Darkness Calls

by Marjorie M. Liu

  “He’s in trouble,” I said, searching for her reaction. “For many things. But also for having a child with you.”

  “Ah,” she breathed, and for the first time, a hint of vulnerability appeared in her eyes. “And you? Are you in trouble for having him as a grandfather?”

  “I don’t care if I am,” I replied sharply. “He’s mine.”

  “Good girl.” Jean Kiss closed her eyes and smiled—even as her hand tightened around the armor. “Jolene isn’t the only one who thinks of you often.”

  I think of you, too, I wanted to say—but the world spun around, and the pain in my chest flared white-hot, and nauseating. I could not breathe, I could not speak, and from the bottoms of my feet to the top of my head, a sucking sensation riddled my skin, pulling me in every direction. My right hand burned. Light shimmered behind my eyes, and a dark hand shook me, rattling my heart and bones—throwing me into the abyss like a baseball. I hurtled. I screamed in silence.

  Until, abruptly, I could see again.

  And found myself surrounded by skins.

  CHAPTER 21

  I was inside a frozen room, made of ice, polished to diamond sheen. Men and women hung from meat hooks, embedded in the ceiling. Men and women stood inside the walls, stored behind plates of clear ice. Men and women rested upon ice tables, naked and exposed to air so cold my entire body steamed, and my breath burned white.

  I lay very still on an ice-carved floor, trying to make sense of what I was seeing. I could not. I knew my eyes were not lying, but in my heart—it was too much. The people hanging from racks in the ceiling wore clothes: business suits, jogging outfits, Goth chic leather, jeans and T-shirts. As though they had all been plucked from their lives and packed immediately on ice. Fifty in total, maybe, including those on the tables and stored in the walls. Lost lives.

  Cold storage. Mr. King has to keep bodies somewhere, between experiments.

  My chest hurt. Breathing was hard, but the cold air helped. I sat up, slowly, hissing in agony as nausea passed over me. I thought I might vomit and doubled over, breathing hard. Staring at my hands. The finger armor had changed once again. It had been happening over the last few jumps, but I had stopped looking. Resigned to the inevitability of its growth.

  My middle finger was completely encased in metal, and a second silver vein trailed from its base to the cuff around my wrist. I flexed my hand and felt nothing of the armor, which was so much like my flesh it would have been indistinguishable had its appearance not been so different: engraved with coiled roses and knots made of wings.

  I rolled over on my hip, struggling against rolling waves of pain, and managed to get my knee under me—then my leg—until I stood on two feet, swaying. My head swam. So did memories of my grandmother. Seemed to me she knew a little too much about time travel and the armor I wore. Seemed, too, that when time-traveling, a person could stand to take a day or two to heal before being shot back to the future—and the time—you wanted.

  Like you’re some expert. Get a grip.

  I turned in a slow circle. The room was perfectly quiet, but the men and women hanging above me were alive. I could see the faintest haze of breath puffing from their nostrils and open mouths. Their eyes were closed, faces slack. The massive hooks they hung from were mostly lost inside their clothing, which gave me some hope that they had not been speared like so many trout.

  Zee and the boys were warm on my skin. Even my face was protected in their tattoos: Dek and Mal, coiled in symmetry upon my cheeks. I could feel them, dreaming, as I shuffled painfully around the room, looking for a door.

  Aaz tugged sharply on my hand. I followed his lead, but he did not take me to an exit. Instead, I found myself at one of the ice chambers, peering through the cold wall at a slender nude body, and a pale face surrounded by dark hair.

  Killy.

  I had my nails sunk into the ice before I stopped to think—but I did think—and my hands stilled. If I freed Killy, and she was alive, was it wise of me to take her along? I was in no shape to protect anyone. I could hardly care for myself right now.

  On the other hand, if I left her behind and something happened, if I never found my way back to this room . . .

  Damned if you do, and damned if you don’t.

  I jabbed my hard black nails into the ice, digging into the wall—gritting my teeth as pain raced through my chest. Moments later, Aaz and Raw began heating my palms, and I pressed them flat against the cold surface. Clouds of steam drifted into the air, and water streamed down the wall. I applied pressure, changing angles, running my hands across the ice—sinking deeper, slow and easy—until suddenly I broke through to Killy.

