Darkness Calls

by Marjorie M. Liu

  I didn’t bother asking why we had traveled here first—why the men had driven to a second location before coming to find me. The mechanics of cutting space were a mystery to me—less science than magic—but I assumed there was something in the act that drew the attention of those looking for it. Like Mr. King.

  Grant drove, his cane resting in the passenger seat, beside Jack. I sat in the back with Father Lawrence. His brown skin had an ashen tone, and there were lines around his eyes that had not been present before. I thought about peeling back his lips to look at his teeth but was too afraid of what I would find.

  We exited I-5 at Port of Tacoma Road, then swung right on 509 until it turned into Marine View Drive. Grant drove toward the ocean, and I smelled fresh sap and wood chips. Lumberyards were all over the place, along with steel and chemical facilities. Farther along, buildings began drying up, and we passed designated tidelands.

  I saw the ocean. A marina.

  Grant parked the Jeep at Chinook Landing. Across the waterway, behind expensive sailboats and small yachts, I could see the major cargo terminals and lumbering, fat ships that resembled steel boxes slogging through the sea. There were a lot of boats. Personally, I was no fan. I had issues with fear of drowning.

  None of us got out of the car. I peered through the windows, searching for witnesses. No one appeared to be out, but dragging an unconscious man to a boat in broad daylight seemed like an invitation for trouble. It was only the afternoon, though, with hours still until darkness. We could not sit here forever.

  “He’s drunk, right?” I said, as Jack closed his eyes. “That’s the backstory if anyone asks why I’m hauling around a priest.”

  “I’d be convinced,” Grant said dryly.

  Jack rubbed his temples and opened his eyes. “No one is here. We should move quickly.”

  I moved. Ignored the sensation of having a target painted on my back as I dragged Father Lawrence’s deadweight from the gravel parking lot, down to the dock. No rain, but the air was cold in my lungs. I was grateful for it. The priest was heavy. I doubted even Grant, with two good legs, could have managed him.

  Jack led us to a yacht—some white fiberglass cruiser, almost sixty-five feet long, with a fully enclosed bridge. I could see nothing behind the tinted windows, but sensed someone watching us. Sure enough. Byron slipped outside, the wind blowing dark hair over his eyes. He stared at me and the unconscious priest at my feet.

  “Hey,” I said awkwardly, unable to imagine what he was thinking. Don’t do this when you grow up, I wanted to tell him. Don’t be like me.

  Killy appeared behind the boy. I was, once again, surprised to see her. Her black hair was tousled, her clothing rumpled. A deep line had formed between her eyes, which still looked pained. When she saw Father Lawrence, her expression did not improve.

  “Shit,” she said, and ran for the ladder.

  It took all of us to get the priest on board. He began to wake as we pulled him to the deck, and Killy—who had one arm hooked under his—went very pale. I was beside her. No one else noticed, not even Byron—who stood on the dock, pushing up the priest’s foot.

  “What?” I said quietly to her.

  She shot me an uneasy look. “Hurry.”

  I gritted my teeth, dug my heels into the deck, and hauled backward with all my strength. Father Lawrence slid on board like a greased seal, but I did not stop. I dragged the man toward the main bridge and cabin of the boat. Killy ran ahead of me, and by the time I got to the doorway she held rope in her hands: thick and green, the kind used for crab nets.

  I turned him over on his stomach, and without a word she knelt and began knotting his wrists behind his back. He made a small noise as she worked, and Killy tossed me the end of the rope. I tied his ankles, tightening the excess cord. The only way for Father Lawrence to move would be at a swift roll.

  Byron appeared in the doorway, as did Jack. Grant was steps behind them, breathing hard. Climbing the ladder, I told myself, but it was more than that. He was too pale. I wondered if he had coughed up blood in the last hour.

  Killy made a small, choked sound. I turned. Father Lawrence’s eyes were open. His pupils were black, but his irises were bloodred, rimmed in gold. He twisted, staring wildly at all of us, but focusing finally on Killy—who froze, meeting his gaze like he was a semi with his lights in her eyes.

