The Wild Road

by Marjorie M. Liu

  Lannes caught her. He lowered her hollow body to the carpet, nothing but bone and sinew beneath his hands. She reached past him for his companion and caught her wrist.

  “I know you can hear me,” Etta whispered, blinking hard, struggling to focus. “Bitch.”

  The young woman frowned, clearly confused—and then, quite suddenly, hissed in pain. Her eyes squeezed shut, mouth twisting in an awful grimace.

  Lannes felt a tremor along their link, a rupture—and a shadow emerged. A second heart, pressed atop the woman’s mind. The intruder.

  All it took was a moment. Lannes could do nothing to stop it. He stared into her eyes and found a stranger. The woman he knew, locked behind a wall. Her skin paled to a ghostly white, as did her lips. All the color in her body leached away.

  No windows were open in the room, but her blond hair stirred as though she stood in a storm, and her green eyes glowed briefly, as though emerald fireflies hid there. Lannes stared, stricken. Realizing suddenly that the woman might be several more degrees past human than he had imagined. He tried to make contact through the link between their minds, but slammed against a barrier. He imagined a scream from the other side.

  “How could you?” whispered the intruder to Etta, her voice several octaves lower and shaking with fury. “You owed me. You were mine.”

  “Maybe,” rasped Etta weakly. “But the girl you’re using owes you nothing. You put blood on her hands that doesn’t belong there. And that is not your right.”

  “I have every right,” snarled the intruder, grabbing Etta’s throat.

  Lannes snatched her wrist and closed his eyes, once again throwing himself down the mental link, hurling into the barrier with all his strength. He felt the woman—his woman—on the other side, and he hit the wall again and again, even after he lost his grip on the woman’s wrist and felt his physical body flung aside. His ribs hit the sharp edge of a table, and the pain almost made him black out.

  Etta started laughing. Her voice, the satisfaction in it, sent a tremor through the intruder that Lannes felt in his mind and in the air itself, as though the world around him shivered.

  “Go,” rasped Etta, smiling coldly. “Finish me off if you like, but you’ll always know I beat you.”

  The intruder went very still, gazing down at Etta with such hate, the room seemed to crawl with shadows. Lights flickered. Windows rattled.

  “You do not deserve mercy,” whispered the intruder, blond hair blowing around her pale, stolen face. “Not for what you did to her. Not for what you made me watch. God damn you, Etta Bredow.”

  And without another word, the intruder vanished from the woman’s brain. Like the shadow of an eclipse lifted off the sun. The mental barrier disintegrated.

  Lannes, still fighting against it, fell through into his companion’s mind with such force he momentarily became tangled in her thoughts. He caught flashes—witnessed her hands washing the blood off his body, her care as she looked for his wounds. Her fingers grazing his invisible wings.

  He felt her fear. He felt her heart, thundering as though it were his own.

  Lannes fled to his own mind and lay on the floor, breathing hard, eyes burning with unshed tears. He rolled on his side, and found his companion crouched on her hands and knees, shuddering. He crawled to her and, without a word and only a brief hesitation, wrapped his arms around her waist and tugged her into the curve of his body, laying them both down on the carpet. Holding her tight as she shook uncontrollably, teeth chattering. His arm beneath her cheek felt wet with tears.

  Etta whispered, “It worked. Oh, God. I didn’t think it would.”

  “You poisoned yourself,” murmured the young woman unsteadily, her breath warm on Lannes’ arm. “I felt it in her thoughts. She knew it. You’ve killed yourself.”

  The old lady remained sprawled on the carpet, sweating profusely. “My hand or hers, through you. I thought I would spare you the death, little girl. And stick it in her craw while I was at it.”

  The young woman trembled. “Who is she?”

  Etta’s eyes drifted shut. “A mistake. Too many secrets in that mistake for me to tell the story. But you have to stop her, girl. You have to get rid of her. You’ll never be free if you don’t. How, I cannot imagine. Must be blood. Your face…Oh, damn.”