  First thing I noticed was that her face had color. Pale, but with a faint rose in her cheeks. Her lips were pink. I had expected blue, some pallor of extreme cold and death. She was breathing, though. She had a pulse. No reaction when I reached through the hole in the ice to touch her.

  I ripped away the remains of the ice—stopping once to catch my breath—and pulled Killy free. I hardly had the strength to lower her to the floor and ended up dumping her awkwardly, focused only on protecting her head. I stood, staring at her body, trying to decide what to do for clothes—and then started yanking off mine. I did not feel the cold. I stood naked, except for the shoulder holster holding knives against my ribs.

  Not until I began dressing Killy did I realize that the clothes I had been wearing were not mine. Soft pants, a soft shirt, and wool sweater. No boots, just thick socks. My grandmother’s clothing. Or maybe my mother’s. I pressed the shirt to my nose, inhaling deep. Smelled warm, with some indefinable quality, like spice and sunlight, that hit me deep in the gut. My mother. My mother had worn these clothes.

  I was selfish. For one second I regretted dressing Killy—losing that precious scent to another person—and then I pushed those feelings aside and focused on keeping the woman warm. Not once did she stir. I checked her pulse again. It was strong and steady. Stronger, maybe, than mine.

  Once I had the woman in my clothes, I knelt and pressed my warm hands between her breasts, then her hands and face. Patted her cheeks—lightly, then harder—suffering a rising panic. Count on me to kill the person I was trying to rescue. Out of desperation, I pressed my right hand on her brow—armored fingers tight against her skin—and thought, Please.

  My hand tingled, but more: a jolt of electricity that rode down my arm, and that made the boys ripple in response. Killy’s eyes flew open, so wildly, with such strength, I flinched.

  Nothing else happened, though. She stared past my face at the ceiling, without reaction or acknowledgment. No gasps for breath, no writhing around in discomfort. She showed no reaction. Not even a glimmer. Not even when, quite unexpectedly, she said: “Oh, that’s so wrong. Not the chipmunks.”

  I frowned. “Killy?”

  “Jesus Christ,” she muttered, a crease forming between her eyes. “Who the fuck is in this room with me? Perverts-R-Us?”

  “Uh,” I said. “Can you hear me?”

  “You’re the only one not screaming,” she said, and touched her brow with a wince. “What did you do to me?”

  “Nothing,” I replied, wondering if that was a lie. “Can you stand?”

  “I could pole-dance Mount Everest if it gets me away from these minds.” Killy sat up, moving almost as painfully as me—and then stopped as she looked around the room: at the ice, the men and women hanging, stored, laid out. Her face grew very pale and drawn.

  “Oh,” she said. “I didn’t know.”

  “You were part of the display,” I told her, trying not to make any frightening noises as I struggled to stand. I held out my hand, ready to help Killy to her feet, but she did not move. Just stared at me, too, but with a puzzled frown that was not scandalized—only, it seemed, confused.

  I tried not to be embarrassed. Fought a lifetime of rabid self-preservation in less than three seconds. No one but Grant had ever seen me so naked. I would have preferred to keep it that way. I did not know
this woman—not one thing about her—except that she was psychic (or a great con artist, in the same vein); she had stayed when she could have run, the boys had not treated her as a threat, and she was in love with a priest.

  Actually, that was probably more than I knew about my own grandfather. And grandmother.

  “You needed clothes,” I said tersely. “I don’t feel the cold.”

  “Thanks,” she replied absently, rubbing her forehead. “I can hear your skin humming.”

  “It does that.” I reached down, grabbed her hand, and tried not to black out from the pain as I yanked her up. She practically flew, but her eyes were squeezed shut the entire time, and she held her head with both hands when I let go.

  “Everything’s turned up,” she whispered. “I shouldn’t be this strong.”

  “Do you remember what happened, how you were brought here?”

  She shook her head. “No. But they got everyone but the old man and the kid.”

