by P. R. Frost
Pale pink replaced his gray skin. He wasn’t totally pissed at me.
Trouble is brewing, babe, Scrap informed me in an accent that was part flamboyant interior decorator, part leering cabbie, and all obnoxious sarcasm.
“What kind of trouble? I don’t have a lot of time,” I replied, checking my watch. “I need most of an hour just to drive the twenty-five miles between here and the city.” With air-conditioning in the rental car, thank God… or Goddess… whoever might be listening.
If anyone listened at all to my prayers.
They hadn’t when Dill died.
Later. Scrap jumped back up onto my shoulder.
I heaved myself off the ground, scanning the vicinity for what had alarmed Scrap. All I could hear over the roar of traffic was Cynthia and her friends with their boards at the skate park behind the cemetery.
We’ve got trouble. Now. Scrap started to turn vermilion.
Waves of heat radiated out from him.
I began to sweat through my goose bumps.
This had never happened to us before. I’d almost begun to believe the lost year of my life was just that, lost in a fever dream.
“What and where?” I asked in alarm. The base of my spine tingled in warning. Just like Sister Serena said it would.
The noise from the skate park grew a little louder.
The thumps and bangs became shrill with fear. I jogged across the cemetery, zigzagging around tombstones.
Right direction, dahling. Wrong speed. Scrap puffed on his cigar like an old steam engine.
I lengthened my stride to a ground-covering lope, hurdling tombstones and other obstacles. Scrap had to tangle his claws in my frizzy hair to stay on board.
He grumbled something that I couldn’t quite understand.
The normal squeals of adolescents burning off energy turned to terrified screams.
“Hang on, Scrap.” I ran full out, defying three cars to hit me as I crossed the back street at a gallop.
No one seemed to notice the frightened commotion close by.
I skidded onto the green space between a ski rental shop, closed for the season, and an abandoned church, painted white with a steeple and a red front door. Dill had attended Sunday School there as a child. The park sloped steeply downward to a creek. A half-pipe wooden ramp took advantage of the landscape. But no kids flew down the polished wood and up the other side on their boards. They were all huddled beneath the support struts.
Not quite all. Two boys lay sprawled facedown upon the grass. Their arms and legs were twisted at unnatural, broken angles. Blood pooled from mouths and gaping wounds in backs and throats. A third boy tried to crawl toward the protective illusion of the shade beneath the ramp. He collapsed at every third movement. His left arm was a mangled mass of raw meat, torn tendons, and protruding bone.
So much blood! I gagged. The smell brought back memories of the night Dill died. I wanted to run away from here. As far and fast as I could. With or without Scrap.
Cynthia stood in the middle of the carnage. Her screams split the air like nails on a chalkboard. A huge, ugly dog, with jaws big enough to engulf the girl’s head, enclosed the fleshy part of her upper arm and tugged.
I could not abandon Cynthia or her friends.
She’d given me a flower because I was as lonely as Dill’s grave.
My heart beat double time and my focus narrowed to the dog. The rest of the world seemed to still around me.
My assignment, my quest, justified this fight.
No time to call for help. I yanked my cell phone out of my belt pouch and tossed it toward the huddled kids.
“Call 911,” I shouted. Then I snapped my fingers.
“Scrap, I need a weapon.”
Instantly he jumped into my extended palm, elongated, thinned, became more solid. Between one eye blink and the next I grasped a…
“A soup ladle!” I screamed. “How am I supposed to fight off that dog with a soup ladle?”
I threw away the useless tool and grabbed an abandoned skateboard. With all of the strength in my upper arms I swung at the dog’s flank.
I smacked his brindled, fur-covered body with a satisfying whomp and crack of the skateboard.
Dog yelped and released my thoughtful friend.
He turned on me with bared yellow fangs as long as my fingers. His massive head was nearly level with my shoulder. He growled and drooled long ropes of greenish slime.