  He lunged at her. Not like Father Ross, or the men in the Shanghai bar who had moved as sharks, piranhas, darting and impossibly quick. Something more rough-hewn carried Father Lawrence forward—and crouched behind him, I saw the backs of his hands ripple, and break open with brown fur.

  Happened in a split second. I rocked forward, grabbing the back of his collar, but he was too strong and the cloth tore. He catapulted across the bridge as Killy scrabbled backward—crying out his name, just once. All those knots, worth shit in keeping him still.

  Just before he reached her, my fingers snared the rope around his ankles. I yanked back with all my strength. Father Lawrence let out a choked snarl, and rolled around to face me, managing to sit up with his round belly hanging over the waist of his pants. Dark fur crawled up the sides of his throat, and his teeth were long and sharp. He snapped at me like a chained wolf, mindless with rage.

  I punched him. Father Lawrence’s voice broke, and he swayed, shaking his head. I hit him again, this time with a double-handed fist, driving the blow down into the side of his head. He hit the floor and did not move again.

  I crouched above him, breathing hard. Staring, as brown, bristly fur slowly receded from Father Lawrence’s face, leaving him round-cheeked and human. Killy sat in a small ball, hugging her knees to her chest. Watching the priest, as well. Eyes haunted. Grieved.

  Movement, behind me. Byron walked along the edge of the bridge, keeping a wary eye on the transforming man sprawled beneath me. He joined Killy. Stood beside her with impressive stoic calm, and said nothing. When she decided to rise, a moment later, he gave her his hand.

  Hands touched me, as well. Grant. I leaned gratefully into his shoulder, but it was like rubbing a live wire. Anger rolled off him. Jack was little better, but in a different way. He came around to stand beside us, and studied Father Lawrence—but with absolutely no emotion. His expression concerned me. The old man looked at the priest with distant familiarity—in that same way anyone might be familiar with his doctor, or teacher. As though he knew him.

  “Well,” he said quietly. “Now we have werewolves.”

  I dragged Father Lawrence below to one of the staterooms. The hall was narrow. I banged my shoulders and elbows. A door creaked open. Mary peered out to watch us pass. Her hair was wild, her eyes sleepy. She looked at the unconscious priest being dragged behind me, and said, “Never trust an old wolf.”

  She stepped back inside her room and shut the door.

  “Good advice,” I muttered, and glanced over my shoulder as Grant descended the stairs behind me. He banged his head on the ceiling, and winced.

  I pushed open the door at the end of the hall, revealing a small, oddly shaped stateroom with a round bed in the center. Jack had suggested it. He did not claim ownership of the boat, but he had keys to the ignition and was familiar enough with its layout and operation. I could feel the vessel cutting water and hear its engine rumble. We were heading out to sea.

  I heaved Father Lawrence onto the bed. A lump was forming on his forehead. I sat beside him. Grant followed me inside and shut the door. He stared at the priest, then me. I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees. Trying not to think too hard about everything I had seen.

  Grant sat on the bed with a sigh and stretched out his bad leg. His cane went down on the floor. I ran my left hand over his thigh, massaging muscle through his jeans—until his fingers wrapped around mine. His tanned skin was very human against my tattoos.

  “Just think,” I said quietly. “Six months ago, if you hadn’t gone to Pike Place Market, we would never have met, and you wouldn’t be in this mess.”

  “Ri
ght. I’d be dead. Possessed by a demon queen. Personally, I think this is the better bargain.” Grant kissed my cheek very gently, sighing into my hair—and then leaned back to pull his flute from its case. “Father Lawrence is lucky I’m not going to treat him with the same respect he gave Luke.”

  “Oh, please. You’d give Lassie a run for her money.”

  “Woof,” he replied, and twisted around to study Father Lawrence. The priest was very still, very unconscious, his breathing deep and steady. Grant reached out with one hand, his fingers waving slightly through the air above the man’s leg. A low hum rose from his throat, and power shivered over my skin. Zee rumbled in his dreams. All the boys, shifting.

  “He’s in there,” Grant said finally. “Closer to the surface than Luke was. I suspect that’s why he focused on Killy. She was familiar to him. Either way, I can bring out the man.”

  And then what? His life as he knew it is over. “Mr. King only had moments with Father Lawrence. I’m surprised he was able to do so much.”

