Adalia tipped her head sideways, looking at him. Your mom?
“Yeah.” He looked confused. “I … I’m sorry. I don’t know.” The confusion turned to frustration, and he sighed.
Adalia thought for a moment. The trick, he’d explained, was asking the questions in a way that … allowed him to answer. He’d told her before that he didn’t always know until he knew, and he only knew when questions were asked that didn’t break the rules.
It helped him to remember.
She spun her phone between her fingers for a moment. What happened in Chicago? She looked at the text for a moment, not showing it to him, then deleted all but the first word. What is going to happen in Chicago?
He looked down at his hands. “I don’t know.”
Can’t you see?
“I’m here,” he said. “Of course I can’t see. Chicago is miles away.”
Her stomach growled, and she nodded. It was approaching dawn, and they’d been driving most of the night without stopping. She needed a shower. She needed breakfast. She needed sleep.
She needed to pee.
I don’t understand you at all.
He laughed. “You’re not supposed to. I’m a boy.”
You seem much older than any boys our age.
He turned sombre. “I’m … older.” He turned to look over his shoulder at the road the Yukon was lapping up, a big animal pacing fast and sure through the night, tearing the distance up and turning it into dawn. He turned to look back at her. “I think I’m a lot older.”
How much older?
His brow furrowed. “I … that doesn’t make any sense,” he said. “Time doesn’t…” He trailed off, swallowing.
Time doesn’t work that way where you are?
“It doesn’t exist,” he said. “I don’t think it does. It’s a little confusing.”
You’re confused?!?!?!
He laughed. “I’m going to miss you.”
She sat back, feeling cold in her stomach. She typed fast into her phone, then deleted the whole line, replacing it with a single word. Why?
“Because everything ends,” he said. “I come out from time to time, and then I have to go again. The people I see are always different. It’s just…” He sighed.
You want to stay?
“No,” he said. “I never want to come back at all.” He looked down, his dark lashes lowering. He looked so vulnerable that she wanted to grab him, shake him, tell him it was going to be okay. She knew it would be a lie.
Adalia looked up at her mom, saw the tension in her shoulders, her eyes staring out the window. Saw how her fingers clenched and unclenched like restless animals on her lap. I don’t want to stay either.
“Yeah you do,” he said. “The thing is … since I met you, I want to stay as well.”
Her heart gave a tiny skip. She started to type, slower this time, afraid to scare him away. Do we have to do something?
He looked at the words on her phone. “No,” he said, then, “Well, yes. But that’s not why I want to stay. I want to stay because you make me miss this world.”
She wanted to type a thousand things, but settled for one line. What do you miss about it?
“I don’t remember,” he said, “but you make me want to. The rest of them never do. They always want something from me.”
I might want something from you.
“But that’s the thing,” he said. “I know you don’t.”
How do you know?
“Because you’ve never asked for anything,” he said. He tapped the edge of her phone. “Not with this.” He reached a finger out, tentative, almost touching her chest above her heart. “Only with this.” He pulled his hand back as if it had been burned, closing his fist around it and putting it between his knees.
I’m sorry, she typed.
“You don’t need to be sorry,” he said. “Hey, this conversation’s taken a morbid turn. Let’s talk about something light-hearted, like child labor in China.”
She hid a smile behind her hand. You were talking about your mom before.
He nodded. “I don’t know why.”
Something about Chicago. The Yukon started up an incline, the engine’s note changing a little, the big motor eager for the challenge.
“Was it? I can’t tell.”
You said she was there.
“I said I thought Chicago had something to do with my mom,” he said. “Most of the places I go have something to do with her.”
Do you know why?
“I’ve given it a lot of thought,” he admitted. “I think it’s because she misses me.”
She can’t see you?
“Most people can’t see me,” he said. His mouth pulled down a little. “Most people don’t want to see me.”
What’s your mom doing in Chicago?
She saw it by the look on his face, the look of recognition, chased away by fear. No, not fear — horror. She’d asked the wrong question, but she’d asked it in the right way. “Oh,” he said. “Oh.” He laughed, then it choked into a sob. “Oh, Adalia. I see it now.”
Adalia fought to keep her calm. She felt the presence of her mom and Carlisle, and the two men in the front, all close around her in the cabin. What do you see?
“Madness,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “And its twin, death.”
She had so many questions. What about Val? And John? But she had to ask the questions … right. Can you see your mom?
“Yes.” He shuffled on his seat. “She’ll be right in the middle of it. At the beginning, at least.”
Can we help?
A smile broke through on his face, soft as sun peeking through on a cloudy day. “Always trying to help,” he said. “Sometimes things aren’t your problem.”
She shook her head, angry. Val is in Chicago. John is in Chicago.
“They’re not your problem,” he said. “They’re adults. You’re a kid.”
Adalia wanted to reach out and slap him. I’m 14!
He looked at the text on her phone, then back up at her. “Are you … are you trying to make my point for me?”
She crossed her arms, sitting back in the seat, and glared at him. After a moment she started typing again. We’re the same age. We’re the same.
He held up his fingers, counting them off. “First, we’re not the same age. Second, we’re not the same.”
