Pull

by Anne Riley

  “We’ll do our best to save all of them,” he says, “but let’s find your brother first.”

  The white-haired man surveys the crowd, mouth twitching with a satisfied smirk. Once again I’m struck by the familiarity of his features.

  Who is he? Think, Rosie.

  But it won’t come to me. I tear my eyes away from him in frustration.

  We skirt around another bowl of flaming liquid. Dan and Casey are several yards away, working their way around the room. I want to wave at them, but I’m scared it will attract too much attention. Instead, I stare at Casey, willing her to feel my gaze. She looks up.

  “What’s wrong?” I mouth as she and Dan head our way.

  She points behind her to the side of the arena Albert and I are trying to get to. I follow her finger to a cage that’s so far out it almost bumps the wall. A boy is draped across the bottom of the metal crate, his bony hands sticking through the bars. Other than that, I can only see a mop of brown hair and one eyebrow.

  But it’s enough. I know my brother when I see him.

  “Yes!” I shout, tugging on Albert’s arm. “That’s him!”

  He follows my gaze. “I’ll com Isaac.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Casey says as they reach us. Their eyes are slightly unfocused, but her voice sounds clear. “We already did. He’s coming this way. Al, what happened to your hand?”

  He flexes his fingers experimentally. “The green stuff burns like hell. Don’t go near it. I’m okay, though,” he says before anyone can ask how bad the pain is. “Paul. We’re focusing on Paul. My hand can wait.”

  “How do we get to him?” I try to keep the hysteria out of my voice. It doesn’t work.

  Albert’s face tenses as he looks at Dan and Casey. “No idea.”

  We migrate across the floor until we’re below Paul’s cage. My little brother is hanging from the ceiling like a caged animal, drugged into delirium.

  I lean against the wall, trembling. The others gather around me, looking just as sickened as I feel. A glance at the white-haired man confirms that he still hasn’t noticed us. I don’t want to think about what will happen if he does.

  “Right,” Albert says. “Let’s think of a way to—”

  He stops short when a deafening clang of metal on metal resounds through the room. We clap our hands over our ears and bend low to the ground as the cages begin to lower toward the bowls of fiery liquid. The Mortiferi shriek with delight at the descending humans. I grimace against the noise and squint at the dirt floor.

  Albert’s voice breaks through the chaos. “Get up, Rosie!”

  A strong hand grips my arm and jerks me to my feet. I stumble because I’m trying to run faster than my feet can move. The Mortiferi are moving toward the cages, pressing in on us, blocking our way. It takes me a second to realize they haven’t noticed us at all—it’s the prisoners they want.

  Albert pushes them aside to create an escape path for us. They fall over and get right back up, never seeing him. He pulls me along behind him, but there are too many bodies in our way; even with as many he shoves to the side, we can’t get anywhere.

  A scream of rage slices through the air. It’s so loud it carries over the music, the shouting, the deranged laughter.

  I glance over my shoulder to confirm what I already know has happened. We’ve been spotted.

  Albert drops a collection of swear words and throws more dazed Mortiferi out of our path with one hand. He keeps the other hand around my arm. Dan and Casey are a few feet away, making even less progress than we are. I can’t see Isaac anymore.

  I hear the white-haired man shouting, but I can’t understand him. The Mortiferi respond, though, and within seconds, every pair of eyes in the room is trained on me.

  Me.

  The cages reach the bowls of fire and dangle a few inches above the surface. When the metallic cranking stops, I realize none of the Mortiferi are talking. Everything is quiet. Even the thumping bass and electronic music have stopped.

  The silence is worse than the shrieking.

  A wall of Mortiferi encircles us. Albert tries to push one of the women to the side, but instead of falling over like before, she shoves him hard and he staggers into a Mortiferi man. Their eyes are far more focused than they were a minute ago. They’re not attacking; they’re just standing there, blocking our way. There are no gaps between them, and the new aggression on their faces stops Albert from pushing any more of them around.

  I search the arena for the white-haired man, but I can’t find him. Dan and Casey are behind us, and Isaac is to our left.

