by LE Barbant
RED drips from my chin where I have been eating.
Not all the blood, nowhere near all, is wiped off my mouth.
Clots of red mess my hair
And the tiger, the buffalo, know how.
I was a killer.
Yes, I am a killer.
I come from killing.
I go to more.
I drive red joy ahead of me from killing.
Red gluts and red hungers run in the smears and juices of my
Inside bones:
The child cries for a suck mother and I cry for war.
“Fight,” Carl Sandburg
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Danny’s Motel provided a cheap room and little else. According to the vacant lot, no one else was taking advantage of their rates. The dirty pickup sat alone.
The room smelled of stale smoke and fresh bleach. Commercial jets rattled the windows and the radiator howled, doing its best to keep pace with the late November chill. Willa didn’t notice. She stared mindlessly at the yellowing wallpaper, its floral print hypnotizing her through its repetitions.
She couldn’t erase the image of the young girl’s dead eyes, her dark hair matted with blood. No amount of meditation could remove that haunting scene from her mind. She was sick of bloodshed. She longed for more peaceful times.
The chances of that were impossibly small.
The door’s creaking brought her back to the motel. She tensed, ready to fight. Elijah walked in, a grocery bag under his arm.
Willa relaxed until she saw an old man step in after her trusted friend.
“I got you some clothes so you can get out of that Halloween costume.” Elijah nodded at her robes. “And I’ve brought someone who might shed some light on our next move.”
Crane leaned into the rickety chair. Although her grandfather’s old friend had been an invaluable asset, she wondered what the wizard had left to offer.
“Dr. Crane? What are you doing here?”
The old man smiled kindly. “Elijah contacted me when you were taken. Are you alright, dear? They didn’t hurt you, did they?”
She dropped her eyes and shook her head. “I’m fine, Dr. Crane, really. Shaken up, that’s all.”
“Well, thank goodness for that. But we must get ready. This isn’t over.”
Willa reached into the bag and pulled out a pair of her yoga pants. She pictured Elijah ruffling through her things.
“Have you been feeding Cat?”
“Cat’s fine. I actually think he gained some weight.” Elijah turned and peeked through the curtain, surveying the parking lot. Satisfied that they hadn’t been followed, he pulled the other chair closer to the bed and sat. “I thought they were going to kill you and Tim.”
“I know. But, I don’t think they would have. They’re not evil, just principled. I think I almost convinced them that we weren’t a threat. Before…well, you know.”
Crane reached a wrinkled hand out and patted her leg. “Trust me, darling, they were never going to spare your friend’s life. I’ve watched them for years. And if they treated you well, it was only because they were trying to sway you, distort your thinking. The Guild is as cruel as they are manipulative.”
She thought about her conversation with the Grandmaster and Kris. The girl’s crumpled body came rushing back. She squeezed her eyes closed.
“We killed her. She was just a kid, and now she’s dead.”
Crane’s eyes traced the floor. “I know darling. Elijah told me. But our girl, Skylar was just trying to protect you. The wizard was one of them, she was complicit. They’re the aggressors, not you. Her death is not on your hands, but theirs.” He paused. “But of course you’re right, they won’t see it that way. They will come again and this time, none of your friends are safe. They will be out for blood.”
“Ad Ordinare libertas,” Willa mumbled. “They were following their rules. The Guild only captured us because they thought we were dangerous. They were doing what they thought was right. I’m not sure they’d kill out of revenge.”
Crane stood. His wrinkled face tightened in rage. “Order. Process. Cold words to justify murder. If you think they aren’t spiteful, then you don’t know them as well as you think you do. You’ve killed one of their own, and they will have their vengeance.”
“No, listen. My grandfather—”
“Edwin? What does he have to do with this?”
Willa took a breath. “He’s alive. He’s one of them.”
“What?” The color drained from Crane’s face. “That’s impossible; he’s dead.”
“He faked it. It was an elaborate plan to root out a traitor. If I could just talk to him, maybe we can stop this before it gets any worse. He’ll listen to me at least. We can reason together. Edwin isn’t irrational.”
“Out of the question.” Crane stood and began to pace the room. Willa could feel the man’s aged knees creak from where she sat. She had never seen him this agitated—sometimes passionate, but never enraged. “And don’t confuse composure for reason, young magician.”
“But—”
He stopped as if reaching some conclusion in his mind.
“Willa, I didn’t want to tell you this,” he pressed his finger and thumb against his eyes and then continued, “because I don’t speak ill of the deceased. But Edwin is as exacting as he is powerful. You don’t know what he is capable of. Your grandfather is the reason my wife is dead.”
Willa thought of the framed picture in Crane’s house. The beautiful woman looked so blissful. “No. How?”
“It was years ago after we had put aside our crime fighting days. I was planning to use my magic to save her. I had reached out to them for help, but the Guild considered it improper, an act of heresy. An abomination. They sent a representative to stop me, an enforcer. Your grandfather. They thought that, because of our relationship, he might be able to stop me. During the casting, he intervened. The spell fouled, killing my wife in the process. He’s the worst of them all. And he will kill you and your friends if it’s what the Guild demands.”
