Darkness Calls

by Marjorie M. Liu

  There were stairs at the back of the gallery, behind a carved wooden screen. I marched up, footsteps loud, making no effort to hide my approach.

  The second-floor landing had only one door, and it stood open, contents spilling into the hall. Books, everywhere. Beyond the door, a maze of them. Piles and stacks, surrounding packed shelves shoved tight against the walls, and tables that overflowed with reams of paper, rocks, and open crates filled with packing materials and glimpses of odd artifacts. Lamps burdened with stained-glass shades perched precariously atop leather-bound encyclopedias—power cords buried, presumably connecting somewhere, somehow, to the walls. I saw empty teacups scattered similarly around the room, placed haphazardly along the only path through the mess: a clear, narrow, and winding trail.

  Jack’s home. His shadow, still warm over all his belongings.

  “Byron,” I called softly. “It’s me.”

  I heard rustling. Byron appeared on the other end of the room, leaning out from behind a bookshelf. He wore jeans, and a long-sleeved gray shirt. His gaze was piercing; dark and old, and very tired.

  “I’m glad,” he said. “I wasn’t sure you’d remember I had a key.”

  I remembered clearly. Months ago, after Jack’s disappearance, I had told Byron to come here if he was ever in trouble. I had reason to believe he might be one day. Not just because of his association with me.

  If something happened, if I disappeared, or Grant could not help him—this was a good place. Come here to the studio, I had said. Come to this apartment. I had hidden money, left cans of food. For my own use, too. I had other safe houses, in other cities. Inherited from my mother.

  But this place was no longer safe. No such thing, anymore.

  I picked my way through the narrow path, my legs brushing the spines of books. The boys were quiet. Dreaming, sweetly. Maybe the only calm thing about me. I was holding together, but just barely. Seeing Byron helped. Maybe this was what being motherly felt like. My own mother would have called it a weakness. Affection was dangerous business. People did not last, no matter how much you wanted them to. People caused trouble, people distracted, people could not be trusted.

  Wrong people, I thought at my mother. Nor was there any point to saving the world if I felt no love for it—if I was not in love with the people in it. Some of them, anyway. I wasn’t a hippie, or anything.

  The kitchen was not nearly as packed as the rest of the apartment, though the sink was full of dishes, and crumbs covered the counter. Mary sat at the table. I was surprised to see her. Giant daisies had replaced the poodles on her potato-sack dress. The hem barely covered her knobby knees, and the oversized blue sweater swallowing her frame was patched and holey. Her white hair would have made Einstein proud.

  Byron stood beside her, pouring hot water into a large mug filled with three tea bags and five old-fashioned cubes of sugar. Mary’s hands trembled around the thick white ceramic, and her gaze was fixed on the floor.

  “Tea helps keep her calm,” said Byron, as though it was perfectly natural for a fifteen-year-old street kid to be taking care of an elderly, somewhat insane and otherworldly drug addict. And for him, maybe it was. He was not a normal boy.

  “You did good,” I said, as Grant crowded in behind me, awkwardly navigating the narrow trail between books. Killy was with him, frowning, fingers pressed to her brow. Her frown intensified when she saw Mary.

  “You okay?” Grant asked Byron.

  “Fine,” he said, staring past him at Killy. “I saw Mary attack the priest. I found her after she got away. Took her with me.”

  Very good kid. I ruffled the boy’s hair. Mary lifted her gaze, from the floor to her teacup, then Grant. Like watching the sun come up in her face. She beamed when she realized who was standing in front of her; she glowed, and bristled with a smile.

  “Grant,” she whispered, standing—reaching for him. But her hands stopped just before she touched his shoulders, and hovered instead over the pendant glinting soft and golden in the lamplight. She stared, lips moving, wrinkled skin growing paler, something wild in her eyes that reminded me of Mr. King’s creations—while being in every way their opposite.

  Mary had drawn that design in ink upon her palm, but it was faded now, almost gone. She laid that hand over the pendant and shuddered, drawing in her breath through clenched teeth. Grant stood frozen, like he was suddenly afraid to be so near her. Byron was tense, as well, but this time his attention was fully on the old woman—and I wondered, briefly, what he had seen to make him want to keep her calm.