  We’ve been herded together like cows going to slaughter.

  Albert’s hand snakes behind his back, into the waistband of his jeans. He looks at Isaac, who seems to understand. He nods and reaches into his own waistband.

  I’d forgotten Albert and Isaac have guns.

  “Rosie,” Albert says out the side of his mouth. “Listen to me very carefully.”

  I step closer.

  “Isaac and I are about to start shooting. The Mortiferi will attack us and forget about you, at least for a moment. I want you, Casey, and Dan to run back up that tunnel and get as far away from the pub as you can.”

  “Are you insane? Why can’t you just Pull?”

  “I will if I need to,” he says. “But now’s not the time.”

  “Al,” Dan pipes up from behind me. “I’m not leaving you two here on your own.” He pulls out a switchblade and flicks it open. His face looks like it’s carved out of stone.

  Suddenly, the mob of Mortiferi parts down the middle. The white-haired man appears, his lips curling up at the corners in a way that makes me shudder.

  “Well, well,” the man says, and my veins fill with ice at the sound of his voice. “This is quite unexpected.”

  He surveys the ring of Mortiferi and then says something to them in a harsh, guttural language. They take a collective step back.

  “Rosemary, isn’t it?” he says to me. He looks at Paul, still lying on the floor of his cage, the whites of his eyes peeking through his eyelids. “And Paul. Rosemary and Paul Clayton, grandchildren of the great Edward

  Clayton.” His tone drips with disgust as he says Papa’s name.

  My eyes travel down to his hand. It hangs by his side just like it normally would, except for one thing. It’s clutching a gun.

  The gun that killed my attacker on the heath before she could be properly terminated.

  The gun that almost killed Dan.

  He tilts his head down and to the side, and suddenly his face clicks with an image in my brain. Two images, actually. I inhale sharply.

  “I know who you are,” I say.

  He scowls. “No one knows who I am, girl.”

  “No, I recognize you. You’re Gareth Long.”

  His expression freezes.

  “Aren’t you?”

  I say, trying to keep my voice steady while fear bubbles in my stomach. “You were at my grandfather’s burial. You looked at me but left before I could talk to you.”

  He stays perfectly still, but anxiety ripples behind his eyes. I remember how he watched me at the cemetery, how he turned away when he realized I’d noticed him.

  “Your son Kieran was killed in Greenwich a few years ago, hit by a bus on the High Road. I saw a photo—”

  “DON’T TALK ABOUT MY SON!”

  He strides toward me and shouts another command to the Mortiferi. A huge man nearby steps up behind Albert and twists both his arms behind his back. I hear grunts of pain and look around to see that the same thing has happened to Isaac, Dan, and Casey.

  Gareth Long reaches me quickly and presses the cold barrel of the gun to my head. My body goes numb with terror; sweat gathers under my arms and on my upper lip, and suddenly I’m thinking about my dad, my mom, Nana, Paul. Stephen smiles at me from countless memories, and

  Albert’s green eyes crinkle at the corners. Gareth’s face is purple; he will pull the trigger any second now and I will be de
ad, gone forever, just like Papa.

  “You’re stupid if you think I would actually shoot you,” Gareth hisses into my ear.

  I can’t respond.

  “What kind of revenge would that be?” he goes on. The gun digs harder into my skull. “Teenagers die every day. I would know, after all.” He laughs, and it’s a horrible grating sound that makes me squeeze my eyes shut. “I want Edward Clayton to pay for what he did to my son. I want him to hurt like I hurt.”

  “That’s all this is?” I say. “Revenge?”

  A slow smile spreads across his face. His teeth are brown at the roots. “I watched them lower your grandfather’s godforsaken body into the ground, and it was one of the greatest moments of my life—until now.”

  Spit froths at the corners of his mouth.

  “He’ll know the exact moment when his grandchildren become one of us,” Gareth says, “and it will kill him all over again. You’re just like him, I bet. Doing good when it’s convenient. Saving lives if it’s not too much trouble.”

  “He did everything he could for your son,” I say. “What happened wasn’t his fault.”