Willa pictured her grandfather and his lifelong insistence that she remain out of the fight. She assumed he was protecting her, but maybe he was more concerned with the ways of the Guild. She remembered his words from the trial.
Could he really be that cruel?
“But you two were friends?
The old man flashed a weary smile. “I decided to help you, Willa, out of respect for the love he and I once shared. But Edwin Weil is a murderer and no friend of mine. You would be a fool to trust him. Like I was.”
“No.” She shook her head. “I don’t believe it. I’ll go to him. He would never hurt me. I can convince him that it was all a mistake. Please, I can end this.”
She looked at Elijah. She needed an advocate.
He refused to meet her eyes.
“Willa, Crane is right. Can you really trust your grandfather? He lied to you. And he’s with them. They attacked us, took you and Tim. Tim was dying and they were just going to let it happen—or kill him before Chem’s serum got its chance. How do you know they won’t finish what they started?” Finally, he looked up at her. “We need to lay low.”
She tried to read the historian’s face. He looked like he hadn’t slept in a week.
A sickening thought grew in her already tumultuous stomach. If he was right, then Elijah and the others were in terrible danger.
We can’t lay low. My grandfather will find me. He always knows where I am.
Willa was a homing beacon, Edwin the tracking device. She’d lead the Guild right to their doorstep.
The poet saw only one solution.
She picked up the bag of clothes.
“These robes are maddening. I’ll be right back.”
She slipped into the bathroom and locked the door.
Willa replaced the robe with her clothes. Elijah had chosen well. The outfit afforded her plenty of room to move.
Turning on the faucet for noise, she slid open the bathro
om window and crawled out into the wintry air.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
“How the hell did this happened?”
Sylvia’s voice punctured the early morning’s stillness. Her face was contorted.
Rita stood under a single hanging bulb in the Mumford’s garage-turned-lab. She watched as Sylvia worked to unstrap Skylar from her metal suit. The woman’s shaking hands flew, trying to free her beloved from the machine that had changed everything.
Smeared blood, still drying, covered the contraption and the girl.
“It was my fault, Sylvia, I—” Rita gurgled. Her words were desperate.
“Of course, it was your fault,” Sylvia shouted. “You said she’d be safe. You said you wouldn’t let her out of your sight. She’s only sixteen, dammit.” Sylvia’s eyes were wild. Rita was afraid of her for the first time. “What was I thinking? Fuck.”
Rita had never heard Sylvia curse in front of her daughter, but Skylar sat in a haze, her eyes glassed over. Rita wondered if she heard anything at all.
“Things fell apart. She was only trying to help, she— “
Sylvia cut in. “She’s a child, not a weapon. Can’t you see that?”
Rita remembered the first time she had taken a life. The taste of blood was still on her tongue, and the terror in his eyes etched in her memory. It was either her or him, and Rita hadn’t hesitated. But the part that Rita remembered the most, the part that really terrified her, was the fact that she enjoyed it. She didn’t know if her bloodlust was a result of the transformation, or if the desire was always there, hidden deep inside of her, waiting to be released.
But Skylar was different. She was pure, innocent.
The young wizard’s death had been an accident.
But death tastes the same regardless of intent.
Sylvia pulled the last strap and lifted the metal control unit off of Skylar’s head. She wrapped her arms around her daughter, preparing to transfer her from the suit to her wheelchair. She paused, holding the inanimate body in her arms like a toddler with a doll.
Rita stepped forward to help.
“Don’t touch her.” The ice in Sylvia’s voice was undeniable.
“It was an accident, Mom,” Skylar finally said, her face red and puffy. Tears had swollen her eyes.
They both looked at the young girl.
“She was going to kill them. I didn’t mean to hurt her. I just wanted to knock her out, you know? Like in the movies. I never meant…”
Sylvia squeezed her daughter. She covered her cheeks with kisses.
“It’s OK. It’s not your fault. I should have never let you go.”
Skylar shook her head from side to side. “No. It is my fault. I hit her, I killed her. I’m a murderer.” She looked up at Rita. “I’m a monster now. Just like you.”
Rita’s heart dropped into her stomach; her knees went weak.
Skylar’s transformation was her fault.
For most of her life, Rita had been committed to beauty. Now all she knew was destruction. All she created was ruin.
She turned and ran, leaving her bright yellow raincoat behind.
****
Sitting on the bank of the Allegheny, Rita stared at the slow moving water.
The crust of ice that slowly consumed the river had gained a foot of ground over the long frigid night. The sun was about to rise. Perhaps the water would take back what it had lost during those hours of darkness. But sooner or later, winter would come, and the river would be helpless before it. It would give in to the inevitable and submit its will to the frozen winds.
Cold and darkness always got their way.
Rita wasn’t hiding.
Once dawn hit the city, she’d be exposed, and she didn’t care. Let them see her, let them see the freak. Rita had spent years in the shadows. It was safer that way, easier. She hardened herself to life alone—life without human interaction. But Skylar had broken through. She was the sun, slowly melting away the artist’s frozen exterior. With the girl, Rita felt whole again. If she could help Skylar have a normal life, it would somehow overflow into her own. At least that was what she thought. Each freak could make the other feel normal, if only for a few moments.
