by Nina D'Aleo
Omen whipped back around and physically shoved me against the wall. He moved in so close that all I could see was the bloodshot lines of his eyes. “You—listen to me,” he snarled through gritted teeth, while I cowered into the corner. “People have died for this—my people. My … my partner.” He almost lost it, but regained himself. “You get your priorities straight. You get this job done by tomorrow or this will not end well for you or Dark.”
He strode back to his computer and Rocco moved in and dragged me to my feet. As he led me out of the room, I looked back at the screen and saw the two Shaman who were guarding Dark returning to their post. The assassins backed away.
Rocco took me through the house into the kitchen. He pushed me down onto a bar stool as Marco and Morningstar entered behind us, Marco clutching his laptop.
Rocco’s girlfriend marched straight to him and demanded, “I need to talk to you, right now!”
The two of them went into the room beside the kitchen and closed the door. Raised voices carried through the wood—well, raised voice. She was yelling and he wasn’t saying a word. I’d learned that was never a good sign in a relationship.
“Are you okay?” Marco spoke softly beside me.
I turned to him and decided to try the truth for a change. “Not really. Are you?”
He didn’t answer, but judging by how badly his hands were shaking, I guessed he was feeling even worse than I was. I got up and searched the cupboards for glasses. I filled two cups with water from the tap and put one down in front of him. The glass clicked on the granite and Marco stared down at it. He gripped the bench top. He looked as if he was teetering on the edge of a major meltdown.
“Where are the family who live here?” I asked to distract him.
“No one lives here,” he managed to say. “It’s one of Omen’s houses. We make it seem like a family owns it to throw the Horseman off our tracks.” He hesitated then said, “I’m sorry for what’s happening to you. I feel like it’s my fault. If I hadn’t been at that house … If I hadn’t run …”
He stared at me with earnest dark eyes. He had lovely eyes like Rocco—but while Rocco’s were hard, I could see everything Marco was feeling—fear, confusion, anger, sadness, guilt. For a reason I couldn’t have explained, I felt an immediate liking for the guy. He was one of the good ones.
“It’s not your fault at all,” I told him. “You’re caught up in this as well.”
He lowered his voice and said, “I hate this feeling. Like I’m in a cage.” He clenched his fists.
“I understand.” I wanted to tell him things would get better, but I didn’t. I had the feeling he’d lived too hard to be consoled by empty hopes.
The argument or tirade from the other room had died down and now I could only hear murmurs. I glanced toward the door, feeling bad for Rocco. First Omen punishes him and then his girlfriend shreds him as well, both pretty squarely my fault.
“She’s Omen’s sister,” Marco told me.
I looked back to him. “Morningstar?”
He nodded.
“Is that what Omen meant with the sister comment?”
“No,” Marco looked away. “He meant our sister—mine and Rocco’s. She was his partner.”
“The Rose?” I said, surprised. “I mean, Evelyn?”
Marco nodded.
“I’m so sorry,” I said. “I had no idea.”
“We didn’t really know her that well,” Marco admitted. “We didn’t grow up together—none of us. We had the same mother, but she … she wasn’t around.”
“So you met Rocco later on?” I said.
“I’d just woken up when he found me,” Marco said. He sat down on a bar stool beside the bench and I copied his movements.
“Woken up—like in the morning?” I asked. It seemed like a strange thing to say.
“No, no, sorry, I forgot I was talking to a human,” he said, then hesitated, uncertain, as though I may take offense to the word, but I didn’t—I was what I was. He continued, “Waking up is what you call breaking-thru. We call it waking up because it’s like you’ve been asleep, living in a dream, and then wake up to reality.”
“Is it as bad as it seems?” I asked. I’d seen enough walts going green to know it must be pretty rugged.
“Yes,” he admitted. “Worse. For me it took a long time and I ended up in a …” he hesitated and flinched a little at the words “… psychiatric hospital. Rocco came and got me out.”