  “Mary,” Grant murmured, saying her name like a song. “Mary. Do you know this? Have you seen it before?”

  Killy made a small, pained noise, and closed her eyes. Mary swayed.

  “Mary,” he said again.

  “Antrea,” she whispered, and closed her hand around the pendant.

  All the color drained from Grant’s face. I caught him as his bad leg buckled. His grip on my shoulder was so strong the boys wiggled beneath his hand. “How do you know my mother’s name?”

  “Your mother,” Mary breathed, blinking sharply. “Your mother was beautiful.”

  Killy cried out, gripping her head between her hands.

  “Your mother,” Mary said again, louder, her knuckles turning white around the pendant. “I lost your mother.”

  Killy began to sit down, but there was no chair, nothing to catch her. Byron grabbed her arm, but she yanked away from him as though burned, and fell hard to the floor. She hardly seemed to notice. Pain wrinkled her face.

  Mary tugged hard, yanking Grant close. “I had her, like this, and she was pulled away.”

  Killy screamed. Byron stared at me, helpless. I reached down and grabbed the woman under her arms, hauling backward, pulling her away from Mary—who was becoming even more lucid, more wild-eyed.

  “Byron,” I snapped, and the teen grabbed Killy’s legs. We knocked books over, stumbling.

  “The Labyrinth took you both,” Mary said, but I was no longer looking at her, focused solely on holding the sobbing woman who seemed to be dying in my arms.

  “Mary.” Grant’s voice broke through my concentration. “Mary, calm down.”

  The old woman’s voice quaked. “The others were dead. All of them. The babies—they took the babies—and you were the last; you were—”

  “Mary.”

  “—I promised to protect you—”

  “Mary.”

  “—but I failed her.”

  Byron and I managed to get Killy in the hall, but she was still screaming, clutching her head like it was going to explode. Blood trickled from her nostrils.

  “Hit her,” said the boy grimly. “Knock her out.”

  I stared at him. Then turned, slamming my fist into Killy’s jaw. It was a careful blow, but a good one. Her voice cut off with a choke, and she went slack. Unconscious. Still breathing, heart racing, but safe from the pain she had been suffering. Her sudden silence was deafening.

  “Stay with her,” I ordered Byron, and ran back into the apartment.

  Mary stood nose to nose with Grant. She was not a tall woman, but she was raised up on her toes, and had used the gold pendant to yank the man down until he stared directly into her eyes. Foam flecked a corner of her mouth. She looked at Grant as though he was her lifeline, her reason for breathing. Nothing crazy about it. The old woman was as sane in that moment as I had ever seen her.

  “I lost you,” she breathed.

  Grant grabbed her hand. “You found me. You’re safe now.”

  “No world is safe.” Mary turned her head, and looked across the apartment at me—staring into my eyes with clear, striking intensity. “You. One of theirs. I can see it. Blood-spun, grafted. Slave.”

  “I’m no slave,” I said.

  “Then they’ll kill you,” she whispered. “Or try to control you.”

  “Not me.” I strode forward until I stood face-to-face with the old woman. “Not Grant. Not anyone on this world.”

  Gri
ef ravaged her face. “So we said, when the Aetar first came.”

  Mary swayed again, placing her palm against her eye. Her grip on the pendant loosened. Grant tried to hold her close, but her knees buckled.

  “They’re coming,” she whispered, and let go of the necklace.

  I caught the old woman as she fell, and lowered her gently to the floor. She was still conscious but mumbling nonsense, her eyes distant, farseeing. Mind swimming free again. Just a little crazy. But not that crazy, I realized.

  Grant knelt awkwardly beside her, utterly stricken. He let go of his cane, and both his hands hovered over the old woman, trembling. Like he was afraid to touch her.

  Zee jerked backward against my skin, all the boys swimming with unease.

