circled to the other side of the pyre, still calling. “Come and stop this! Please, help us!”

  The darkness around them grew thick as pitch and threatened to suffocate Tyler where he stood. The goat began to bleat frantically.

  Without thinking, just somehow inspired, he closed the gap between himself and Jacob, grabbed Jacob’s shirt, and hauled him upward, shouting, “This is my brother! Don’t leave him behind!”

  He didn’t even know when he had realized his feet were leaving the ground, that he was being pulled up, out, free of the black air and the creatures filling it. But it was happening—and with his hands full of Jacob’s cotton shirt, he was hauling the bigger man along with them.

  * * *

  The shadows over the desert were deepening.

  Reese wasn’t even sure how that was possible—she couldn’t see clouds in the sky, and surely not enough hours had passed for it to be evening. Yet, her surroundings were growing darker.

  More ominous.

  Once again, she wondered what had happened—how she had ended up here. She thought the demons must have dragged her down.

  The landscape was anything but smooth, and she found herself picking through boulder fields, dodging thorny scrub, and struggling up and down inclines as much as travelling smoothly. She could still see the mountains off in the distance, orienting her to the points of the compass, and kept struggling southwest, trying to move toward the coast and toward Lincoln at the same time.

  She had to get there—had to find Bertoller, stop him, avenge Julie, help Jacob.

  If Jacob made it there himself. Who knew? Maybe what had happened to her had happened to Tyler and Jacob too. Maybe the Spirit had simply dropped them, and they had fallen—maybe no one had been there to catch them.

  The darkness of her own thoughts frightened her.

  She worked her way up a slope that dropped sharply off on the other side, leading into an empty creek bed.

  She stumbled at the sight that met her eyes.

  Chris was there, sitting with his back against the bank, waiting for her.

  “What’s taken you so long?” he asked. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

  Why was he smiling? And why was she so thirsty?

  “Chris?”

  “Who do you think I am? Santa Claus?”

  “No,” she said, slowly, her tongue thick in her mouth. “No, I think you’re one of them. Again.”

  Her sword had formed in her hand.

  As automatic a response to demonic presence as swallowing to a mouthful of water.

  Chris’s form didn’t change, but something in his eyes did—they hollowed and went dark. She was glad—she wasn’t sure she could handle Chris’s eyes right now.

  “We can bring you together,” the demon said in Chris’s voice.

  “I don’t need your help.”

  “We would not keep you apart. We don’t need your loyalty. We only want to serve.”

  She closed her eyes. “Shut up.”

  “He really is searching for you.”

  Her eyes snapped open. “Where? Where is he?”

  “Oh, now you want our help.”

  She didn’t think this was the same demon she had talked to earlier, in David’s body—this one was more mocking.

  On the good side, that took away from the sting of its words—a little. It felt like talking to an enemy.

  But maybe that was part of the point—putting an enemy in Chris’s body. Just to underscore the conflict she’d always felt about him. She wanted to love Chris. Wanted to be loved by him. Was loved by him—at least, she thought she was.

  But she was Oneness, and he was not, and that made their love impossible in any romantic sense.

  A fact she hated.

  Romance wasn’t usual to the Oneness anyway. The connection between all was so deep that it made marriage almost superfluous. But it happened now and again. And was life-changing when it did.

  It was partly why Jacob’s loss of his first wife had been so deep, so horrendous. And why she wanted to help him bring Bertoller to justice.

  She could not imagine losing Chris, and they were not even anything more than friends.

  “I’m afraid his search for you isn’t going well,” the demon said, the hollow eyes eerie in Chris’s face.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Someone may have found him first.”

  “Someone?” Her blood ran cold. “Bertoller?”

  “Oh, now you want our help?” The demon was fading, Chris’s form disappearing from before her eyes. She wanted to reach out, hold him there, stop the disintegration.

  She almost begged it not to go.

  It was gone. She dropped to her knee in the creek bed, laying her crutch down beside her, and allowed herself to wish for water, for Chris, for help.

  Where was Chris? And what was happening to him?

  And why—why—was she so alone?

  The air was still darkening. Almost as though smoke were filling it, but there was no smell, no taste, no clouds. Only shadows and deepening dark.

  Her whole body hurt. Her leg ached from the ankle up, and she was sore and bruised from fighting and walking and stumbling and just from loneliness and anger and frustration, hang it.

  But it didn’t even matter. It didn’t matter how she felt. She just had to find Jacob—and now Chris. She just had to make something, anything right.

  She just had to bring Bertoller down.

  And David.

  The last thought took a moment to even register.

  Why had she thought that?

  Why did she care what happened to David?

  Because the demon had said he was just going to be released. They wouldn’t even keep him in prison. And he would go right back to destroying others, like he had destroyed her, and he wouldn’t even pay . . .
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  He wouldn’t even pay.

  She stared her own heart in the mirror as those words repeated themselves.

  “So that’s what this is all about?” she said aloud. “You want revenge.”

  Silence. Nothing in her argued back. She just let the words sink in, let them hang in the air.

  “That’s why you keep calling demons,” she told herself. “Because you want revenge. Because you haven’t forgiven him. You’re a walking demon magnet.”

  She laughed—surprised at the bitterness in her own tone. She was dragging the demons around behind her on a chain of bitterness, refusing to let it go.

  And that meant, somehow, she had let the darkness into her own heart. That chaos was eating away at her, cankering her soul, ulcerating what was left of the Spirit in her life.

  Yes. She had felt that. The hollow at the core of who she was—the growing distance from the Oneness—the pain that would not go away.

  “But I need to be healed!” she cried out. “I can’t just . . . can’t just let it go.”

  She found herself doubled over, arms wrapped around her stomach where the hollow was, the massive, gaping hole that wanted to swallow her from the inside. Around her, it was dark as night. A cry started from somewhere deep within her and rose, climbing in volume until it shook her as she loosed it, a long cry of pain and rage.

  There were faces gathering in the darkness, looming over her. One figure, tall and broad, stood before her with bear-like, clawed hands spread out on either side of her head. Offering her vision once again.

  “Show me,” she choked out.

  The hands closed on either side of her.

  She saw April first—running along a beach, with a massive, muscled beast bounding behind her. As she watched, the beast leaped and brought April down, its claws skewering her shoulders. Men followed, carrying chains and guns.

  Then she saw Julie shot in an alley at night, city lights illuminating the scene, falling, dead.

  She saw Miranda crying, wailing, squirming in a desperate attempt to get away from men who held both her arms—

  And then Chris, being chased through the woods. As she watched, bullets whizzed through the air behind him and burst through his chest, too many to count, and he sprawled dead on the ground.