by Amy Lane
As mist overtook Harry and his brothers, their forms became insubstantial, and then they became the fog, rolling away from the violence and the anger at their backs.
This is great, Francis said, sudden tranquility tinging his thoughts a light gray. What happens if they get lost in us?
I have no idea. For a moment, Harry almost broke concentration. His body flashed into solidity and then out again as his cat and the fog became interchangeable. He felt Francis and Edward’s panic in his mind, and a stark terror of having his molecules flung indiscriminately about the desert almost destroyed them all.
And then he thought of Suriel again, of his kiss under the open sky.
About how he’d wanted to kiss Harry for ages.
Peace assailed him, and his fiery center burned bright. The spell became real again, and he and his brothers were themselves at their cores, although their bodies drifted in the fog of his making.
They rolled swiftly, carried on no wind of this earth, until Harry spotted the truck sitting unlit and alone, a few feet from the road it had been traveling as Harry passed out.
With a conscious effort, Harry released the spell, and the three of them kept running as cats. The smell of clean-burning diesel almost overwhelmed him, after the moments of having no lungs at all, but he was still relieved.
Warmed up and ready. Suriel must have been paying attention to know the truck wouldn’t just start on a dime.
Francis and I will take the back, Edward said before smoothly morphing into a human, broken limb realigned by shapeshifting—and perhaps even fog. Francis stayed cat; they had learned in previous missions that very often a serene, furry, seemingly helpless companion could calm and bond frightened people. Francis—angelic, blue-eyed Francis—could be credited for stopping fear riots with just a few strategic meows.
The screech of the roll-door ripped through the night as Edward let himself and Francis in, while Harry jogged toward the front. Of the three of them, he was the only one who had a class three license—and the only one who really enjoyed the big rig.
He swung up into the front seat and grinned in the face of Suriel’s sober-eyed attention. “Thanks for warming her up for me!”
“You have blood on your shirt,” Suriel said severely. Harry looked down as he secured his belt and disengaged both sets of brakes.
“Only some of it was mine,” he soothed. “And it all went away with the changes.”
Not all wounds could be cured by changing forms—the one Harry had suffered before Suriel had arrived could very possibly have killed him. But all he’d done with the henchman was bloody his knuckles and sustain a crack across the jaw with an elbow.
Suriel rubbed his jawbone with a careful thumb. “It was dislocated until you changed,” he said, and although his voice was pitched above the engine noise, it rumbled low in Harry’s stomach.
Harry caught his hand. Following an impulse he’d never before acknowledged, he kissed Suriel’s perfect knuckles.
“Please don’t worry, my pretty angel,” he said whimsically. “It will be glory in the morning.” And with that he let go of Suriel’s hand, shifted hard, and put the thing into gear. The truck rolled smoothly to the edge of the road, and after a triple-check with headlights to make sure he had at least a half mile to accelerate, he released the brake again and stepped on the gas.
The great metal beast growled ferociously and rumbled on a smooth course onto the road—toward the freeway again, so Harry could make the stop.
“Where are you taking them?” Suriel asked after a few moments.
“Visalia,” Harry answered promptly. “Emma’s contacts will meet us there—a fleet of minivans, usually. Moms with clothes to fit teenage girls. The vans split up, the girls go to safe houses and either get sent back to their own families or assimilated into this country. None of it’s aboveboard, and most of it is downright illegal.” He finished that last with a cheeky wink. As the Youngblood family had progressed into their third century, they’d become increasingly contemptuous of the bureaucracy that seemed to get in the way of much that was human compassion. They were as much outlaws as they were freedom fighters, and Leonard got a tremendous amount of satisfaction hacking government systems to sweep away the damage path some of their missions left behind.
He said computerized misinformation was the most powerful magic he’d ever wielded.
“You take a great deal of pleasure from violating the rules.” The frown line between Suriel’s light brown eyebrows managed to make him look both grave and precious. Harry wasn’t sure how he did that. Maybe it was four millennia of consciousness, or maybe it was having a damned fine taste in bodies.