I nodded. It wasn’t uncommon for walts to be institutionalized, even several times, before completely breaking-thru, and agents weren’t sent in until they were right on the edge of going green. If a walt was re-capped prematurely the effectiveness of the process was compromised. At least that was the story the Chapter had sold us.
“Had Rocco already …” I tried the new terminology “… woken up by then as well?”
“That’s how he found me,” he said. “We’d never seen each other. We never even knew, but when we woke up we could hear each other. The doctors thought I was schizophrenic—hearing voices, having paranoid fantasies and everything. That’s how we found Omen—Evelyn can hear us too … or she could …”
He looked down at his hands and I tried to change the subject.
“It must have been such a relief to find out the truth, to see your brother,” I said, feeling a sudden sharp longing to see my own.
He smiled faintly. “It was like he took everything horrible that had happened and threw it away.” He massaged the split-sun tattoo on his wrist.
“What does it mean?” I asked, pointing to the tat.
“It’s the two births.” A quiet, nervous voice spoke behind us and I turned to see a girl standing at the door. I recognized her from the motel. She was the one with the long dark hair and badly broken nose, who had used pheromones to make me feel fear. Rocco had called her Willow, and she’d been the only one of the Shaman to seem even remotely uneasy about demonstrating her skills on me. Willow moved toward us, her steps uncertain, eyes submissive. I noticed her nails were bitten down to the blood on most of her fingers. Again, I felt like I had seen her before.
“Two births?” I repeated.
“One into this world and one into this life,” Marco said.
Willow came close beside me at the counter. “Don’t worry,” she said quietly, a tremor to her voice. “You’ll find the List. You’re very strong. I can see. Where you walk—the path clears, like you’re carrying a light in the darkness.” She looked up at me and I was surprised to see admiration in her eyes. I had absolutely no idea what she meant about the path clearing, but it was nice to know someone thought I stood a chance.
Both Willow and Marco flinched.
“Omen wants us,” she said, wringing her hands and biting her lip.
“You should stay here,” Marco told me.
I nodded. I had zero intentions of going anywhere near their crazy leader.
As they left the kitchen, the door behind me opened and Morningstar and Rocco emerged. Morningstar gave me a foul look on her way out and I saw it now—the resemblance to her brother—the same tempestuous eyes. I kept my face blank. I’d nearly gotten her boyfriend killed. I’d hate me too.
I turned to my Shaman companion and the calm of his eyes was comforting. I wondered if there was anything that actually shook him.
“I’m sorry. I really am,” I said.
“Don’t be,” Rocco said. He removed his jacket. There were sweat marks and bloodstains on his shirt. “It was my choice.”
“To help my family and put yourself at risk?”
“There’s a reason why I’m with Omen and not the Horseman,” he said. “I made a decision in life that I wasn’t going to hurt innocent people—no matter who ordered me to.”
His words brought unexpected tears to my eyes. They reminded me of the conviction I’d once held then lost somewhere in the unforgivingly secretive, corporate atmosphere of C11. Once all I’d wanted was justice for the innocent lost. I said something along
the lines to Rocco and as the words came out of my mouth I realized how naive I had been—there would never be any justice for the little boy from my neighborhood, no peace for his mother, or any other parents whose child was taken—just life in continuation. You kept running or you fell down dead, while predators picked off the sick, the weak, the young …
I wiped my eyes, feeling stupid, crying in front of him. I forced a laugh. “The General said I’m too emotional to succeed as an agent. I can see his point.”
“He’s wrong,” Rocco said and his tone didn’t leave room for argument. “Your emotions—your heart—is you; lose that and you’re just a machine … like me.” His voice held an edge of frustration and regret.
“You’re not a machine,” I argued, even though there were actually times when he seemed very robotic. “You’ve shown emotions to your brother, your girlfriend—even to me.”
He considered my words. “It isn’t easy to show anything,” he said. “I wish I were a warm person, but I’m not capable.”
“That’s not true. You’ve been very comforting to me. Besides it’s kind of difficult to be all warm and fuzzy when people are trying to kill you from every angle.”
He jolted and I assumed Omen was calling again.
He pointed to the darkened lounge room through the doorway beside us.