  Wild hope flared in my heart. I grabbed Killy’s elbow and pulled her along. I had noticed the possibility of a door while trying to wake her, and sure enough, there was an alcove between the wall units and the first table. No actual door, just an opening that led from the room into a hall. I glanced down as we passed one of the ice slabs, and saw a teenage girl laid out neatly, unconscious. Many young people, all around me.

  Killy pressed her palm over her eye. “Snakes in her popcorn.”

  I gave her a startled look. “Excuse me?”

  “She’s dreaming about snakes in her popcorn.” Killy’s frown deepened as we passed the girl. “She volunteered for this. For what she thought it would be.”

  “And?” Ice shelves lined the wall near the door, filled with thin white robes and white sweats and tees. In a small basket were white slippers packaged in plastic. I grabbed a set of everything but the slippers, shrugged off the shoulder holster, and began dressing.

  “And nothing,” Killy sad quietly, looking at the girl—who seemed serene in sleep, despite her dreams. “She thought it would make her special. Special enough that people would love her.”

  My chest still hurt like hell, but either I was getting used to the pain, or it just didn’t bother me as much. I was able to pull the shirt over my head without breaking into tears. I touched Killy’s elbow. “If we do this right, maybe she’ll be lucky enough to be proven wrong.”

  We left the cold-storage room and entered a long ice-carved hall that curved away in both directions. Weird place. Reminded me of photos I had seen of ice mansions; or something from a James Bond film. I thought hard about Grant, sending a silent message to the boys. Raw tugged hard on my left hand—while at the same time Aaz tugged faintly on my right.

  Huh. I glanced at Killy, who was beginning to shiver. “What do you hear inside your head?”

  She stared at me, rubbing her arms. “Not a lot of people nearby. There are clumps of minds where there isn’t much thought at all, not even dreams. Those are scattered. As for the rest . . .”

  Killy frowned, closing her eyes—head tilted as though listening. I waited impatiently, twitching backward, wanting to follow Raw’s lead—and then stiffened as Killy’s face jerked suddenly sideways as though slapped. I reached out, but she shied away with absolute, mind-crushing anguish in her eyes, and started running down the hall—away from me, toward the right. I stared after her, torn—my left hand tugging harder—but I swore silently, dug my bare toes into the icy floor, and chased after her.

  She was fast. I was in pain. I tried my best, but she pulled ahead, and I was loath to shout after her. Instead, I practiced throwing rude and unflattering thoughts in her direction. Killy glanced over her shoulder at me, and her pace slowed to a very fast walk. I caught up, wondering how long we could move through this strange ice palace without running into another person.

  “Who is it?” I asked.

  “Frank,” she whispered, and winced. “Oh, God.”

  I thought of Grant—and Mary—and gritted my teeth. One at a time. Whoever came first. I glanced down at the finger armor, hesitant to use it again to cut space. A faint glow rolled through the metal, and Zee rumbled in his dreams. Raw, sleeping on the same hand as the armor, also fidgeted, sending a faint pulse through my thumb and fingers, which I felt despite the metal surrounding my skin.

  My hand flexed, reflexively, as though holding something, and the armor tingled—the boys shifting in response, again—until suddenly I felt as though I was eavesdropping on a very peculiar conversation.

  Mind of its own, Mr. King had said.

  So tell me, I asked the armor silently. What do you think I need?

  Killy pulled ahead of me, just slightly. I hung back as the armor began shimmering with a liquid light that resembled moonbeams captured in a bottle: brighter, colder, filling me with a thrill I could not fight, which chased my heart into my stomach as I closed my eyes against the brilliant light.

  Heat filled my palm. When I looked again, I held a sword.

  I knew the weapon. I had summoned it from the armor once before, three months past. Delicate and slender, glowing brighter than the ice with a light that seemed cast from within: the moon’s reflection caught in its forging. The engraved silver hilt fit to my hand, and from its pommel ran a chain that bound the sword to the iron armor surrounding my wrist. Runes covered the blade, and I ran my palm hard against the razor edge. Sparks danced. Heat soared through my tattooed fingers as I gripped the hilt. Felt good holding the sword. Natural, an extension of myself: a biting silver needle beneath my skin. The weapon weighed nothing, but holding it made me feel ten feet taller.

  I looked up. Killy had stopped, and was staring at the sword.

  “What did I just see?” she asked sharply.

