The Wild Road

by Marjorie M. Liu

  Think of the woman. You need to hold it together. Walls are nothing. Walls are not stone on your skin or the bars of a cage. The witch is dead. The wicked witch at last is dead. Let the joyous news be spread, Lannes told himself, reciting from The Wizard of OZ. All he needed now was a heart and a brain, and some courage. Anything, to help the woman near him find her way home.

  The woman said, “This isn’t over. I’m afraid I’m going to hurt someone else.”

  Her certainty was as disquieting as her self-loathing. Lannes rolled onto his side. “What do you want to do?”

  “I want to stop it,” she said immediately. “Find who’s doing this. Learn why.”

  “First thing you have to stop is blaming yourself.”

  Her jaw tightened. “It was my hands that did the deed. That puts Orwell Price’s death inside me.”

  You take too much responsibility, Lannes wanted to tell her, but he knew what it was like to second-guess things that could not be changed. So he said, “I called my brother. Explained the situation to him. He’s going to look for more information on Price.”

  She paled. “Did you tell him what happened at the house?”

  “I had to.”

  “And?”

  “And, nothing. I told you, he’s going to help. Find the connections.”

  “She called Orwell a murderer. She, me, whatever.”

  “If someone was murdered, there should be a way to link Price to it, no matter how distant in the past.”

  The woman shuddered. But that was all. No hysterics, no tears. Just calm, grim determination. “That doesn’t explain how anyone managed to reach into my mind. I must be crazy, to believe it—that minds can be hijacked, stolen. But I felt it. And as for you…”

  She did not finish. Lannes was afraid to ask. The woman pulled the covers higher over her shoulder.

  Sometime later, when he thought she was asleep—when he was almost asleep—she said, “I want to trust you.”

  “So trust me,” he said, and closed his eyes again. He heard her near-silent sigh. Listened to her toss and turn. He did not move or look at her. He tried not to think about how he was alone with a woman in a motel room. There was a joke in there somewhere.

  His wings ached. So did his heart. He kept his eyes shut, and eventually he fell asleep.

  It was a bad, hard sleep. He dreamed. The moon was in the sky, filled with blood, and beneath him was no sea, no trees, no earth to fall upon. Merely stone, a living breathing stone, reaching up to grab him. He could not fly fast enough from it. He could not, no matter how hard he tried. Body heavy, wings weary, all his strength ebbing into sorrow. Magic, entirely out of reach. Helpless. Feeble. Stone touched him. He screamed—

  And opened his eyes at the exact moment his fist connected with a soft body. A body that made a small sound of pain and rolled off the bed. Lannes stared, shocked and horrified. He scrambled forward, his claws digging into the covers, ripping them. The bed frame shook.

  The woman lay on the floor, propped up on her elbow. One hand was holding her shoulder. She looked dazed.

  Lannes fell beside her. He moved devoid of his usual caution—everything shook with his weight—but he did not touch her, and she hardly seemed to notice the minor earthquake his landing caused. He was so much larger than she. So much stronger. And her trust…her trust was already so tenuous. If he had hurt her…

  “I’m sorry,” he said, breathless. “I’m so sorry.”

  She shook her head. “You were dreaming.”

  “I hurt you.” Lannes began to reach for her and stopped, afraid. But she shook her head again, and leaned toward him, just slightly, as she tried to push herself up.

  He held his breath and placed one hand ever so carefully against her back. Her hair draped over his skin. Fine, feathery, soft as silk.

  “Did I hit your shoulder?” His voice was so rough, so painful, he felt as though he had swallowed glass.

  “I think so,” she said, and winced. “Yes, definitely.”

  He briefly closed his eyes. “You should see a doctor.”

  “No.”

  “Please.”

  “No. It’s not that bad.”

  “I hit you hard.”

  “Yes,” she said, her voice far more gentle than he deserved. “But you were in a bad place.”

  A bad place. No worse than the place she was in.

  Lannes swallowed hard. “If you won’t see a doctor, then at least…at least let me see your shoulder. Of if you aren’t comfortable with that, then go to the bathroom and use the mirror. Just…please. Being punched by me is not a good thing.”