“At least I got your attention,” I said to Dog, gulping back my fear. I had trained for situations like this. But facing the real thing was different in the field than on the training ground.
Sorry. Scrap’s face appeared in the metal bowl of the ladle, cigar still clamped in his wide mouth. He stretched again, darkened, became heavier and sharper.
I grabbed the fireplace poker he had become. “Better,” I sighed.
The dog, bigger than a wolfhound, meaner than a pit bull, and uglier than a mastiff, bunched his powerful haunches for a lunge.
I met him with a sharp thwap across the nose. I heard something crunch.
He kept on coming.
I let my momentum carry me full circle and out of his direct path as I shifted my grip on the poker.
The dog twisted in midair and landed beside me, grabbing my forearm.
An uppercut to his snout from my poker.Then I brought the weapon down hard on the dog’s spine. He yelped and released me.
We stared at each other for several long moments; judging, assessing.
Scrap hissed at the dog from the crosspiece at the tip of the poker.
I blinked.
Scrap blinked.
The dog ran off, downhill into the tangled undergrowth.
I heard him splash into the creek.
Then I heard the sirens. One of the kids must have gotten through to 911.
I sank to the ground and stared dumbly at four puncture wounds on my forearm. Top and bottom. Blood and green slime oozed out of them.
I retched. Long painful spasms tried to turn my stomach inside out.
My head threatened to disconnect from my neck.
Darkness encroached on my vision.
“I thought you were only a legend. But you are real,” a gentle masculine voice with a slight British accent whispered in my ear. His finger traced the crescent scar on my face that ran from left temple to jaw. A scar that Scrap had promised me was not visible in this dimension to anyone other than the Sisterhood of the Celestial Blade Warriors.
Crap!
Who was this guy? He really wasn’t supposed to see the scar unless he’d had a touch of the imp flu.
Wish I knew how to research him.
I’m too tired. Transformation takes energy. A quick trip back to my own dimension would restore me. If I survived the trip through the portal. The Sasquatch that guard the portals around here are pretty mean. They make Mum look nice.
Maybe a good shot of mold. I wonder if Tess’ coffee cup in the car has had time to decay yet.
But Tess is going to need help to see this situation through.
What to do? What to do?
Maybe a cigar will help.
Chapter 2
ADRENALINE SHOT THROUGH ME. I bounced to my feet, away from the stranger’s touch and his all-too-keen gaze. A glance told me that he was gangly, skinny, very blond. He peered at me curiously.
His glasses slid down his nose.
I could not allow this stranger to penetrate my secrets.
Every nerve ending in my body came alive in warning.
Then I was off, keeping my back to him.
I had to check on Cynthia. I had to stay away from this stranger.
A paramedic sprayed something on Cynthia’s upper arm. I did not see any blood.
Between us and the skateboard ramp, two more paramedics worked on the boy with the mangled arm. The scent of blood and vomit and fear drove me away from the primary victims, toward Cynthia.
Two uniformed policemen stood with notebooks open, trying to make
sense of what the kids under the ramp said. Their voices still shrilled with hysteria. One of them ran over to return my phone rather than have to relate what happened.
Two more cops thrashed through the blackberries toward the creek with weapons drawn. I knew the dog was long gone. The itching tingle at the base of my spine had vanished.
But the stranger hovered. I could feel him staring at me. I almost heard his questions. Questions I dared not answer.
Another contingent of uniforms directed traffic around the park entrance. They did their best to keep curiosity seekers at bay.
I knelt beside Cynthia, murmuring soothing phrases that meant nothing. I wrapped an arm about her thin shoulders, clinging to her for my own comfort as well as hers. I had no idea what had become of Scrap. He probably had his own recovery ritual after transforming.
He’d never had to become a weapon for me before.
“I don’t understand it.” The paramedic shook his head. “The dog’s teeth didn’t penetrate the skin.” He rubbed a damp pad over the girl’s arm, cleaning off some of the green drool. His fingers quested from the edge of her red-and-white-striped tank top to her wrist.
