by Mark Teppo
Mere is out of the pool—her dress clinging to her body, her hair wet and tangled. Standing partially behind her, his right side exposed enough that I can see the pistol in his hand, is Tony Belfast. He's wearing a dark sweater and slacks, the pants missing the numerous pockets typical of assault gear, but I have no doubt he'd be equally comfortable in that get up at a gallery opening as he is right now.
“Put it down,” he says.
I set the safety and grab the sling as I let go of the weapon. It drops and hangs a few centimeters above the ground, swaying back and forth.
Mere is shivering.
“Let her go,” I say.
“I can't do that,” Belfast says.
“Why not? She's not an Arcadian.”
“I know,” Belfast says. He doesn't say anything else, waiting for me to figure it out. Mere gets it first. “They want me too,” she says, her teeth chattering.
“She's a smart woman,” he says. “A pain in the ass too, from what I hear, But hey, not my decision. I just follow orders.”
“Yeah,” I say, “there's a lot of that going around.”
“Can I offer you some advice?” he says, stepping behind Mere so I can't see him as well. He puts his free hand on her shoulder. “Get some perspective. I don't think your masters have your best interest in mind.”
There's nearly twenty yards separating us. He'll be able to pull the trigger at least once before I can cover that ground. And if I try to shoot him, he'll just shield himself behind her. Any move I make has deadly consequences for Mere, and so I do nothing as he starts to back away.
A scuffling noise of leather sole against brick sounds to my left, and I turn my head a fraction, still trying to keep an eye on Belfast and Mere.
“He's all yours,” Belfast calls out, pulling Mere with him as he starts to walk backward.
I turn my head more and catch a glimpse of Alberto Montoya as he launches himself off the wall. I whip the strap up, swinging the gun like a mace as he flies toward me. The gun hits him in the head, doing absolutely nothing to distract him, and he plows into me, forcing me back several steps. Far enough that I tumble into the pool.
At least I drag him with me.
Underwater, there are no shadows and everything is cool and blue. We're in the deep end, and I let myself sink down to the bottom where I can launch myself upward off the tiled floor. Alberto is swimming overhead, spread out like a frog, and I come up fast. He twists as I hit him in the stomach, bending around me as we both break the surface of the pool. He tries to headbutt me, but missing, cracking his skull against the tip of my shoulder. I don't try to hit him; I just hang on, and when we fall back into the pool, I'm on top. Kicking ferociously, I drive us down to the bottom, trying to drive him head-first into the tile.
His shoulder hits first, and a flood of air comes rushing out his mouth. He claws at me, trying to tear my clothes. Trying to get at what lies underneath. I punch him in the left arm—somewhere in the vicinity of the ragged hole left by Phoebe's sniper bullet—and I'm rewarded with more bubbles coming from his mouth. And a thin strand of blood, swirling like smoke as it leaks out of the hole in his jacket.
He twists away from me. Since he's got the bottom beneath him his leverage is better, and when he gets his feet up and against my thighs, I know I'm going to lose this contest. He shoves, and I let go, letting the power of his kick send me rocketing back toward the surface of the pool.
I don't go after him. Breaking the surface like a rising whale, I suck in a lungful of air and swim for the edge. Whoever gets out first will have a height advantage against the other. I haul myself out of the pool, swipe the water from my face, and look for Alberto.
As I'm tracking the dark shape under the water, out of the corner of my eye I notice movement along the edge of the pool. Throat punch isn't dead, and he has rolled onto his side and he's got his gun pointed in my direction.
I dart for the shallow end, a direction that he can't track very well from his position, as bullets chew up the pavement where I had been standing a moment before.
There's no sign of Mere or Belfast. With a growl, I launch myself across the width of the pool. Throat punch senses me landing behind him, and he tries to roll over, but he's awfully slow.
This time I make sure he stays down.
Grabbing one of the other guns lying nearby, I pepper the water with bullets, letting Alberto know it isn't safe to come out of the water yet. Grabbing an extra set of magazines, I run for the wall separating the pool from the parking lot.