“We do,” Harry said proudly, pulling his mind back to the road and the conversation. “Is that a problem?”
“No,” Suriel mused. “It’s just, all these years, and I expected you to fall in love with Mullins.”
Harry took a big breath and steadied his hands on the rig. “That’s… odd.”
Harry, are you okay? Are they following us? Your brain sounds… numb.
Harry checked the mirrors quickly. He was nearing I-5, in the wee hours of the morning. There weren’t many cars on the road, so the headlights in his rearview might mean trouble.
But not yet.
Suriel just said something surprising, he told Edward. It’s not important.
“Are you telling Edward?” Suriel asked, voice mild.
“No. Because brother or not, magical binding or not, he would shank me in my fuckin’ sleep.”
Suriel’s laughter burbled up over the engine noise. “He would not.”
Harry rolled his eyes. “Perhaps—but I wouldn’t be too sure. Edward’s been sweet on Mullins since….” Oh hell. “Since that first night. I wouldn’t, in a million years, try to get between the two of them.”
“What if Edward had been ‘sweet’ on me?” Suriel asked gently.
Harry tried to contain his despair. “I wouldn’t have gotten in his way,” he rasped. “You… you understand, we’d do anything to see each other happy. If I even knew what Francis wanted half the time, I’d run through broken glass to fetch it.” But Francis… darling Francis only ever seemed to want to be held as a cat, or to nap in a sunspot—or Bel’s lap. From the moment that child was born, Francis had elected himself lone baby protector. Harry and Edward were capable of second-rate jobs at best.
“That’s very noble, Harry,” Suriel said, but he didn’t sound happy about it. “What about what you want for yourself?”
Harry let out a grunt. “I’ve only wanted a handful of things in my life,” he said, accelerating the truck so it could make the overpass. For a moment the silence threatened to take over, and then Suriel lost his temper.
“Harry, I’m here on earth for what may be the last time. Please, for the love of heaven, don’t make me wait for an answer.”
Harry found a smile inside his ever-fighting heart. “Suriel, I’ve never heard you get pissed before. That was amazing—care to do it again?”
“Dammit, Harry!”
The truck lifted a good six inches into the air and clunked down again, and Harry fought to keep it on the road as he rounded the on-ramp.
“Goddammit, Suriel!”
“Answer me! Your heart has been wounded, leaking hope like a sieve, for years. Your family has felt it, Harry—they’ve begged me to help, and I couldn’t, because helping you would break my binding with God. And now here I am, ready to tip into mortality, to break my binding anyway. The least you could do is say it. Open your mouth and tell me the thing you want that you’re so afraid to reach for. You’re so brave, Harry! You lead your brothers into every fight, and you are fearless. You face death and you are unafraid—”
“I’m unafraid because I know you’ll be waiting!” Harry cried, not wanting Suriel to be fooled. “Because if you can’t save me in this life, I know you’ll be waiting in the next. That’s why I’m unafraid. Because I know that if I die, you’ll be there, in heaven, and for
once you won’t have to leave when the candle gutters and the rooster crows. Are you happy now? Is that what you wanted to hear? That it’s not a death wish, no matter how fucking lonely I am. It’s a you wish—how’s that?”
The car in front of them was suddenly too close. Harry checked to his left and yanked on the wheel as hard as he dared. The semi swerved out into the passing lane, and Harry checked his mirror and saw a car speeding up, like it was trying to rear-end them.
“Dammit. They’re trying to swoop and squat—”
“They’re flying?” Suriel asked, that puzzled, curious part of him coming into play again.
“No—it’s an old conman’s game—try to get the sucker to hit you so you’ll stop and give them insurance money. In this case they’re trying to get me to hit them because they want me to stop, period.”
Suriel grunted. “Are these the same people you chased in the desert?”
Harry took a look in his rearview and tried to make out the features of the guy driving the red pickup truck he’d almost passed.