“You should lie down and try to sleep. You’ll be safe here.”
I nodded and moved into the room. Rocco stood at the doorway and watched as I sat down on the sofa. He looked as though he was going to come closer, but didn’t. He gave me a final nod and left. I stretched out on the couch, so wound up with stress and bad feelings, so cold, I thought I’d never sleep, and I didn’t want to either. I wanted to stay awake and plan my next step—but then I was out like magic, or, should I say, like Shaman influence.
24
I woke in the half-light of dawn, disoriented in time and space, unsure why the images around me weren’t connecting the way I thought they should. Then, as the different parts of my brain checked in, reality happened—like a bucket of cold water. I sat up and groaned. My body ached head to toe. My stomach snarled, a savage starved beast. I staggered up and limped to the mirror on the wall. Mirror, mirror, on the wall … The person who looked back was haggard with blotchy skin, frizzy hair and black smudges of mascara smeared under her bloodshot eyes. Bad hair day, bad face day, bad life day.
My mouth tasted like a stinkbug had crawled up into it and suffered a violent end. I tried to smooth down my hair and winced from a sharp pain in my shoulder. I pulled my collar to one side and inspected the damage where Omen had put his hands on me the night before. A purple and black bruise had blossomed over the skin. I touched the discoloration and flinched—it hurt. What had I expected?
It reminded me—Dark had an annoying habit of pressing my bruises. I thought of my partner and felt ill. If I didn’t locate the List today … Omen hadn’t threatened me directly, but after last night I wasn’t left with any questions of what he was capable of when he was angry.
But what were the chances of finding the List in one day? I could search for years and not find it. I considered that maybe now was not the time for obedience, maybe now was the time to get the most fierce automatic weapon I could find and try to blast Dark out and make a run for it. Would a gun hold up against Omen and his Shaman rebels? Unlikely, but if today went badly, it might be the only option I had. I didn’t like the way I’d handled things with Omen yesterday. I’d let myself be led around—be pushed and forced. I had to find a way of getting control of the situation. I crossed the room to the window and peered out past the curtain into the waking neighborhood. If I ran now, how far would I get? Would I even make it to the car to get my bag? I shivered from the morning chill and wrapped my arms around myself.
Someone cleared her throat behind me. I turned to see the girl, Willow, standing in the doorway, holding a pile of clothes. Her eyes flickered to mine then away; she breathed unsteadily, still nervous.
She had no reason to fear me, so I guessed it was disposition.
I nodded to her and she came forward. She held the clothes out to me and said, “I thought you might need some. I think we’re the same size.”
Beneath loose-fitting clothes the girl’s frame was painfully skinny—and I definitely wasn’t—so either she had a complex or I did.
“Thanks.” I took the outfit. I had extra clothes in the car, but more wouldn’t go astray. Especially if I ended up on the run.
Willow turned away and studied the pictures on the walls as I started to change. Ideally I should have showered first. It had been a few days and I felt stale, but, according to Dark’s school of hygiene, it was nothing a good blast of deodorant wouldn’t fix. I pulled my Kevlar jacket over the top of the outfit and felt my cell phone buzz in the pocket. I took it out and read the text message from work—the password for the day was Hangman. I didn’t like the sound of it. I held the phone in my hands, contemplating ringing the hospital. After the previous night’s scene, I decided not to chance it. Instead I checked my partner’s location. According to the app, he was still in hospital.
I noticed then that the Shaman girl was still in the room, looking at different objects, but standing quite close, as though she was waiting to talk to me. I put the phone away and turned to her.
She immediately looked at me and said, “I don’t mean to … invade your space.” She swallowed awkwardly. “I just … I guess I was just wondering if you remembered me.”
I said, “You are familiar, but …” There was an uncomfortable pause where I tried to think of how to tactfully say no.
“It’s okay.” She guessed the answer, or saw it in my thoughts. “I know you’ve met a lot of us.”
Met—a nice way of saying captured and imprisoned.
“I took you in?” I asked.