  A beat of silence hangs between us. Gareth’s face is twisted with grief and anger. In spite of what’s happening, I almost feel sorry for him. Losing his son destroyed him. Destroyed his whole life.

  “Don’t do this,” I say. “These people—these monsters— they’ll turn on you as soon as you change us. I don’t know how you’re still human, but they won’t let you stay that way. They’ll either kill you or they’ll make you one of them.”

  His expression falters.

  “You could get us out of here,” I say. “You could escape with us, and we would help you. Listen to me, Gareth.” His eyes flicker to mine. “You don’t have to do this.”

  There is a pause that seems to last a year.

  Then the pressure of the gun leaves my head and relief floods my body. I look up. He’s staring at me.

  “Come on,” I whisper. “Let’s escape. All of us, together.”

  The corners of his mouth tremble. There is so much longing in his eyes. He blinks like he’s trying to clear his vision, and for one glorious moment, I think I’ve convinced him.

  But then his face turns hateful again, and he aims the gun at my head. There’s a scuffle behind me, and Albert cries out.

  Gareth says, “Hold him tighter! Don’t let him get away from you!” Then, to me: “Maybe I will kill you after all. Your brother would be enough for us.”

  “NO!” I scream.

  “No,” he echoes thoughtfully.

  “You’re right.”

  And then he fires a bullet into Albert’s chest.

  THIRTY-SIX

  I CAN’T MAKE SENSE OF WHAT I’M SEEING. IT’S WRONG, so terribly wrong that it can’t be real. Albert cannot be crumpling to the ground while the Mortifer who was holding him backs away. Albert’s hands—one of them still blistered from the green liquid—claw at his chest. Those hands are supposed to be saving lives. They’re supposed to guide me safely through the crowded streets of London and leaf through ancient books in the Batcave. But now there are crimson splotches on his T-shirt that rush together until they’ve conquered all the white fabric in their path, and his hands are turning red, and I don’t understand why.

  His eyes dim as he stares into the middle space between us.

  Casey’s scream makes me breathe again, and understanding crashes down on me.

  Albert is dying.

  I start to shake.

  Albert is dying. No.

  Isaac, Casey, and Dan thrash against the Mortiferi that hold them back, but they can’t break free. Their anguished shouts fill the air. I can’t believe all it takes to keep them from Pulling is to restrain their hands. A memory surfaces of standing in Albert’s bedroom while he told me how to Pull, and when I close my eyes, I can almost hear his voice again.

  Hold your hands with your palms facing up and focus on the exact moment you want to return to, he told me. If you do it right, your fingers will touch something that’s not there.

  I know what he’s talking about. I felt it in the police station, right before Casey jerked me to my feet and the worst night of my life became hell.

  They can’t Pull because they can’t get their hands free. It’s that simple.

  I close my eyes. I reach for the mental handle—

  Focus. Focus on the moment you want to reach.

  The tunnel? The empty pub? Dancing with Albert?

  I picture Albert’s face as we danced, the way he told me I was beautiful. I reach for it with all my might—

  “Rosie,” Albert croaks, and my concentration shatters.

  He opens his mouth, but I don’t know if he’s trying to speak or breathe. Either way, he fails. The life goes out of his eyes. I can’t feel anything. The scene has gone two-dimensional and I must be dreaming. I’ll wake up soon and everything will be fine.

  Casey screams again, but this time it’s the word “No” ripping from her throat. The sound stops suddenly when Gareth turns around and shoots her. The man who was restraining her drops her to the ground. She barely twitches before going still.

  I see Isaac and Dan shouting at the top of their lungs, but I can’t hear them. My breaths come too fast and too hard. Black dots explode in front of my eyes. I sag against the Mortifer behind me and he jerks me up by my arms, sending a sharp pain through my shoulders that radiates up my neck.

  Gareth has his gun aimed at Dan. He’s going to kill him, and then Isaac, and then Paul and I will be changed into Mortiferi. Paul hasn’t moved since we found him. He might be dead, too.