  Lannes rumbled. “Why did you bring us here if you knew how it would end? And why didn’t she kill you as soon as we met?”

  “Takes energy. Takes time to be strong enough. She would have dragged you to me if I hadn’t found you first. Saved you the trip.” Etta smiled weakly, eyes closed. “I’m tired of running from my memories.”

  The young woman struggled to crawl from Lannes’ arms. “You can’t die.”

  “Go to hell,” muttered Etta. “Better yet, go south. Find the dome. Find the farm. Someone will be waiting for you there. Son of a bitch.”

  Lannes said, “We can still get you to a hospital.”

  “Too late,” Etta mumbled, eyes briefly drifting open to look at them. “This is what I get for being a punk.”

  The young woman knelt beside her. Lannes reached out and held Etta’s hand. She stopped breathing soon after.

  Chapter Eleven

  Though the woman remembered nothing of her life before waking in that Chicago hotel room, she was quite certain—hopeful, if nothing else—that her existence had been mundane and riddle-free, full of lazy evenings and warm apple pie, and nothing more upsetting than the spiteful remark of an irate neighbor or co-worker. That was the fantasy. No murder, no blood, no voices in her mind. No old women committing suicide and dying in her arms.

  No men with wings.

  “Up,” Lannes murmured, dragging her to her feet, away from Etta. “Come on.”

  “We let her die,” she rasped, fighting the urge to puke. “Jesus. What did I do?”

  “Nothing,” he snapped, holding her chin, forcing her to look at him. Close up, she thought it was a miracle she had ever mistaken him for human—it was in his eyes, shot dark with blue but glowing with electric veins of light that pulsed and flickered like tiny gasps of lightning.

  “You did nothing,” he said again, softer, though he did not release her. If anything, he pulled her closer, and though she did not mean to, her hands pressed against his chest, sinking through the illusion of a shirt to hot smooth skin and muscle hard as stone. She was too close to miss the sharp intake of his breath, and after a moment of pure stillness he pulled away. She let him, quivering with cold.

  “Terrible disguise,” she rasped. “You can’t let anyone get close.”

  His gaze was haunted. “Never.”

  Lannes bent and scooped Etta into his arms. He carried her the short distance to the couch and set her down very gently. The old lady looked like a stick figure against him, nothing left but skin and bone.

  She tried not to cry, the woman, not when she looked at Etta’s pale hollow face, not when Lannes unfolded a blanket that had been resting on the back of the couch and draped it over Etta’s head and body. The woman did not know if they should say a prayer or some words of passage. Instead she stayed quiet, holding down terrible emotions, and made her heart cold and numb.

  There was another blanket on the couch. Lannes shook it loose and draped it around the woman’s shoulders. She felt very small beside him.

  Suck it up, she told herself, and Lannes said, “I need to find a phone and call my brother. You rest.”

  The woman glanced down at Etta and shuddered. “Nice try.”

  Lannes’ jaw tightened. “Come on.”

  He held her hand. His palm was large and warm, and felt no different from any other hand, though she could not remember anything, or anyone, with whom to compare him. Lannes led her down a long hall off the living room, and they found a bathroom and three bedrooms. There was no one else.

  But the house still felt creepy. Lannes squeezed her hand, gently. “Clean up if you can. I’ll be close by.”

  I don’t want to be left alone, she almost told him,
but that would have been pathetic, so all she did was nod.

  Lannes gave her a knowing look. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

  Never, she imagined him saying in her mind, with such clarity she wondered if it was more than her imagination.

  Lannes released her hand and stepped away, but the distance meant nothing. He still held her gaze, and the power of that, the intimacy of his intensity, felt the same as a touch. The woman wished, more than anything, that she had memories to draw from—experience—but she felt like a blank slate when it came to human contact. And Lannes, no matter what he looked like, was so much more than that. She did not know how to react.

  And does he? What makes you think his experience is any greater than yours?

  You can’t let anyone get close.

  Never.

  She battled a perverse desire to touch him again, just because…just because she needed to feel his warmth and she was cold, so cold she might have been standing chest-deep in a glacier, but she felt his tension roll over her—tension and even, she imagined, fear—and she stayed rooted in one spot. Sick and swaying.