  Her mouth tilted into a sad smile. “Given how dirty my own hands are, I don’t think I have a right to complain.”

  “Don’t think like that.”

  “I killed a man,” she said, and lay back down on the floor, wincing. Her eyes stared up at the ceiling. She blinked once, twice. Tears glistened. Her voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. “I killed him.”

  Lannes hung his head, miserable. His wings ached. He leaned back against the edge of the bed, a good foot between himself and the woman…and all he wanted was to close the distance. Even just to take her hand.

  “Please,” he rumbled. “Please, listen to me.”

  “I already know what you’re going to say.”

  Lannes braced his hand on the ground and leaned close, almost hovering over her. It was the kind of posture that might have been construed as threatening, but he needed to look into her eyes. He was ready to pull away if she seemed uncomfortable.

  But she did not flinch, her gaze did not waver, and all he saw in her eyes was a pain that went so deep, was so wild, he felt hit with it, punished, as though it were his body lost to the will of another—as if his life, his mind, his heart, were all subject to whims not his own.

  He knew this. He understood. Better than anyone could. He wished he could tell her. But that would have required opening up an entire world, more secrets than simply his own. Not his right. It just wasn’t.

  Just as she was not his.

  “You were used,” he said. “You believe that, don’t you? You’ve said as much.”

  “Yes,” she whispered, “I know it.”

  “So don’t waste time being angry at yourself. Don’t blame yourself for things you can’t change.” Lannes hesitated, considering his words—feeling as though he were talking to himself. “The past is done. You have to keep fighting. You have to find the person doing this to you and stop them.”

  She closed her eyes. “I don’t know how.”

  “You don’t have to,” he promised her. “You’re not alone.”

  Her face crumpled, and she rolled away from him. Sat up slowly. He did not touch her but watched as she stood, swaying. Her hand gripped her shoulder. She limped to the bathroom and shut the door.

  Lannes sat, staring. His mind was numb, empty. He heard water run. Then, suddenly, the door opened a crack. The woman said, “I think I need help.”

  He was on his feet in an instant, at the bathroom in a heartbeat. She stepped back as he pushed open the door, and the space immediately felt too small for them both. She was a tall woman, and he felt huge compared to her. Awkward, lumbering, ill at ease. A fumbling, violent fool.

  He hung back. The woman, her face flushed, tugged at the collar of her blood-matted sweater, trying to pull it past her shoulder. “I don’t trust myself. Injuries are one thing I don’t remember how to judge.”

  “I don’t want to frighten you.”

  Her tearstained gaze remained steady. “What you did was an accident. I shouldn’t have been so close.”

  He leaned against the doorframe, needing to steady himself. “Why were you?”

  “You were suffering. I was going to wake you up.”

  “My brothers know to stay away from me when I have a nightmare. Or else they poke me with a baseball bat.”

  “You have bad dreams often?”

  “Used to. Not for a while, though.”

 
; She smiled, briefly. “Must be the company.”

  “No. Could be the walls, though.”

  “Walls?”

  He regretted opening his mouth. “I’m…mildly claustrophobic.”

  “Really.” She glanced around the bathroom, frowning. “This must be awful for you.”

  “Let me look at your shoulder,” he said gruffly. “If you still want me to.”

  The woman wordlessly tugged aside her collar. His gaze traveled down her neck and throat—pale, fine, and strong—which put the rest of her into perspective when he saw the bright red, swelling curve of her upper-left shoulder. His breath hissed. He still felt the impact of his fist meeting her flesh. He was afraid to touch her again.

  But he did. Carefully. Holding his breath, he used his knuckles to gently prod her shoulder. Her jaw tightened. She stared resolutely at the wall. He settled deeper into his mind, and used the opportunity to send a wave of healing energy into her body: into her shoulder, to soothe broken veins and muscle; into her feet, to encourage the healing of her cuts. The effort left him lightheaded.

  “I’m no doctor,” he murmured, keenly aware of how near they stood—how dangerous that was, how much he wished he could stand even closer. “But nothing seems broken. Can you roll your shoulder for me?”