  Gareth’s face appears in front of mine. His eyes are bloodshot and shifty, and whatever pity I felt for him before is long gone. This man is a deranged killer, a psychopath with no respect for life. I cannot feel sorry for him, no matter what he’s lost.

  “It’s time,” he says to the Mortifer holding me. “Put her in the cage with her brother. We’ll do them together. Let me just finish these two.”

  Rough hands push me forward and I fall to my knees, only to be yanked onto my feet again. My shoulders pop and pain sears the length of my arms. A woman sneers at me as she opens Paul’s cage. I try to dig my feet into the ground as the Mortifer pushes me toward the bowl of fire, but two gunshots behind me confirm that there’s no longer any hope of escape. They’re dead. All of them.

  But I can still find a way out of this. And maybe I can Pull.

  My heartbeat is strangely steady as I stand before the door to Paul’s cage. As the Mortifer pushes me inside, I kneel next to my brother. He doesn’t react to my presence. I should feel his neck for a pulse, but I can’t bring myself to find out if he’s alive or not.

  I lie down and close my eyes.

  Maybe it won’t hurt.

  Gareth is saying something to the Mortiferi in that guttural language. They’re cheering, laughing, chanting. The cage lurches; they’re going to lower us into the bowl of green liquid. Gareth shouts another string of incomprehensible words and the Mortiferi roar in excitement. Then he turns toward the room and holds his arms out as if embracing the twelve cages and their victims.

  Since the alternative is to give him the satisfaction of watching me panic, I let my mind go blank. I block out the voices. The insides of my eyelids glow with the room’s soft green light. I will stay calm throughout this process. I will not beg for my soul.

  He would like it too much.

  A sound like wind whispers across my mind. It isn’t outside my head because there’s no way I could have heard it over all the noise. Words take shape in my consciousness; I don’t hear them, don’t see them, but somehow I understand them anyway.

  I am here.

  Chills sweep over my arms. I know that voice. I’ve heard it—felt it—like this before. First in the chaotic hospital room, and again when I was attacked on the heath.

  “Papa?” I whisper.

  Yes.

  I sit up quickly, ignoring the stabbing pa
in where the Mortifer wrenched my shoulders. Gareth gives me a sharp look. My excitement must show because he strides over to our cage, his expression full of wicked delight.

  “He’s here, isn’t he? Edward Clayton, the Blackheath Savior, is here for his opus postremum.”

  Tell him you don’t know what he’s talking about.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Yes, I’m sure. Well, it doesn’t matter. You’ll be one of us in a second, and there’s nothing the ghost of your grandfather can do about that. Tell me,” he says in a smug tone, “is he going to save you? Is he going to break you out of this cage with his spirit strength?”

  I give him an even stare.

  “The opus postremum isn’t real,” he goes on. “These people—” he gestures to the Mortiferi “—have thoroughly educated me on your precious Servatores. They know everything about your grandfather and these friends you brought along. And guess what they told me the Servatores can’t do?”

  I glare at him.

  “Change things after they’ve died. Interfere with the natural course of events. Oh, they might drift around for a while before they depart, but they’re completely useless as spirits.” His mouth turns up in a horrifying smile. “But Edward can watch what happens to you. And I hope he does. I want him to witness every moment of your grand transformation.”

  Hold your hands out, Rosie, Papa says inside my head. Palms up.

  I try to move my arms, but my shoulders hurt too much. I don’t think I can.

  Something like an electrical current shoots from my core, through my elbows, all the way to my fingertips. I let out a little yelp as my hands come out of their own accord.

  A trace of doubt crosses Gareth’s eyes. “What are you doing?”

  Now: Pull.

  The Mortiferi frown at me, confused.

  I don’t think I can, Papa.

  “LOWER THE CAGES!” Gareth shouts, staring at me with wide eyes. He stumbles backward toward his pedestal, the gun dropping from his fingers. “LOWER THEM NOW!”

  I close my eyes. Although the scene around me has turned more chaotic than ever—the Mortiferi screaming, cages lurching slowly toward the green liquid—my mind has created its own bubble of peacefulness. At first I think