  Lannes looked little better. He bowed his head and backed away, leaving her alone in the doorway of the bedroom.

  She watched him disappear at the end of the hall, and sucked in a deep breath. Her spine felt like it was made of ice cubes, and she clutched the blanket tighter, forcing herself to go deeper into the bedroom. It was a large and simple space. Closet doors were already open, which was some relief. She felt like a little kid terrorized by shadows.

  It was an eerie thing, rifling through a dead lady’s closet, but the woman had little choice in the matter. She needed clothes.

  Wherever Etta was from, she had not lived in this house—if at all—in a long time. As with the kitchen, a fine layer of dust covered everything, and the few clothes in the closet, while in good condition, smelled musty. Some belonged to men. Some dresses were clearly from the fifties and had more in common with flowered curtains than high fashion.

  The woman pulled down some clothes and clutched them in her arms. She crossed the hall and found bedrooms that had belonged to children. One of them was decorated in pink bunnies; the other had wallpaper covered in an old-fashioned montage of cowboys and Indians. In that bedroom, the woman discovered a shoe box, contents already poured on the hard narrow bed—as though Etta had been in here going through some things. At least, she hoped it was Etta; the idea of someone else being here made the woman uneasy.

  Still clutching the blanket and clothes with one hand, she pushed aside the shoe box and sat down on the bed. There were black-and-white photographs in front of her, a feather, a piece of folded pink stationery and several yellowed postcards, one of which showed a man with red clothes and skin, horns on his head and a tail that ended in a dagger point. A sword was buckled to his side, and his hand was raised in an oddly delicate gesture.

  PLUTO WATER, read the postcard. FRENCH LICK SPRINGS HOTEL.

  The image was both disturbing and compelling. Pluto. Hades. God of the underworld. She looked on the back of the card and saw a short message written in neat, childish script.

  Dear Etta,

  I am sorry you are sick. Mama says you will be coming soon to the Springs, and I cannot wait. Simon is here. So are the others. It is hot.

  Yours,

  Marcel

  The photographs were creased and old. One of them showed a group of children standing in front of a graveyard. It was a faintly ominous picture, filled with two little girls who could not have been older than ten, and four boys who seemed to range in age from three to eighteen. The girls were sitting in the grass, round faces framed in curls and ribbons. They looked happy.

  Only two of the boys were smiling—they could have been ten or twelve and were lounging against the fence bordering the graveyard. Dressed in slacks and suit jackets, hair slicked back. They looked like trouble, the kind that might throw rocks at dogs or yank the skirts of girls.

  The other two boys were different. The older was tall and strong looking, with an honest face and a clear gaze. The woman liked him immediately. She also liked the little boy he held, who seemed shy of the camera and had his face partially hidden by his hand and a shadow. There was something familiar about the curve of his cheek. It nagged at her.

  The back of the photo had an inscription:

  From Will. Late ’30s. Indiana. Summer.

  The woman stared at the photograph a moment longer then tucked it away in the shoe box along with all the other little knickknacks. She gathered up the box and took it with her to the bathroom, placing it on top of the clean clothes she had found in the closet.

  The woman locked the door and kept her back to the mirror. She took a shower. There was only a dried up sliver of soap in the stall, and some old shampoo that looked like it had not been used in ten years.

  It was hard to scrub off the blood. She had to use her fingernails and left welts in her skin. But the hot water felt so good she never wanted to turn it off, and she bowed her head, pummeled by the near-scalding stream, inhaling steam, knuckling her burning eyes. Her feet stung and her shoulder ached. She had almost managed to forget both. She supposed that meant she was healing. Or maybe she had been running on nothing but adrenaline.

  Beyond the shower curtain, she heard knocking at the bathroom door. It made her jump, but she heard Lannes’ muffled rumbling voice and forced herself to breathe.

  “Yes?” she said shakily.

  “You’ve been in there awhile,” came his gruff reply. “I wanted to make sure you’re all right.”