Mere and Belfast went out the wrong side of the pool. They're going to have to go all the way around to get to the parking lot. By heading straight for the wall, I'll make up a lot of lost ground.
I leap over the wall, landing in the park lot. A half-dozen rows over, I spot two figures hurrying toward a dark SUV with its lights on.
Alberto body-checks me, and I sprawl against the pavement, losing the gun. I spin, trying to get back to my feet, and he clips me across the chin with a vicious kick. I keep spinning and slam against a sedan, setting off its alarm. He follows up the kick with several hard punches to my kidneys.
He's strong and well-fed. Even after the protein cram at dinner, I'm not well enough to go the distance with him.
He hits me again, and I fall to my knees. His next kick bounces me off the car I'm kneeling beside, and my head leaves a nice dent in the back of the trunk.
Alberto is on me before I can get my bearings, and he drags me to my feet, throwing me into the back window of the car. I go halfway through the frame, shards of glass raking across my chest. The inside of the car is dark and there's something wet filling my left eye socket. The car alarm is wailing, and the lights on the dashboard wink on and off in time with the siren. I scrabble for anything that might be useful as a weapon, my hand sliding across the leather seat, and then I'm dragged out of the car by my feet. Alberto grunts as he pivots, throwing me across the aisle. I slam into another car, creasing the trunk and fracturing the back window.
I start to slide off the car, and he's right there to help, bodily slamming me onto the pavement. The wind is knocked out of me, and before I can get my breath back, he plants himself on my chest so that he can pound my face with his fists.
Bones moves unnaturally in my cheek after the third punch, and I can't see anything out of my left eye now. I try to shift beneath him, but he's a ten ton rock sitting on my pelvis. He hits me again and I feel something snap near the back of my jaw.
I'm suddenly back on the ship, fleeing from Troy. The storm is trying to capsize our leaking boat, the wounded soldiers are cowering down on the benches, and the masts are moaning as the winds try to tear through our canvas sails. No one expects to survive the night. Troy is behind us—its towers burning, its street slick with blood. Only Aeneas is laughing, his hand firm on the tiller. We are being reborn. We are no longer who we were.
I was a soldier of Troy, and then I became a soldier of Arcadia. I fought, bled, died for others. Time and again, my dead flesh was buried beneath Mother's roots, where I was reborn. Cleansed. Purified. My hands clean of blood. My mind free to make the same mistakes again and again.
I used to hear the voice of the Goddess in bird song. I used to be able to read the stars. I used to be able to see the shape of what might be. I gave all of that up when I let them bury me. I did so willingly because I thought I was getting something better.
Alberto breaks my nose. He knocks teeth loose in my mouth. With my one good eye, I can see his face above me—his lips pulled back from his teeth in a feral grin. I can feel his hips grind against me with each blow; I can feel how much he's enjoying beating me to death.
I see the ceremonial circle at the edge of the cliff near Orongo. The ring of torches, guttering and smoking. The natives, their faces painted white and black. Their naked bodies shining with whale fat to keep them warm in the water. The feathered headdress. The white wings. The steward with her dark eyes and dark hair. Hating me. Hating Arcadia.
I killed the matriarch of his familial clan. I put a knife in her chest, tore out her heart, and tossed her body off the cliff.
I was following orders.
Alberto stops hitting me. He's breathing heavily and he raises his reddened knuckles to his mouth so that he can taste my blood. I want to tell him something, but my jaw doesn't work. My throat is filling with blood; all I can do is choke and sputter, spewing my life all over his jacket.
He shivers as he tastes me, the electric sensation of fresh blood lighting up the pleasure receptors in his brain. Making him want more. Making him thirsty. He licks his knuckles again, his hips pressing against me as he leans forward. The thirst is rising in him. My face is a bloody mess, and the smell is going right into his brain. When he reaches for me again, it's not with a fist, but with an open hand. He's done playing. He's going to drain me now. Drain every last ounce of my life from my tired body.