  She did, wincing slightly. Lannes softly directed, “Raise your arm.”

  She followed his instructions, still wincing. But only a little.

  “You need ice,” he said. “And my apologies, again.”

  “Unnecessary,” she replied, “but accepted.”

  Lannes made the mistake of looking into her eyes. Her gaze was steady, straightforward, but with an undercurrent of that old loss and sorrow that made everything in his heart sing toward her. Every instinct demanded nothing less than that he wrap this woman in his arms and wings.

  He forced himself to stop touching her. “I’ll get you some ice. I think…I think there’s a machine by the office.”

  “I’ll go with you,” she said, cheeks faintly flushed. “I could use some air.”

  Lannes almost tripped over himself moving away from her. She was close behind him. He was well into the middle of the room when someone knocked on the door. He froze. So did the woman.

  He listened hard, heard nothing but faint breathing outside the room. Lannes glanced back at the woman. She was pulling her socks on, eyes narrowed, ready to run. He pointed to the wall behind the front door, and without a word she moved there. Light feet, silent. Lannes grasped the knob, braced his rear foot against the floor and opened the door just an inch.

  It was almost dark outside. He and the woman had slept a long time.

  The man knocking was from the front office of the motel. The manager. He was tall, skinny, and had a receding hairline that crawled well past the top of his head. His lower cheeks were soft and round, but the skin around his brow and eyes was so tight he could have been a Botox addict. He seemed faintly surprised when Lannes opened the door. He had a key in his hand.

  “Oh,” he said, “I thought you had gone.”

  “Oh,” Lannes echoed. “And you thought you would invite yourself in?”

  The motel manager took a quick step back, his palm rubbing against his thigh. Nervous. He smelled acrid, bitter. “You seemed like the fly-by-the-hour type. I saw the woman earlier, and then your car was gone….”

  “Wham, bam, thank you, ma’am?” Lannes smiled coldly, wishing the man could see his real face. “No, I don’t think so. And you should go. Now.”

  The motel manager turned without a word and strode quickly away down the sidewalk to the front office. Reaching for his cell phone.

  Lannes closed the door and turned to the woman. “We have to go.”

  “I figured,” she said. “What do you think he really wanted?”

  “No idea. But I don’t like it.” Lannes went to the window and checked the parking lot, which was totally empty. He guessed they were the only ones left and would have found the isolation comforting only a moment before, but now it seemed vaguely threatening. Like something was coming. And no one would be around to bear witness when it did.

  Again, you are hunted, his instincts whispered. And you must fight or die.

  “I’ll get you some ice at a gas station,” he told her. “Some new clothes, too.”

  He and the woman exited the room, leaving the key on the nightstand, and walked as quickly as her feet would allow on a path around the motel to the rear parking lot. This was a poorly lit area, but the Impala waited, its gleaming black surface reflecting slivers of the thin moon and the tall security light on the other side of the lot.

  Lannes unlocked the woman’s door first, and as she was sliding in, he felt a breath of warning against the back of his neck, some instinct rising from his blood.

  He turned but saw nothing. Tossing his thoughts wide, he searched for the unseen and caught a hint, a shadow, a taste that was old and dusty, with a scent like dirty socks and mothballs, a body left too long unwashed. He felt that presence tap against his mind just once and hurled it away with a snarl that started in his chest and rolled out of his mouth—deep, violent, broken. Instinct filled him. He crouched, fingers slamming into the concrete, tearing trenches. Furious. Shaken.

  The presence disappeared. Lannes searched for it but found no trace. Nothing.

  He dragged in a deep breath. A hand touched his back. The woman. Only, instead of falling upon his shoulder, she laid her palm against a wing.

  Lannes flinched, spinning from her, still on one knee. His heart thundered. He could hardly think straight. His focus narrowed to the woman sitting half in and half out of the Impala. Her hand hovered in the air, fingers curled, eyes huge, mouth open. He felt ashamed, terrified.

  “What happened?” she whispered.