  “Fine,” she said, and shut off the water. Cold air seemed to blast her, and she fumbled for a towel, which smelled musty and old. Her hair was a snarled mess, dripping down her back. When she stepped from the stall, she caught her reflection in the mirror.

  Pale face, hollow eyes. Bruises all over, especially her shoulder. She still did not recognize herself. She could have been in a chicken suit, and she would have felt the same numb disconnect.

  It was not a bad body. But it was just a body.

  She heard nothing on the other side of the door, but she sensed him there, like a tickle on the edge of her mind. More than instinct. She began to dress and said, “Did you call your brother?”

  “He’s sending help. He…asked after you.”

  The woman nodded to herself, but said nothing. She dressed in loose black slacks and a black sweater, as well as a soft pair of black leather shoes she had found in the closet. She found them a little snug, but it didn’t matter. Wearing shoes was almost enough to make her feel like a new woman. Even her feet did not hurt as much. Her shoulder was slightly stiff, but not nearly as mangled and sore as it should have been, considering the blow she’d taken. Maybe it wasn’t just adrenaline.

  Lannes, she thought. He had something to do with it, this healing.

  Taking care of her. Saving her life. All of which was enough to cut through any mystery, no matter how bizarre. She could not think of him without a twist in her heart.

  Her hair was a snarled mess, but she opened the door and found Lannes leaning against the wall, across the hall from the bathroom. His eyes were the only part of him she looked at. The only part that mattered.

  The only true piece of you I can see.

  She searched his gaze for the same look he had given her earlier, when she had opened her eyes and found him watching her. As though she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. She had felt beautiful in that moment. Haunted, as well. And the way he had kissed her hand…

  Her heart lurched. She stopped herself from thinking of it. Wrong time, wrong place.

  His jeans looked different. “Real or illusion?” she asked, pointing.

  Lannes seemed embarrassed by her question. “Real. I had some clothes in the back of the car.”

  “Ah,” she said, smiling briefly. “I’m glad you’re wearing pants.”

  He grunted. “How do you feel?”

  “I’m still
standing.”

  “Your shoulder?”

  “You did something to help it heal,” she suggested. No matter how impossible that seemed—even now, with everything she had seen.

  “Maybe,” he replied. “But you didn’t answer my question.”

  “Still hurts a little,” she admitted.

  Lannes pushed away from the wall and filled up the bathroom doorway. “I can look at it again.”

  The woman’s heart beat a little faster, and she slowly, carefully, tugged aside the soft collar of the sweater. Lannes edged into the bathroom, huge and solid, and very gently grazed his knuckles against her shoulder.

  She shivered, but not from cold—and quickly averted her eyes, afraid of what he might see in her face. She folded her arms over her breasts, too. She had no bra, and her reaction to him was obvious in other ways. Embarrassing. Totally inexplicable. Utterly improper, given the circumstances.

  But she was hungry for his touch. Aching for it. And when his knuckles finally rested heavily on her sore shoulder, every part of her stilled in utter focus on that one small connection. His nearness made it difficult to breathe—but then it stopped being about him, and instead she noted an odd tingling heat that spread through her skin. The pain eased. Her feet stopped throbbing, though the lessening discomfort was preceded by a pronounced burning sensation in her soles.

  She finally braved a look at Lannes’ face, and found his eyes slightly unfocused; he was lost in concentration.

  Healing me, she told herself, filled with wonder; followed by: What are you?

  And then: What am I?

  Lannes’ hand shifted, sliding slightly down her arm, against her sweater. His eyes focused on her face with an intensity that made her blush, though she felt more grim than shy.

  “You’re not scared,” he said quietly. “Not of me.”

  “I should be. You’re a walking lie. But I suppose I’m not much better.”

  “I lie by choice,” he replied. “You have none.”

  She smiled bitterly. “I might have forgotten a lot of things, but not, I hope, my common sense. You have…limbs…attached to your body that I don’t think you could show this world, any more than I can remember my name. Tell me I’m wrong.”