I wait until he lowers his head, opening his mouth and showing me his teeth. And then I hit him with the only part of my head that isn't wrecked—the crown of my skull. The hard part. It's a glancing blow, mashing his nose enough to draw blood but not enough to break it. More importantly, he jerks his head back and shifts his weight.
I buck him off and roll away. He gets a hand on my pant leg, and I twist around, getting both of my hands on his and snap two of his fingers back before he lets go.
The face is the least dangerous tool a fighter has. Alberto should have focused on making sure I couldn't fight back before knocking my bones around. I'm down an eye, but both of my hands still work. This fight isn't over.
I leap and scramble over a pair of cars, and I get as far as the hood of the second car when he catches up, slamming into me and knocking me off the car. I spin off the car, landing on my right knee which distracts me momentarily from the pain in my face. He lands nearby, and tries to stomp on my chest. I evade his descending foot, and as I roll across the parking lot pavement, I pass over a ridged metal shape—a manhole cover. Stamped steel, and heavy.
I roll back, slipping two fingers into the access slot of the manhole cover. Alberto steps in, meaning to break some ribs with his foot, and I wrench the cover up. The force of his kick knocks the cover into me, but I take far less of the impact than he does.
He howls, stumbling as he tries to keep the weight off his foot. I swing the manhole cover in an arc and catch him across the other ankle. He comes down to the ground and gets his arms up in time to deflect my first attack, but it rocks him up on his side. He tries to turn the motion into a roll, but I bang the edge of the manhole cover against the back of his hip and lower back. He flops onto his face, and I scramble across the pavement. He tries to get up and I hit him in the back of the skull, ricocheting his face off the pavement. Flipping the steel cover around in my hand, I bring the edge down on the curve of his back, and he flops down again and goes limp.
He'll live but he'll be paralyzed until he can get a lot of dirt time. I decide I don't want to give him another chance to come after me, and I swing the manhole cover down again, putting a lot of force in the blow. Right across the back of his neck. The pavement dents, and his head rolls to the side, no longer connected to his body.
There's a lot of blood spurting from the ragged stump of his neck, and I collapse to my knees, whimpering with pain as my tongue forces my jaw to move. I'm head down, trying to lap up blood like a wounded dog, when I hear the sound of tires screeching against pavement.
Mere. Belfast. The SUV.
Growling and gagging with rage and frustration, I tear myself away from the bloody mess of Alberto Montoya. His blood mixes with mine, and it's a glorious taste. The pain of my shattered face recedes, and as I run, I don't feel anything in my right kneecap. The manhole cover, its rim edged with gore, is as light as a Frisbee in my hands.
When I get to the road, I spot the receding lights of the SUV on my right. I chase after it, and when its brake lights flare, I change my step and hurl the manhole cover like a discus. It's larger and heavier than the ones we used to throw in our seasonal games, but it is aerodynamic enough. As the SUV slows, making a right turn, the manhole cover shears into its back end, cutting through the paneling and destroying one of the back tires. The SUV slews widely, a rooster tail of sparks trailing behind it, and it slams into an oncoming car in the other lane.
The passenger side doors open, spilling two dark shapes out into the street. They orient on me, tiny spurts of flame flickering from their guns as they start shooting. As I dodge behind a car parked along the street, a black sedan shoots past me.
As the car nears the intersection, the driver slams on the brake, twisting the wheel to the left. The car skids, putting its length between me and the gunmen. I hear two muffled reports, noise suppressor on a larger gun, and both gunmen are knocked off their feet. Another cough, and the back window of the SUV shatters.
The driver of the sedan looks back at me. I don't recognize her at first—her skin is too tan and her hair is black. But I know that face; I know those eyes. The long barrel of a sniper rifle is propped up on the open passenger side window.
“Phoebe,” I croak.
One of the other doors of the SUV opens and a slender figure in a blue dress spills out.
“Get her,” Phoebe says without the slightest inflection in her voice. As if she hasn't been missing for the last few weeks. As if it wasn't her an hour ago putting rounds through the window of Montoya's penthouse.