His stomach was never going to stop freezing when he saw Big Cass. “Yup,” he muttered, accelerating. Even as he did, he watched as the red truck with Big Cass and the gray one that almost hit them both picked up speed as well. “They’re not giving up.” He hated this thought, but it was probably true. “I bet we killed the guy Edward attacked. Mullins showed him all sorts of black-magic moves to open up his throat—those worked pretty well.”
“I am not excited about that direction in Edward’s magic,” Suriel said primly. “If Edward dies, it would be wonderful if he was heading to heaven as well.”
“Do you think Mullins would let him go anywhere else?” Harry asked—and not sarcastically.
“So you know Mullins loves Edward but you won’t even hazard a guess about me?” Suriel demanded.
“A missed guess with you would destroy me,” Harry answered, distracted enough by the chase that the rawness of this conversation, the risks he was taking making himself vulnerable, weren’t tying his tongue into the usual knots. “I’m only brave with my life, Suriel, not my heart. Down, dammit!”
They drew near again, and this time Harry saw the headlight gleam on the ugly black butt of an automatic weapon.
Harry checked his rearview, saw that the only vehicle right behind him was the other truck.
Great. They wanted a conman’s car accident? Harry would give one to them, Youngblood style! He sped up, heedless of Francis and Edward swearing up a storm in his head, and used the momentum and power of the relatively empty semi to pull even with the big Ford pickup. “I said get down!” he snarled to Suriel, and when Suriel had complied, lying full-length across the seat, his head touching Harry’s thigh, Harry pulled the horn.
Big Cass looked right at him, and Harry’s night vision was just as good as a man as it was when he was feline. Harry saw Cass’s eyes widen and his mouth fall open, before he pulled his lips back in a sneer and hit his brakes.
Harry shot ahead, and the semi juddered hard as Cass rammed the side with the truck. Ridiculous in one way because Harry could flatten him, but in another way—
Cass hit again, and Edward and Francis both screamed in his head. The girls were in danger, and Harry needed to do something.
Harry changed lanes, the metal of the Ford grinding against the side of the truck before it broke free, and the entire human collective inside gave a big gasp of relief. In the rearview, Harry saw the F-150 go tumbling into the desert and the blue Chevy slowing down to follow it off-road—without the tumble.
Everyone okay back there?
A couple of the girls got hurt. I’m tending to them. Francis was upset enough to change form, and now they’re all plastered on the cab end of the cargo bay. Edward’s slightly dry mental voice broke into a wholly inappropriate cackle. He’s trying to speak Russian and Spanish simultaneously. It sounds like he’s speaking Martian, and it’s scaring them more.
Oh jeez—it wasn’t funny in the least. The girls were terrified, and Big Cass had almost taken more victims than just Harry, Edward, and Francis. It should have been the most serious thing in the world but….
But there were no serious injuries, and Harry had faith in his brothers.
He chortled out loud, startling Suriel into sitting up. Harry’s thigh went cold without the spill of red-gold hair over it, but he kept his eyes on the road.
“What’s so funny?”
“Francis flipped out and went human in the back. He’s trying to speak to the girls in two languages at once, and they think he’s from outer space.” Harry broke up again, gleeful as he hadn’t been in… well, a year.
Since the last time Suriel had come to talk to them, from midnight until morning.
Suriel laughed politely, and Harry sobered.
“It was him,” he said after a minute. “I’d like to think he was killed when his truck endoed, but not this guy. He’s a cockroach, apparently. Survive anything.”
“That depends.” Suriel looked into his rearview mirror incuriously. The two trucks were long gone from sight anyway.
“On what?”
“Are you still afraid of him?”
Harry took a deep breath and prepared to say “Hell no!”
Suriel wrapped a possessive hand around his thigh, and he let that breath right out again.
“What do you want me to say?” If he was speaking to a human man, his voice would be too low to hear over the engine noise. But he wasn’t speaking to a human man.
“I want you to talk to me about him, Harry. Tell me why he scares the three of you so much.”