  “Practice makes perfect. Makes you wonder, though, about the world. Jack told me things while you were gone. About fairy tales and myths.” He glanced down at the flute, then met my gaze with a faint, sad smile. “I suppose it should make me question my faith, but it doesn’t.”

  I touched his face. “I think you were born believing in something bigger than yourself.”

  “I don’t know. I don’t even know where I was born.” Grant captured my hand, and cradled it over his heart. “But I know I’m here now. I’m here, in this moment, with you. I’m here, in this moment when I can make a difference. I’m here, alive. And even though I don’t understand much of what I’ve been told about myself—or whether I even believe it—I do know there are mysteries that are truth.”

  I smiled. “No accidents?”

  “Not when it came to meeting you.” Grant kissed my hand, his gaze full of that same mystery, a truth I could not name, but that I felt, every time I thought of him. “I dreamed you, Maxine Kiss. I dreamed your heart.”

  He kissed my hand again, then tucked it gently in my lap. I could not speak. I watched him pick up his flute, and his gaze focused, sharpening thoughtfully as he stared at Father Lawrence. Taking measure of the man’s soul.

  Yet, Grant hesitated. Never had he shown reluctance to help anyone, human or demon, but I saw it then—and I knew it was not because of what had happened to Father Ross.

  Father Cribari was the problem. Grant had almost killed him. He had transformed into someone else: murderer, avenger, magic man. A buried side of him, awakening. Like the darkness sleeping inside my own heart.

  I knew exactly how frightening that was. I knew how terrifying it could be, to imagine it happening again.

  “Grant,” I said quietly.

  “I know.” He lifted the golden flute. “This could take a while.”

  Grant breathed into the instrument, and a lilting thread of music trilled through the air. Power poured over my skin, which the boys shook off like dogs chasing water from fur—and still, the music sank past them into bone, warm as honey. I had expected fury, the taste of blood and sword, but what flowed over me was a song of a sunlit sea, and it was the sound of Father Lawrence’s soul, each note like stardust sparkled from ear to tongue, until it was like being a little girl again—that little me, that dreaming little me—caught tight in wonder, held dear in love.

  I looked at Grant, but my vision felt odd, as though he were lost behind a soft lens. I imagined heat rolling off him as he stared at the priest—his gaze unflinching, terrifying in its intensity. Sweat beaded against his brow, and the flute suddenly sounded different; as though the notes were swelling, soaking, growing.

  Lightbringer, I thought, remembering all the things Jack had said—realizing, too, that none of it mattered. Whatever Grant had been born to was dead. He could be something new, make his own way with the power given him.

  As could I.

  The stateroom door opened. Jack stepped in. Something was wrong; I could see it in his eyes. I started to stand—stopping halfway when the old man found Grant, and froze.

  I was looking at Jack. I was looking, and so nothing was hidden from me—not the grief, and not the bone-chilling hunger that swept over his face, which was very nearly as visceral and primal as Father Ross’s desire to chew up nuns: a killing need, mindless and drowning.

  I stared, breathless. Still staring when Jack tore his gaze from Grant and looked at me.

  He knew what I had seen—clear as day in his eyes. He knew.

  “Old Wolf,” I whispered.

  Jack flinched and swallowed hard. “You have to stop him. My dear girl, he is not just trying to heal that man’s soul.”

  I blinked, startled, and looked back at Grant and Father Lawrence. The priest was breathing more rapidly, body twitching. I watched the skin of his throat ripple like his muscles were contorting, and his eyes moved rapidly beneath his lids. He was becoming something else. Transforming.

  Blood trickled from Grant’s nose. Blood, at the corner of his mouth, foaming with every breath he poured into his flute.

  I moved toward him, but the air suddenly felt like molasses. I was too slow. Too slow when the music stopped abruptly, and Grant swayed. Too slow when the flute tumbled from his fingers. Too slow—too slow to catch him as he slumped backward off the bed.

  I fell on my knees beside him. He was so still, his face slack. I checked his pulse.

  His heart was not beating.

  CHAPTER 17

  Idied, in that moment. I let myself die for one stopped heartbeat, one lost breath, and the boys roared against my skin.