I stagger toward Mere, who is shakily moving toward the black sedan, trying her best not to look at the pair of dead men on the ground beside her. My legs start shaking as I near the car, and I lean against the trunk, trying to breathe. Mere is close enough that she can see my face, and she shakes her head in horror at what she sees. There are black lines running down her face, a combination of shadows and mascara.
White bird. Black lines. Red blood.
I close my eyes and see Jacinta's face one more time, and then I don't know anything else but darkness.
BOOK FIVE
DENDRA
THIRTY-TWO
As I wake, I start to dig.
My body knows what to do. I'm not even fully conscious yet, but already my hands are scrabbling at the dirt around me. It's dry and loose, and my skin tingles from having been buried for… more than a few days. My clawed hand breaks through, and I've shifted enough in my makeshift grave to get my feet under my body and shove my way to the surface.
I flop on the ground, spitting dirt out of my mouth. My jaw aches, but it moves like it should, and I spend a few moments exploring my face with my fingers. My skin is tender in places and my eyes water if I press too hard on the bridge of my nose, but my face has healed.
It's just as Escobar said. We can heal ourselves. It isn't a truly revolutionary idea—any time in the humus heals—and most of the minor scrapes and cuts I've sustained over the last few weeks are gone. But I needed serious work on my face, and my other wounds were still tainted by the weed killer. I can still feel the poisons in my blood, too, but their influence has been lessened. I am stained now, instead of being foul, and the act of making such a distinction is troubling.
I'm in the shade of several palm trees, behind a nondescript villa with a plain porch. The setting sun makes the sere hills glow, and the sky overhead is vast and blue and I can see the glint of a few stars already. Next to the villa is the tall trunk of an aged monkey-puzzle tree, its burred branches curling like simian tails. I smell the air, and it's clean and dry with just a hint of fermenting fruit. It's the wrong season to be growing grapes, but there are vineyards nearby.
There's a light on in the villa. I drag myself out of the grave and brush off the worst of the dirt and dust. I'm not wearing any shoes, and it feels good to walk across the tiny yard with bare feet.
There's a screen door in the back of the villa, and the interior door is open. Through the wire mesh, I spot Mere standing in the kitchen. She's standing at the counter, preparing a plate of fruit, and she'
s wearing tan cotton pants and a cerulean-colored top. Her hair is pulled back but left unrestrained. She glances up as I enter, and then goes back to finishing the task at hand. “Well,” she says, “there you are.” As calmly as if I was just returning from a walk.
“Here I am,” I reply somewhat hoarsely. My throat is dry. “And where is here?”
A ghost of a smile crosses her lips. “About an hour outside of La Serena, up the Valle de Elqui.”
I nod, though I'm not sure of where that is.
“About a day's travel north of Santiago,” she says. “It's a bit of a tourist spot, what with the observatories and all the pisco distillers, but Phoebe said the soil was good.”
“It is,” I say. “How long have you been waiting for me?” I ask. There are several dozen other questions queuing up behind that one. Observatories? Pisco distilleries? La Serena? And, farther back: Montoya; Belfast and Secutores; Jacinta and the garden on Rapa Nui; my role in what happened on the island. And Phoebe. Where had she come from? How long had she been watching us?
“Five days,” she says. She looks at me again out of the corner of her eye and she can't quite suppress the shudder that runs up her arms.
“My face is healed,” I give voice to what she doesn't want to acknowledge.
“I can see that,” she says, visibly tensing. “I couldn't handle it,” she continues. “I had Phoebe pull over before we had even left the city. It was either you or I in the trunk. The back seat wasn't good enough. I could still hear you trying to breathe through…” She raises her hand toward her face. “And I let Phoebe dig the hole out back. I couldn't look at you. It was awful, Silas. It was really awful.”
“I'm sorry, Mere. I didn't do it on purpose.”
She chokes out a laugh. “Did you kill him?”
Him being Alberto Montoya. “Yes.”
“And is the rest true too?”
“That I killed Escobar's wife? Yes.”
She finishes preparing the fruit and brings the plate over to the table. She sits down, and when she doesn't say otherwise, I join her, figuring that there will be time enough to talk about everything.