  “Damn,” I whispered, trying to process everything she had said. If it was lies, Grant would know. But from the look on his face, everything she had said was true. As true as she knew it to be.

  “Maxine,” Byron called urgently. I glanced at Grant, but his focus was still on the old woman. I pushed away, moving quickly across the apartment. I did not see Byron until I was in the doorway. He stood at the top of the stairs, hands clenched into fists. Killy was still unconscious.

  I joined him, and looked.

  A man stood at the bottom of the stairs, leaning against the wall. Shadows so thick I could not see his face. I knew him, though. I would have known him anywhere.

  “Old Wolf,” I whispered.

  “Sweet girl,” he rumbled, and slid down the wall to his knees.

  CHAPTER 14

  MY mother never spoke about the men in our family. Their existence had the quality of a fable, or myth; no woman in my bloodline discussed the father of her child. Not ever. Not in the journals they kept, not in the lore. Even sex was a taboo subject. I had to learn about it from reading books in the library or snatching glimpses of Cinemax on hotel television late at night while my mother was out hunting zombies.

  Made sense, in retrospect. Sex and men led to babies. A baby meant death, murder—a hard good-bye.

  My grandfather sat at the bottom of the stairs, legs stretched in front of him. I sat at his side. We held cups of hot tea. I did not drink, but Jack sipped his with great care. A long scratch covered the side of his face. He needed a shave, a shower. His messenger bag was gone. No sign of the shotgun. He trembled every time he took a breath, and I listened to the rattling in his chest with unease.

  “I was told you had been captured,” I said.

  “A lie,” Jack replied quietly. “But had he found me, he might have released me, anyway. Torture is a limited pleasure for my kind. To hurt us, you must find the heart of what keeps us sane, then take it.” A grim smile touched his mouth. “So I, like a fool, came seeking you.”

  I leaned against him, ever so slightly. “He’s already done a good job tracking us. At this point, I don’t think it matters where we go or who we’re with.”

  “He plays,” Jack murmured. “He tests and toys, and marvels at what we are, and what we have become. All of us have changed, my dear. Your bloodline. Me. Grant, too, is a quality that should not be.”

  I frowned, wondering what he meant by all that, but before I could ask, I heard movement at the top of the stairs. Grant, gazing down at us. His gaze darkened when he focused on Jack. “Killy is awake.”

  “We’ll be right there,” I said, but he did not acknowledge me. Just backed away, still watching the old man with disquieting thoughtfulness.

  Jack didn’t seem to notice, but I suspected that was out of self-preservation. “Is this Killy the young lady you just dragged screaming from my home?”

  “She had an interesting reaction to Mary,” I replied, standing slowly. “How long do you think we have?”

  “Moments or hours.” Jack rose with me, sighing. “No longer than that. He never had patience.”

  “Or a sense of self-preservation. He’s reckless.”

  “Reckless or desperate, or perhaps a little mad.”

  We started climbing the stairs, leaving our teacups on the step. I offered him my arm. He took it with a faint smile, which faded when I said, “I know what he did. Before, to one of my ancestors. I know he arranged her murder.”

  Jack stopped climbing, and stared at me—his expression unfathomable. I thought for certain he would ask how I had discovered that crime, but instead he said, “It was the final act. It was why I finally arranged his incarceration.”

  “And the boys? Tracker, helping raise her baby? Oturu? I would have liked knowing that.”

  “There is too much history,” Jack said heavily, beginning to climb the stairs again. “Too much, my dear. Ten thousand years of stories in your blood. All you can truly know is yourself.”

  Easier said than done.

  Killy was still on the landing, a pillow under her head and a bottle of water on the step above her. Byron sat with her. He tensed when he saw Jack. He had never been able to relax around the old man, nor could Jack look the boy in the eye. Seemed to me that he pretended the teen did not exist as he stared down at the woman, whose eyes fluttered open to stare directly into his face.

  “Hell,” she said hoarsely. “Another one.”

  Jack’s nostrils flared, and grim amusement passed through his gaunt face. “I could say the same about you.”

  “He won’t hurt you,” I said quickly, sensing some alarm in her gaze.