Harry grunted. “Didn’t figure you for a voyeur.” He prayed Suriel would move his hand, but he only squeezed a little harder.
“You’d be surprised about that—but this isn’t voyeurism. Yes, I know he raped you and the others. Is that what you wanted me to say? We all know that—all the people in your life know this is a fact, Harry. But you know something? I know this for a fact because I asked. These last five years, you throwing yourself into every damned fray headfirst, you’re damned right I asked. You have never, not once, said it. Edward told Mullins, back during World War I. Francis told Emma—”
“Sometime in the first couple years,” Harry said gruffly. “I know. We didn’t know about Francis then. We thought—the whole reason we were in that clearing was me and Edward trying to get him out before… before it happened.”
“You didn’t think Big Cass would get him before that? He’s a very handsome boy.”
Harry half laughed. “You should have seen him when he was a baby—his voice had hardly dropped. Before I saw you, I thought he looked like an angel. Edward too. Too pretty to be in that place.”
Suriel sighed and fiddled with the switches on the dashboard. Cool air blew in, and Harry half smiled. He’d forgotten temperature controls in all the excitement. Then Suriel fiddled some more, and a country-western station played. Harry rather liked country-western—he smiled all the way, pleased.
“You were all beautiful boys,” Suriel said into the softened silence. “I saw you.”
Harry shrugged. “I was plain. Cass, Bertha—they said it often enough. Said I wouldn’t make it as a whore—too plain, too mouthy.” He smiled grimly. “The ‘mouthy’ wasn’t really a problem in that business, it turned out.”
Suriel flicked him on the temple—hard.
“Goddamn—”
“Unnecessary,” Suriel growled. “And crude. No joking about those days—not tonight. Not when death keeps trying to run you down and your fear keeps letting it.”
The vastness of I-5 ran steadily under the big rig’s wheels, and the sky opened up so clear, with so many stars and a stately silver moon, Harry could have seen the road ahead without headlights. With headlights, the battered asphalt looked haunted and infinite, and the dry waste of what should have been ripe farmland roared on either side of the highway like a lifeless ocean.
Harry thought hard, tried to summon up what Big Cass had
been to him as a child. Tried to encapsulate the fear, the bone-grinding, gawdawful fear that had chewed at the three of them, every minute of every day, from the moment they’d entered the brothel in the care of their mothers to the moment they’d escaped, running for their lives.
Plainly
“ME MUM—” He swallowed and remembered—this was twenty-first-century California. The years hadn’t passed Harry’s family in a vacuum, and neither had the speech patterns. “My mother’s family was pretty well off, back east. My father wanted to earn his fortune, I guess. They came to California after the war—the Civil War. My father fought for the North. They were sort of the second wave, the merchant wave, wanting to make a living here, when back in Boston it felt like all of the merchants had been there since the revolution. They settled in Hangtown—Placerville—and she had three babies, boom, boom, boom. He got a job for the railroad as foreman and died when they were gouging a trench in the Sierras to drive a bloody great train through.”
He had to take a cleansing breath, trying to rid himself of some of the anger he’d had back then—but Suriel wouldn’t let him keep even his anger.
“Why does that irritate you?”
Harry grunted. “The railroad—sheer hubris. There are ways to live in the world without ripping a hole in it.”
“But people didn’t think that way back then. You can’t hold it against your father that he was trying to feed his family.”
“I can hold it against him that he died,” Harry snapped. “He died and left my mother with a pittance for a pension. None of her family would help her because he’d been such an irritating bastard before he left, telling them all that he could do it by himself, take care of her and such. She traveled down to Sacramento to sell her things—her rich dresses, some furniture—but thieves beset us on the way there.” Harry remembered that night; he’d been no more than nine, his sisters even younger. She’d hidden them in the woods by the wagon while the two men had unloaded all the things they’d owned, and then—oh, Harry had watched from the shadows as they’d bent his mother over and taken the last thing she had left.