We are the same.
“I remember when life seemed that black and white.”
It’s good you can remember something.
He read the text, then looked sad. “I know. It’s not fair. I don’t understand it either.”
Adalia felt something in her chest release its grip. I’m sorry. I just want to help.
“I’m not your problem. I guess, in a way, you’re my problem.” He looked around the Yukon, stretching out his arms. Her brain skittered away from the motion, didn’t want to see how he could move like that in the small space. “I get sent to solve problems.”
Well, you can help me solve the problem sitting in the front seat.
“Ajay?” He frowned, his voice changing, the cadence becoming deliberate. “Ajay Lewiss. The blind soldier. The forgotten child. A weapon of faith and hope, tarnished and rusty. He fights for someone else, and the faithless contract makes his purpose weak.”
Adalia stared at him for a moment. Wow.
“What? What did I say?”
A bunch of weird shit. She paused, then deleted the last word. Stuff.
“No, really,” he said. “I don’t always know what I’m going to say. The words come from … somewhere else. It’s like … I don’t know. It’s like I’m a megaphone.”
What’s a megaphone?
“You don’t watch cartoons?” He ran a hand through his hair, the black strands falling through his fingers. She wanted to reach out, straighten a stray lock that fell back across his eye.
I’m 14. I’m not a child.
“I watch cartoons,” he said. “Anyway, they’re always drawn like a
big red cone. You talk through, it makes your voice louder on the other end.”
Have you ever wondered?
“Wondered what?”
Whose voice you’re making louder?
He stared at the tiny light of her phone screen, then sat back. “Yes.”
And??!?!?!
“I think it’s the Universe,” he said. “It’s everything, and everyone, all the time. It wants to speak to us. It tries all the time, you know.”
Like God?
“God’s just a name for something a lot of people don’t understand,” he said. “I’ve never met God. I … I wanted to, for a long time. To ask him why.”
She frowned. Why what?
He looked angry. “I don’t remember.”
You said it tries to speak to us. I’ve never heard it.
He smiled at her, something gentle in it. “Yes, you have. You hear it in me. You see it in Carlisle. You feel its strength in your mom. You sense its purpose, dragging us in this gas guzzling Yukon to Chicago.”
Carlisle? My mom? They’re just people.
He cocked an eyebrow at her.
Okay, I mean, not “just” — they’re the best people. But … they’re people. Not like comets or stars or a planet or … whatever you are.
“What makes you think that a tired, broken down cop’s affection for a lonely 14 year old girl is less miraculous than the birth of a star? And seriously, your mom turns into a freakin’ werewolf. How cool is that?”
She’s not tired. She’s not broken.
Something gentle and sad moved across his face. “Ah,” he said. “There it is.”
What?
He faded from view, leaving then scent of fresh mowed grass, at odds with the new car smell of the Yukon. As he left, she heard him say, “How miraculous is it that a 14 year old girl feels the need to protect her much older, world-weary friend? I find you miraculous, Adalia Kendrick.”
Adalia stared through the space where he’d sat, the night ahead giving way to the gentle touch of dawn. She looked down at her phone, then typed — even though no one was there to see it — Shit.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“That’s the thing,” said Rex. “I dunno, right? I work out. I eat right. Like the song.”
His driver looked back at him through the rear view mirror. Cute, nice nose. “What song?”
“Huey Lewis.”
“Huey Lewis and the News?” She turned back to the front, watching the traffic.
“I guess. There any other bands called something like that?” Rex ran a finger under the edge of his strapping. Damn thing was itching like a poison ivy rash. He didn’t like bandages as a general rule, but after the … accident, well, after that he’d needed one. Paramedic had said two sprained wrists, but he’d talked them down to just one. 30 years in the Fire Department meant he knew when someone needed a good bandage, and for damn sure he wasn’t walking around with two oven mitts on. They’d said it might hurt bad, as if there was a good kind of hurt.
“Joan Jett and the Blackhearts,” she said.
“What?”
“That’s a band called something like that,” she said. “What you asked.”
“Fine,” said Rex. “They sing a song called Hip to Be Square?”
“I don’t think so,” she said. Definitely a cute nose. If he was 20 years younger… “Not really my speed, though.”
“Whaddya mean?” Rex leaned forward to look out through the front seats. “What the fuck is that?”
She tossed him a look, then followed his eyes. “I mean that I’m into more of a dance scene. Looks like a guy eating a pigeon.”
Rex leaned back, rubbing a hand over his face. His watch strap jingled in the quiet of the car. “You don’t seem phased.”
“I guess people like the music they like,” she said. “It’s not an age thing, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
He blinked at her. “What?”
“The music. I get it. Huey Lewis is cool, for an older guy.” She shrugged, adjusted her seat belt. There was a half-smile on her face as she remembered something. Or someone. “I mean, my boyfriend’s a little bit older.”
“No,” said Rex. “The guy. Eating the pigeon.”
“It’s Chicago,” she said, as if it explained everything.
“How much you make in a day?” said Rex. “I mean, round numbers. I’m not trying to rob you or something like that.”