  Killy tried to sit up, and Byron reached out to help her—stopping just before he made contact. He could not look at her face, but I thought it was shyness that kept his gaze down. A restrained, quiet, and terrible shyness.

  “I should have ditched you folks,” she muttered. “Self-preservation, my ass. I’m safer on my own.”

  Maybe, maybe not. “How’s your head?”

  She stopped trying to stand and gave me a look that would have been tough—even fearless—had the muscles around her left eye not begun twitching furiously. “It burns,” she said slowly. “I don’t know if it will ever stop. Where that woman has been, what she has gone through, can’t exist.”

  “You saw it?” Jack asked carefully.

  “She projects it. I can feel the edges even now. Like . . . razors are growing in my brain.” Killy shuddered, rubbing her arms. “I saw death. I saw her kill. I saw her with a woman and baby, being hunted. She was younger then. That old woman was young like me. I saw other babies—”

  Killy stopped, her hand flying over her mouth. She looked down, sucking deep breaths into her lungs, and Byron hugged his stomach, rocking slightly as he watched her. Jack also looked ill, but for a different reason. I saw memory in his eyes. I recalled Mr. King’s words.

  Old Jack could tell you about the hunts, if he was here. Chasing the skins of your kind across the Labyrinth. Stealing babies into shackles from their cribs.

  I looked into the apartment and found Grant watching the old man. His gaze was cold, hard. Remembering the same thing, no doubt.

  “I knew some things about the world,” whispered Killy, behind her hand. “I thought I knew enough.”

  “Jack,” said Grant quietly. “We need to talk.”

  The old man rubbed the back of his neck. “I suppose we do, lad.”

  Grant turned and limped deeper into the apartment. Jack followed. Killy did not seem to notice, but Byron watched both men, then me, with solemn, knowing eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” I said to him. “This is not something you should have been involved in. I know . . . everything happening seems strange—”

  “I’m not alone,” interrupted the boy softly, then hesitated, as if that by itself should be explanation enough; and it was, I understood. “Strange is okay.”

  It was not okay. He deserved better, but I had nothing to offer. I could not send him away. I knew things about Byron that he did not.

  I knew he was not entirely human.

  I squeezed his shoulder, gently. “Take care of her, kid. I’ll be back in a minute.”

  I entered the apartment. Found the men in the
kitchen. Mary was no longer there—in the bedroom, maybe. I thought I heard a soft humming melody behind the partially closed door.

  Grant stood beside the table, one hand gripping the back of a chair. Jack leaned against the counter, arms folded over chest. Both men, watching each other warily.

  “I think it’s time for some answers,” Grant said. “In fact, I insist.”

  “You insist,” Jack murmured, and ran his hand over his mouth, the circles under his eyes deepening as though beneath his skin lived nothing but shadows. “It will have blood; they say, blood will have blood.”

  “Stones have been known to move and trees to speak,” I continued, picking up where Jack left off—a recitation from Macbeth, which my mother had insisted I study. Part of my education into human nature.

  “What is the night?” Grant added, softly. “What is this, Jack?”

  “Almost at odds with morning,” he whispered. “Almost at odds with everything this world has dreamed. Such words, it dreams. Your Shakespeares and Michelangelos, and your clever Einsteins. And earlier, earlier still, such lovely feats of brilliance that this was and is the golden empire we had dreamed, only its treasures were of the mind, and my kind did not stay long enough to value all it offered.”

  Jack’s shoulders sagged, and when he looked at me, briefly, there was a grief in his eyes that reminded me of every time he had ever said my grandmother’s name. “I was a fool. I thought things could go on as they were. I wanted that so badly, to have a chance with you. As normal people do, my dear.” He hesitated. “I hoped no one else would notice Grant.”

  Grant slid his fingers through mine. “So someone has. Why the extreme reaction?”

  “Extreme?” Jack smiled bitterly. “Is there anything extreme about eradicating a disease, or protecting life against a natural disaster? You do what you must. You destroy what can hurt you . . . or you harness it.”