  I roared back.

  I found Grant’s sternum. His mother’s pendant was in the way, and I pushed it aside. Clasped my hands, and began giving him chest compressions. Fast, hard, with all my strength. I broke rhythm only twice to breathe into his mouth—tasted his blood, swallowed it—and began again, pounding on his chest. Cold, hard terror burned through me, leaving my body numb in its wake. I screamed at Grant. I screamed.

  Inside me, a flutter, a shadow. My finger armor began to burn.

  And then Jack was there, shoving me aside. His face was drawn and pale, his blue eyes brilliant as ice. He laid his hands over Grant’s chest and closed his eyes.

  A pulse charged through the air—thunder without sound—and everything rose and fell in that room, including me. Grant gasped, arching upward. His eyes flew open.

  Jack fell away from him: a scarecrow man, nothing but skin and bone. I pushed my arm under Grant’s head. He stared wildly into my eyes and began coughing. Blood spattered my face. I wiped it away with a shaking hand and felt the boys absorb the hot fluid through my fingers.

  “You need a hospital,” I said, trembling, and looked at Jack—who appeared on the verge of his own heart attack. “You, too.”

  “I simply need rest,” he breathed, leaning heavily against the bed, as though his skull was simply too burdensome to hold up. “Grant will recover, as well. Trust me, my dear.”

  Bullshit, I almost said, but it was too hard to speak. I gazed down at Grant again, and found him watching my face, eyes slightly unfocused, and bloodshot.

  “Wha’ happened?” he mumbled.

  I had to rock back and forth, counting to ten, before I found words. “You did something stupid.”

  Grant reached up and touched my face. His hand was clumsy. “Pass out?”

  I held his hand against my cheek. “Your heart stopped beating.”

  He stared at me—and then a cough wracked him. He spat blood into his palm. I held him even closer, bending over his strong, large body—which was suddenly too frail for comfort. Frighteningly so.

  I looked at Jack. Found him watching me. I sought my mother in his face; I searched for me. I searched my heart for every ounce of love and affection I felt for the old man and poured it into my eyes, my voice.

  “Thank you,” I breathed.

  Jack nodded solemnly, without a word, something in
his eyes warming me—even as those same eyes had chilled me, only minutes before. I clung to the warmth, though. I savored it.

  On the bed, Father Lawrence stirred. I peered over the mattress edge and found the priest staring at the stateroom ceiling. I saw little of his face from where I sat, but he was quiet and still except for a slight twitch in his right foot. His head lolled to one side. I met a gaze broken in halves: his left eye was brown and normal, while his right remained crimson, golden—but very human in its confusion. No fur on his face. Nothing but a normal man.

  “Hey,” he said hoarsely. “I’m tied up.”

  “Yes,” I replied, wishing very much that I didn’t have to speak to him at that moment. “Do you know what happened to you?”

  Father Lawrence hesitated, and licked his cracked lips. “Bad touching.”

  Grant made a small sound that could have been laughter. I was not amused.

  “You were changed,” I said, feeling like crap for the crisp tone in my voice. I had no better way to tell him, though. Sugarcoating the concept of being turned into a werewolf was almost as absurd as the actuality of being a werewolf—however one defined such a creature. I couldn’t imagine there was a basis for comparison. Not a recent one, anyway.

  But when I looked at Father Lawrence to gauge his reaction, he was not paying attention to me at all. He was staring at Jack. With an astonishment that seemed to far outweigh any predicament involving rope, boats, or fur.

  “Damn,” said the priest, twitching across the mattress; resembling a roly-poly caterpillar more than a fanged man-wolf. “Jack. What are you doing here?”

  “Whoa,” I said.

  Grant made another small sound, but it had nothing to do with laughter. He tried to sit up, and I braced my shoulder against his back to support him. He rubbed his chest, wincing—and gave Jack a long look, before anchoring his focus on Father Lawrence.

  “Huh,” he said.

  “Jack,” Father Lawrence said, ignoring us, still staring at the old man—who finally, grudgingly, peered over the side of the bed with all the reluctance of a man about to get shot between the eyes, or given a wedgie.