  “Don’t ask me,” I said. “I just take what I’m given.”

  She made a small, ugly noise. “Dangerous people should not be so fucking clueless.”

  “Aw,” I said. “Compliments.”

  Killy shook her head, looking at me like I was shit—and then turned, sprinting ahead on light feet, leading me to another open doorway. The place seemed to be made of nothing but halls and doors and ice—a polar temple; a cold nightmare. I heard strange sounds inside—hissing, crunching—but peering through the carved archway revealed nothing except a hall. I ran, sword humming in my hand, and felt the boys tug sharply, once.

  I smelled blood. Listened to more crunching—bones grinding between teeth—wet, fierce smacks. I knew those sounds.

  Killy said, again: “Frank.”

  I rounded a corner in the hall and found myself inside a cavern that looked hacked from stone and ice; a hollow gray shell filled with jutting edges that resembled ax blades glued together at random angles. A large pit had been dug in the center of the room—an incongruous, unexpected vision—like finding a football field inside a closet. It was at least twenty feet deep; a gladiatorial crater, or medieval prison. Men were in the pit. Hunched figures in black robes, chained to ice walls that could not have held them had they been agitated. Which they were. But not because anyone wanted to escape.

  They were eating. Gorging themselves like animals, on all fours. The bottom of the pit was several different shades of bloodred: old, really old, and brand-new. I saw the remains of an entire cow and several pigs, intestines spilled in steaming piles, mashed together under knees and feet as sharp-toothed men snapped at one another, and bent face-first into the guts and flesh of the dead animals. Humanity, burned out of their minds. Professionals, students, husbands, fathers—now killers covered in blood. Bile rose up my throat.

  Killy grabbed my arm and pointed. Nearby on our right were two men, one of whom was being pulled toward the edge of the pit, hauled along by a second man shrouded head to toe in black, including a hood that covered his head.

  The man being dragged was Father Lawrence. Trussed in chains, he was spitting and snarling—his single red eye glowing, face covered in fur.

  Killy started running before I could stop her.
I pursued, dimly aware of many eyes zeroing in on us from the bottom of the pit—like frenzied sharks in a pool already red with chum. My skin crawled. My chest hurt. It was hard to breathe, but I sucked up the pain and lunged past Killy, sword swinging. The blade slashed down through the man’s shoulder and chest like his muscles and bones were made of water. I did not expect so little resistance, and careened into him. He smelled like blood, raw meat—and he uttered one small grunt just before toppling backward, into the pit. In two pieces.

  “Crap,” I said, as his body landed on top of several creatures in the pit, all of whom had stopped eating and were standing very still, watching us. Silence descended. No one attacked the corpse, but several of those nearest bent to sniff carefully at it. Snarls rumbled from them. Howls. Chains strained against the wall.

  I turned quickly. Killy was trying to drag Father Lawrence back to the door, which looked a little like Thum belina wrestling with a grizzly bear. He was not fighting her, but there was a wild look in both eyes that made me want to warn her off. Instead, I took two long strides and set the sword tip against Father Lawrence’s chains. The links split. He shrugged free and rolled to his feet in one blindingly quick movement.

  Below, in the pit, the ice walls cracked.

  “Run,” I snapped.

  Father Lawrence lunged toward Killy—with such aggression that for one moment I thought he might hurt her. Instead, he threw the small woman over his shoulder and ran—hunched over, almost on all fours—her small body flopping awkwardly. No way I could keep pace. I glanced over my shoulder and found dark-robed bodies scrambling up a coiled path that had been carved into the side of the pit. More men than I could count, an overkill of bodies, arms pressed to their sides so that their odd, leaning posture and raging mouths reminded me again of torpedoes and piranhas, or sharks on two feet.

  I did not run. I braced myself, digging in my heels, the sword burning with light. Men with stolen lives, I told myself. Have mercy.

  Have mercy and kill them fast, my mother would have said, and I swung the blade like a baseball bat at the first wave of snarling men who rushed me. Bone cracked, blood spraying across my face as the sword sliced straight through flesh with a sweet, humming hiss. Howls vibrated in my ears, sharp teeth flashing. I smelled raw meat.