I spotted two red dimples that might have been canine tooth marks. Other than a slight irritation, the skin was unbroken.
“Unlike you.” The paramedic grabbed my arm and began cleaning it. “I’d recommend rabies shots for you if we don’t find the beast.”
“He… he was almost gentle,” Cynthia sobbed. She hiccuped and turned her huge brown eyes toward me, imploring me to agree with her.
“From my observation, I agree with the girl,” the stranger with the clipped accent and drooping glasses said.
Tension built in my nape, rippling downward. Different from the presence of monsters and demons from other dimensions, but still alert to danger. If I’d had a tail as bony and as sharply barbed as Scrap’s, I’d beat it against the ground.
I gave him another brief scan. Squarish jaw, limp blond hair, not bad looking, with a nerd’s, or a scholar’s (there’s a difference?) pasty skin. His navy polo shirt and crisply pressed khaki slacks seemed almost a uniform.
He scrunched his nose in an attempt to keep his tinted glasses from sliding off. I almost wished he had let them go so I could see his eyes better, read his emotions, maybe even figure out how he could see my scar.
A new man, in shirtsleeves with his tie half undone and a summer-weight sports jacket slung over one shoulder skidded down the embankment.
“And you would be… ?” he asked both me and the stranger with the clipped accent. He flipped out a notebook and licked the end of a stubby pencil. I pegged him as a police detective. A reporter would have sponged the coffee stain off the front of his shirt.
The nerdy stranger towered over him by half a head, but probably weighed less. He was downright skinny. I like a little more beef and less length on men.
I tried to melt into the background. How could I explain Scrap? How could I explain the fact that the previously gaping wounds in my arm were already closed?
The virus that had caused the scar on my face had left enough antibodies in my system to combat anything this world, and several others, could dish out.
That dog had not been a natural creature. Neither was my infection. The itch in and around the puncture wounds told me I wouldn’t get away from the encounter totally clean.
Police and paramedics did not like paranormal explanations.
The nerd gave a name. I didn’t listen, trying my best to fade into the background while giving Cynthia as much support as I could.
If I stopped long enough to give a statement, I’d miss my appointment in the city. Less than two hours until I needed to be in downtown Portland for a book signing at Simpson’s, the largest bookstore on the West Coast.
Autumn was at least three weeks behind schedule. It was way too hot for September. The heat beat down on my back and shoulders. Sweat trickled between my breasts and around the waistband of my shorts. A tank top, shorts, and a sports bra seemed almost too many clothes for the climate.
I wanted to leave, but I could not abandon Cynthia. We’d connected back in the cemetery. Her flower had lightened my loneliness for just a moment.
An ambulance roared up, sirens cutting through the rising noise of too many voices, too many questions, not enough answers. Attendants spilled out, grabbed a gurney on collapsible legs, and slid down the steep hill, nearly on their butts. They worked efficiently and gently to lift the injured boy onto the mobile bed. An inflatable cast contraption hid the strips of raw meat, bone, and blood on the arm that might never work properly again.
The paramedics had already started an IV drip and fixed an oxygen mask to his face.
That dog had a lot to answer for.
Up on the street a woman wailed in recognition. One of the traffic cops kept her from pelting down the hill.
My heart wrenched in sympathy.
I avoided watching the turbulent emotions by turning my attention back to Cynthia. I ignored the detective.
The bespectacled stranger occupied most of his attention anyway. The paramedic pumped up a blood pressure cuff on Cynthia’s thin arm and frowned. He signaled a second ambulance crew to join him.
“I don’t want to go to the hospital. I just want to go home,” Cynthia said. She looked imploringly into my eyes, as if I could order the world for her. She tried hard to keep her voice firm, but tears already streaked her face.
“Your blood pressure is really low, honey,” the paramedic said quietly. “You are going into shock. It’s only natural. We need a doctor to check you out.”