“Wouldn’t matter,” she said. “It’s an Uber. No cash, right?”
“Right,” said Rex. “So what, about five hundred a day?”
“Hookers make five hundred a day,” she said. “Me, after gas I’m packing a couple hundred a day.”
“You drive assholes like me for two hundred a day?”
“More or less,” she said. “It depends.”
“I saw an article,” said Rex. “Said Uber drivers make up to one fifty large.”
“I saw an article,” she said, “that said you could get rich on Amway.”
“Fair point,” said Rex. “Whatever. You ever get hungry enough to eat a pigeon on a couple hundred a day?”
The car moved forward a few more feet, then stopped again as the gridlocked traffic bunched again. “No,” she said. “I mean, I’m sure it’s nice—”
“Fucking sky rats,” said Rex. “Psittacosis.”
“Right,” she said, like she knew what he was talking about. “You eaten one before?”
“I look like I’m that hungry?” Rex frowned. “Thing is, that guy is wearing an Armani suit.”
“Right,” she said, less certain now.
“You ever bought an Armani suit?”
“I’ve got some Armani sunglasses.”
“Okay, we’ll use that,” said Rex. “You never got hungry enough to eat a pigeon on two hundred a day and you’re buying Armani shades. That guy’s got a whole suit made of Armani — a lot more than your shades cost, believe me — and he’s eating a sky rat.”
She nodded, silent for a moment. Her hands tapped against the steering wheel. “He is making kind of a mess of it.”
Rex saw movement out the left of the car, a person running past them down between the line of cars. He tracked the motion, turning around in his seat, watching until the man disappeared from view. “Huh.”
He saw her eyes flick up to the rear view mirror again. “’Huh?’ What’s, ‘Huh?’”
“That guy,” said Rex. “Ran right past.”
“Yeah,” she said. They both watched as a woman ran between the line of stopped cars, her face frantic. “That is unusual. Won’t cost you extra though.”
“What?” Rex saw the man who’d been eating the pigeon drop from view as he crouched down low. Weird. “I mean, they’re running down the line of cars. On the road. Get you killed.”
“Not in this traffic,” she said. “I mean, doesn’t matter how long it takes to get where we’re going. Won’t cost you extra.”
“I know,” said Rex. “Uber, right?”
“Right,” she said, distracted now. “Uh. What’s that over there?”
Rex watched for a moment, frowning. “That looks like a woman hitting a man with a doll.”
“It’s not a doll,” she said, her voice gone quiet. “It’s a child.”
“Can’t be,” said Rex. But a voice in his head said, You’ve seen weird shit these past couple days, Rex.
“Can’t be,” she said, wanting to agree.
“Say,” said Rex. You mind if I crack a window?”
“Why?”
He pressed the control anyway, the window sliding open a couple inches. As the air from Chicago — rich with the smell of smog in the morning’s traffic — came in, they both heard it. The sound of screams, of fear.
Of panic.
“Hey,” she said. “Could you close the window?”
“Good idea,” said Rex, flicking the control the other way. The window slid closed, a soft mechanical thump as it sealed them back in. “Good idea—”
A man coll
ided with the front of their car, his hands leaving a red smear against the windscreen. He looked in at them, and his eyes locked with Rex’s. His voice was faint through the glass, but Rex heard him anyway. “Run! For God’s sake, get—”
He was interrupted as a shape collided with him, knocking him over. The driver let out a scream, her hands stabbing at the car’s dash. The doors locked with a satisfying clunk. A hand rose up over the edge of the door, fingers hooked like claws. Rex thought he could see the fingernails broken under hot pink nail polish. A face rose up after, a woman—
What the actual fuck.
—looking in at them. Young, no more than 25 if she was a day. She had some meat in her teeth and was chewing it as her hand clawed and scrabbled at the window, leaving bloody tracks against the glass. She swallowed whatever—
Jesus. Is she … eating a part of that guy?
—was in her mouth, then barred her teeth at them. Her face twisted into a snarl, and she started to slam her fist into the glass of the window.
Rex’s driver scrabbled for the glove box. It fell open with a clatter, insurance papers falling out, a makeup case, a phone, finally a taser. She pulled it up from the floor, holding it to her chest with both hands.
“Hey,” said Rex, in between thumps of the woman’s hand against the glass. “She can’t get in here.”
“Right,” she said. “Right.” She didn’t loosen her grip on the taser.
There was a crack, a spider’s web fracture crawling up the glass. “Uh,” said Rex.
There was a sound like wood on wood, and the woman’s face disappeared. Rex looked up into the eyes of a large man, six four and angry with it. He held a baseball bat, the end covered in gore. He locked eyes with Rex, nodded to him, then tried the door handle on the passenger side. “Let me in,” he said. “They’re—”
Another shape careened into him, a man screaming and yelling, and then both went down. Rex turned to his driver. “Get us the fuck out of here.”
Her eyes were wide. “Where? There’s—”
He grabbed her shoulder. “Miss?”
“Yeah?”
“What’s your name?”
“Skyler,” she said. “Sky.”
He frowned. “Which the fuck one is it?”
Night's Fall (Night's Champion Book 2) Page 11