  But Lannes had no time to tell her. Tires squealed. A tan sedan peeled around the corner of the motel, headlights blazing. A man in a black suit leaned out of the open driver-side window. He was alone in the car, and his lips were moving against the cell phone pressed to his ear. Probably talking to the motel manager, Lannes reasoned. Bastard had been checking to see if they were still there. Setting them up as targets.

  The world slowed down—the speeding car, Lannes’ own heartbeat, the movement of the driver as the cell phone disappeared and was replaced by a handgun. The man aimed his weapon…not at Lannes, but at the woman.

  “Shit,” she rasped. Lannes threw himself in front of her as the first shot was fired.

  Different gun, different bullets. Orwell’s firepower had felt like bee stings compared to this. Each round tore through him like a small grenade, and Lannes, struggling to reach the sedan, went down on one knee. He had no magic to fight a gun. And even if he had, the pain was too much.

  But it was not as bad as what the witch had done to him. Lannes managed to stand and staggered toward the shooter before getting punched just above the knee with a bullet. Blood sprayed from his body, but no wound showed.

  The man pushed open his door with a frown, clearly not understanding what he was seeing. He began reloading. Lannes hoped the woman was running, but when he touched her heart—her heart, floating in his mind—he found her right on top of him.

  “Go!” He screamed at her, but she stepped up to his side and he felt something from her, something entirely different than before, in Price’s home. No one was controlling her this time. She was alone in her mind. Making her own choice to stay. To move forward.

  He grabbed her ankle, trying to pull her back. Fighting to stand. His vision blurred. Blood poured through the illusion, soaking the concrete around his knees. He looked down, and as he expected, his body still appeared unwounded. What a joke.

  The gunman aimed at the woman. Lannes tried to pull her behind him. She resisted, lifting her hand—

  —and the man flew backwards as if propelled by a rocket, so hard his head and most of his shoulders crashed through the side window of his car. His gun clattered to the ground. He did not move again.r />
  Lannes stared. The woman made a small hiccupping sound, halfway between a sob and a gasp, and that was enough to snap him out of his shock. He tried to stand, then fell again, hard on his knees. The woman squatted beside him. Blood soaked her socks. Her face was so pale he was afraid she might pass out. He was afraid he would pass out.

  He grabbed her hand, squeezing. Hardly able to think. “I dropped my keys. Get them. Get the car.”

  She nodded and disappeared. Moments later the Impala roared to life. She pulled up alongside him. He was already hauling himself inside by the time she shoved the gearshift into neutral.

  The woman got out. She hobbled to the gunman and rifled through his pockets, found a wallet but did not take his gun. Lannes was glad she left it. In the distance he heard sirens. Small fortune, it was dark and the motel had no customers.

  The woman shut his door, limped around the hood and slid behind the wheel. Her mouth was set, her eyes narrowed in determination.

  “Where are we going?” she asked him.

  “Just get out of here,” Lannes said, eyes swimming shut.

  She did. Fast.

  Chapter Nine

  The woman drove for a long time. She headed south because it was the first entrance to the highway that she saw. No other thought was in her head. Her heart was pounding so hard she thought it might burst. She wanted to vomit. Dizziness made her lean against the wheel, gripping it so tightly her knuckles felt fit to burst. Chills shook her.

  Lannes was unconscious. The big man was slumped against the passenger door, still breathing. Not one sign of an injury marred his body. Despite the fact that he was bleeding. Despite her having seen him hit.

  And also despite the fact that she had touched his torso, trying to find those wounds, and discovered that Lannes really did feel a great deal different than he looked. She could not handle that. She could hardly handle the car.

  She drove, looking for a good place to pull over. The highway itself was too risky. Exits seemed to lead to wide-open country lanes with no shoulder. Gas stations and fast-food restaurants had too much light in their parking lots.

  In Lafayette, however, she saw a small sign advertising a Meijer’s grocery store, and she envisioned an expanse of pavement that stretched like the bad yawn of a concrete monster. Lots of space. A anonymous parking lot. It would be exposed, but she had to stop. She had to check Lannes.