She had bought the lie, and the previous night had shattered the illusion. Now the Mumfords saw her for whom she truly was: an aberration, an animal, a monster.
Nothing would change that. Her world was static. Winter had come for good.
Elijah and the others appreciated her skills, but they had no love for her. She was only a tool, only valuable in their hour of need. Chem still shuddered when she entered a room, and the historian could hardly look into her black eyes.
Even with them, she was alone.
Rita stood and surveyed her body. The white scales that covered her were caked with dirt and blood. Her long, taloned hands, were weapons. Her large, webbed feet fanned out on the stony ground. Her enhanced nose could smell the city, slowly waking up.
She was a predator, the perfect hunter. Fit for one thing and one thing only.
Death.
She leapt and broke through the surface of the river.
She submitted, letting the current lead her downstream.
By the time the first rays of light broke into the valley, Rita was gone.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
“You look like hell.”
Tim knew the voice belonged to Chem, even though the figure standing over him was too blurry to recognize. He had always prided himself on his 20/20 vision, but now he couldn’t see much beyond the end of his own nose.
“I’ve been there, man. And brought a little piece of it back with me,” Tim whispered.
Instinct forced him to assess his surroundings, but he couldn’t make heads or tails of the location. His head swam. Giving up, he closed his eyes for what he thought might be the last time.
As he slipped out of consciousness, a memory from the past forced its way to the front of his mind. He stood by a moving truck as Chem introduced him to a young, bearded historian named Elijah Branton. He remembered squeezing the man’s soft academic hands and wondering what the hell the two might find in common. Tim, full of life, carried boxes three at a time. He outpaced the lab rat and researcher with ease, a playful competition that he kept to himself. Friends had been hard to come by and he didn’t want to screw it up.
Readjusting to civilian life had been hard, but he found a way to cope with his bouts of depression. Albeit unorthodox, the nighttime raids on small-time gangbangers and petty criminals helped focus the retired mercenary. Normality, if he could call it that, had finally started to come back into his life.
That night—over beers, laughs, and a little bar fight—everything changed. Tim didn’t know it then, but that mid-summer night homecoming marked the moment of his casting. The community had started to burn off the dross of his old existence and shape it into something new. He had hoped, something better.
He thought he had found his purpose.
Lying on the floor it struck him: You can melt down a piece of scrap and recast it, but it’s still the same old shitty piece of iron at its core.
The image faded, replaced by a newer, yet much blurrier, memory—more painful than anything he could remember.
He blacked out as the dream took over.
****
His arms are draped over Rhett and Rita’s shoulders. He can feel her rough scales scrape against his skin. Her body is cool, like the crisp night air, but he’s drenched with sweat regardless.
As they run, he wants to scream, each step is agony. All strength has left him. There’s confusion. Low hanging branches scrape his face, as he hears the rumble of an engine. A truck. His truck. His friends are dragging him into its blinding headlights.
Elijah and Willa lean against the vehicle. Steam pours off the historian’s smoldering arms and the poet scans the darkness. She’s watching, waiting for pursuers. The tech soldier is with them, but he isn’t the same. It’s not some Blackbow thug, but the gir
l. Her name is Skylar, and she’s sobbing as the machine supporting her broken body hums along in harmony with the truck.
He hears Rhett speak first. “What happened?”
The blurry image of Elijah looks at Tim and then over to Rhett. “Nothing. Let’s just get the hell out of here.”
Tim knows it’s a lie.
Then Willa’s hands are on Tim’s face. His eyes roll up to meet hers.
“It was her, Tim. Hermione. She’s gone. It was an accident.”
He opens his mouth to yell, but nothing emerges.
****
Tim awoke to find Chem looming over him with an all too familiar needle in hand. “Alright, buddy, let’s get you juiced up and back to normal.”
From the floor, Chem looked like a giant. But giants didn’t frighten Tim. He had faced them before. “Stick a fork in me, Dr. Frankenstein, this monster's done.” He had started to slur his words. Tim tried to grin at the mistake but didn’t have it left in him. The end was near, and he knew it. He almost welcomed it.
He thought of all the people that would be waiting to kick his ass in the underworld, many of them sent to the nether by Tim himself.
Maybe Hermione will be there. And Anna. I hope they aren’t mad at me.
“Like hell, you are. What ever happened to semper fi and all that shit? Now, turn that forearm over and let’s get back to business.”
“Darkness. All I’ve brought to this world is darkness. If I leave, maybe light will break in. You don’t need me.” The young wizard’s smile flashed across his mind, then Anna, then children playing in the streets of Mogadishu.
His life had been a series of death, played out again and again.
Edwin’s words rang in his ear.
Abomination.
A figure bent over him. Tim’s eyes focused, and he recognized the speechwriter. “Tim, trust me, we do need you. You can do great things, make amends through—”
“Nice try, kid. I’m pretty far gone, but my bullshit meter is still intact.”
Rhett retreated in silence. Tim prayed it would be the last attempt, but he knew his hope was in vain as Elijah entered the room.