“Are your parents up on the hill?” I asked her. “They will go with you.” I smoothed her long dark hair where it escaped her tight braids. She leaned into my caress a moment, then straightened. I wished I could accompany her, keep her safe.
“My folks are dead. My foster parents won’t bother coming to the hospital. That might cost them money. They’ll just expect Social Services to deal with the bills and the doctors. I wish I could go home.” She began crying openly now. Her breathing became shallow and her coppery skin looked gray.
The paramedic eased her back until she lay upon the trampled grass. He checked her blood pressure and pulse again and frowned.
“Why can’t you go back to the Colville reservation?”
I asked, trying to calm the girl. I wished I could take her there, where she would be safe from the monsters from other dimensions as well as the ones that called themselves her foster parents.
The girl’s voice and eyes brightened a little. “My parents lived here before they died, and Children’s Services won’t let me cross state lines to go home. No blood relations close enough to me, they say. I want to go home. The tribe will care for me. They are my people. There are no orphans among us.”
I wrapped my arms around her, not knowing what else to do.
I wanted to go home, too—home to my husband. But he was dead, and no one could replace him.
The ambulance crew arrived with another collapsible gurney. I eased out of their way. The paramedic was occupied with Cynthia. I kept my left arm behind my back so no one would notice the dog bite and try to treat it. It took all of my willpower to keep from scratching it raw.
The detective seemed occupied with the tall stranger.
Medical people handled the wounded. Someone else supervised putting two bodies into heavy black bags.
Two adolescent boys, cut down by a monster before they even had a chance to grow. Something twisted inside me.
“I’ll do what I can to get you home, Cynthia. I promise,” I bent and whispered to her.
Then the paramedics pushed me aside.
Psst, Blondie, Scrap hissed in my ear. You’re gonna be late, babe. The imp completed his statement with a passing of gas.
I had to bite my cheeks and scrunch my nose to keep from coughing. The people around me subtly shifted position and looked away.
“Thanks, buddy,” I said, not at
all certain what I was thanking him for. Still, I grabbed the chance of diverted attention to sidle toward the tree line behind the church.
With that little bit of cover I made my way back up to the street and the crowd of gawkers, wailing parents, and frantic authorities.
The too-observant stranger seemed to be giving a complete statement to the police. Better than I could. I had been too busy fighting Dog to notice much else. No one needed me here anymore. Not even Dillwyn Bailey Cooper.
Except maybe one lost and lonely little girl. As lost and alone as I was.
I slumped my posture, gaped my mouth, and made my eyes a little vacant. A little twitch of the tank top made it bag and hang awkwardly. “Scrap can you fade the colors a bit? I’m too bright and noticeable.”
Sure, babe, he whispered.
I blinked my eyes and felt Scrap slide across my back.
A quick glance over my shoulder confirmed that my hot pink tank top had faded to a hideous yellow-green and my lavender shorts to a bluer green. The two did not complement each other.
I sagged my jaw and let my eyes cross a little.
Again the crowd shifted away from me. People just do not know how to deal with those they perceive as deficient.
A quick dodge around the cemetery and I dove into my rental car on the side street. The white compact from Detroit looked like every other compact rental car in the country and was stifling hot inside. I turned on the ignition so I could open the electronic windows.
The ninety-degree summer heat felt comfortable in comparison.
As I sat there, waiting for the air-conditioning to blast out some of the hot air, I became aware that I had been sweating. Heat, exertion, fear, all contributed to the damp, sourness of my skin. And the wound itched so badly it burned. My nose wiggled trying to avoid my own body odor.
You, dahling, are more rank than I am. Scrap appeared on the dashboard, directly in front of me. He looked gray again, but too pale and not quite healthy, like he’d been working too hard.
Got any mold I can munch on? He looked in my half empty coffee cup with hope. Shifting into your weapons is hard work.