She nodded. “When I was younger—before I woke up for good.” She moved closer—searching for the right words. “I was scared—and you made me feel better. I always wanted to find you and say thank you—and then when I saw you at the motel …” She trailed off. “So, thank you. Really.”
I studied her face more closely and remembered. She’d looked quite different when I’d met her. She’d had short blonde hair and a terribly bruised-up face. She’d been a too-young girl in a bad relationship—confused and beaten down. When she’d started to go green, she’d attacked back with the supernatural strength walts got when breaking-thru. She’d damaged the guy significantly, maybe even killed him, I couldn’t quite remember.
I also couldn’t remember being that comforting. Maybe I’d sat with her and talked to her while the sedatives worked, but that would have been about it. Not really enough to warrant sincere gratitude. Obviously it had been for her, though.
She gave a laugh that hid a cry and said, “I always said I was going to have a different life from my mother, and I ended up being her—exactly.”
I nodded. People started out with hopes and dreams and good intentions only to be betrayed by genetics and learned habits burned into their brains from when they could barely comprehend life—abnormal becomes normal and healthy feels wrong.
Rocco entered the room and stood by the door waiting. Our eyes met. It was time. I wished I had something profound to say to Willow about life and things working out in the end, but I didn’t. Profound utterings weren’t my strong point. My mother, on the other hand, had an insightful phrase, saying, quote or cliché for all and every occasion. She’d even covered the bathroom walls at our place with paper and written all her favorites. I felt a surge of fear for them—maybe I should have told them what was happening, but then they would have never left me. I had to believe I’d done the right thing.
I zipped up my jacket, gave Willow a final nod and followed Rocco down the hall. As we approached the lounge where the Shaman had gathered the night before, my stomach turned to concrete inside me. I really did not want to see Omen. Thankfully, the room was dark and empty. I breathed a sigh of relie
f. We turned the corner to the front door and I stopped short.
The rebel leader stood beside the door, wearing a stripy bathrobe and eating a bowl of cereal. He fixed me with those piercing eyes and gave one of his smiles that wasn’t really a smile. His arms were completely bare of tattoos and for some reason I found that more disturbing than when the images were coming to life and snarling at me. It felt as though Omen’s anchors to himself were dropping away.
“Hoping to sneak out?” he asked me. He put a spoon of the cereal in his mouth and crunched. I noticed they were Fruit Loops and thought, At least he’s eating a mental-state-appropriate breakfast.
Omen’s chewing froze. He looked up at me and tilted his head. I thought, Shit! It sucked to be around a mind reader.
He put the cereal down on the pedestal beside the door and walked toward us. He sidestepped Rocco without even half a glance and brushed past me saying, “Remember the deadline.” He emphasized the ‘dead’ and I gritted my teeth, biting back what I wanted to say to him.
Rocco opened the front door and we walked out to his car. I shivered, exhaling mist and rubbing my frozen hands together. I climbed up into the car and crossed my arms over my body. A voice behind us called out to Rocco. Morningstar came running along the path. He moved back toward her. I watched through the car window as they hugged and kissed each other. They looked into each other’s eyes and whispered something between them. I turned away, feeling a twist of bitter something. I knew he was just pretending with me, keeping up a cover, but I’d still developed some kind of feelings for him. Exactly what I wasn’t sure. Maybe this was what Stockholm syndrome felt like—the love of the captor—but he hadn’t actually captured me, Omen had, and I definitely felt no love there. So what were these feelings for Rocco? Maybe just the normal human need to attach to someone, especially heightened in times of stress, threat or crisis. Maybe it was something more.
The pair parted and Rocco climbed behind the wheel. Morningstar waved him away from the curb. I noticed, behind her, sitting all along the front wall, a large gathering of cats, presumably looking for Rocco. I wondered why they were attracted to him: was he emitting some kind of ultrasonic impulse they found irresistible? I found something especially appealing about a man who liked animals—and not in the culinary sense like Dark. One of my partner’s favorite, frequently retold jokes, which I found highly annoying, was I like animals, especially beside the peas and potato on my plate.
