GHOST CROWN: THE TRACKS TRILOGY - Book Two

by J. Gabriel Gates

  “Show me the Middleburg of your childhood,” he said softly. “Show me your memories, Aimee . . . all the places that have touched you, or that you have touched. Places that are special to you.”

  “That should be really fascinating,” she said skeptically. “But okay—if that’s what you want.” She started walking, heading south. “The library’s not too far from here. They have evening hours tonight, if you want to go in.”

  “Yes. I love books.”

  She loved books too, and as soon as they entered, the smell of the place retrieved a warm memory for her. Orias pulled her into a quiet corner between the historical romance and experimental fiction shelves.

  “Your mother brought you here when you were six,” he whispered, “to get your very own library card. As soon as you were able to write your full name.”

  “How did you know?” She was surprised. “Did my dad tell you that?”

  “I’m sort of telepathic, when it’s something or someone I care about.”

  “Oh, that’s really fair,” she protested. “You get to know everything about me, without even asking?”

  He leaned closer. He hadn’t kissed her again, and she was anticipating it with dread and with longing. Every time she was near him she had the same terrible feeling of helplessness—like the feeling she got whenever she dreamed of falling from the top of a building or from a bridge, and plummeting down . . . falling . . . falling . . . and reaching out desperately to grab something—anything—to hold on to. His strange, smoky scent, almost like incense, assailed her (but now she found it comforting), and it seemed to anchor her in reality again.

  “The other night, at your house,” she said quietly. “It was a mistake.”

  “Was it?” he asked, his voice even, but she was surprised at the hurt she saw in his eyes.

  “It never should have happened. I can’t get involved with you,” she told him, trying with all her might to remember why she couldn’t get involved with him. She finally grasped it—or the idea of it. “There’s . . . there’s someone else.”

  “So you’ve said. Why are you here, Aimee? You could have gone with your father.”

  “You know why.” She moved away, to what she thought was a safe distance, and turned to face him. “One reason only. You said you would show me how to use that teleporting thing to find my mom. And now I know exactly where to look. I just have to figure out how to get there.” Because she knew if she could find her mother and bring her back, everything would be okay again and she would remember everything she needed to remember. “So I want to ask you—can I teleport into the past? Like, over a hundred years? You said I went into the future. Can you help me go back in time?”

  “Going back is a little trickier,” he said.

  “Would it help if we used the Wheel?” she asked, suddenly remembering the strange device she—and someone—had used.

  “You know about the Wheel. I am impressed,” he told her. “But that’s only part of it, Aimee. And you have to work to get ready for that part. But yes. With practice, it can be done.”

  “Then teach me.”

  As he went to her and put his arms around her, he smiled that lazy, delicious, inviting smile she was starting to look forward to. “That would give me immense pleasure,” he murmured against her ear. His nearness, the heat of his breath on her cheek—all of it—was making her dizzy with a strange yearning she couldn’t describe.

  “If you’ll help me find my mother, Orias, I’ll gladly get whatever it is you need me to get,” she said. “And then everything can go back to the way it was.” A name—Raphael—bobbed at the surface of her consciousness for a second or two, like a fisherman’s cork bobbing on the water, before it sank again into the depths of forgetfulness.

  “Things will never again be the way they were,” Orias told her, his voice low and enticing. “Not for me—and not for you. I won’t give you up, Aimee. I’ll never give you up.”

  Each word he spoke drove deeper and deeper into her brain, like a hammer driving a nail into a piece of wood. Even as she thrilled to them, she knew there was something about the whole thing that was so wrong—and all she wanted to do was escape the fierce pressure of his intractable will.

  And suddenly, she was shooting through the dazzling, star-splendored wormhole—the brilliant white light—but this time it was little more than a momentary spark, a brief sensation of falling. Then she was outside, across the street from the library. An old woman inching along the sidewalk, leaning on a walker, almost bumped into her. The woman blinked, stared at her for a couple of seconds, and blinked again.

  “Sorry,” Aimee said. “I slipped.” That was the only way she could think of to explain it. The old lady shook her head and continued on, muttering something about ill-mannered, inconsiderate juvenile delinquents. A moment later, Orias was standing next to her.

  It took her less time to recover from the experience than it had before. “So that’s how it works?” she asked him. “Some kind of strong emotion can just send me flying off into space and time?” And as she spoke, she was thinking, but I don’t love you—I don’t.

  “You don’t have to love me, Aimee, in order to help me,” he said as if she’d spoken it aloud. “But you will. Before this is over you will love me and need me as much as I need you.”

  She turned away from him and started walking downtown, toward the Starlite Cinema. He caught up with her and fell into step beside her. After they’d gone about half a block, she asked, “What for? You have all this money—and magical powers. You’re hotter than hot. You could get any girl in this town to fall at your feet. What could you possibly need me for—after I do your little errand, that is?”

  Laughing softly, he stopped walking and made her face him again. Lightly caressing her cheek with one fingertip, he said, “I am a wretched, soulless creature, Aimee. So you will be my soul.”

  “Hang on,” she responded. “You do have a soul—sort of. You’re half human, and half a soul is better than none, right?”

  “I’m afraid not. It doesn’t work that way.”

  “Well, how does it work? I don’t see how I can help unless you tell me.”

  They were at the park now, where Aimee and her mother had gone to collect specimens of leaves and acorns for her third-grade science project. He took her elbow and guided her to a bench near the sidewalk, brushing enough snow away to make room for them to sit down. Then he opened his great, leather overcoat, drew her down next to him and enfolded her against him, in its warmth. When he was satisfied she was comfortable, he spoke again.

  “Humans,” he said and there was no rancor in his voice, only envy. “You just don’t get it, do you?”

  “Then explain it to me.”

  He shook his head, as if in wonderment. “You get chance after chance after chance with God, or the Creator or the All—whatever you want to call the supreme It. And there are so many loopholes in the deal that it makes my head spin. You humans wallow in iniquity night after night and repent daily and still He forgives you. My father and his kind got one chance. One. Make a choice for all eternity. No second chance. No do-overs. Sentenced for all time to a living hell. And hell, dear Aimee, is not fire and brimstone. Hell is never—ever—being able to go back to the light. My father’s choice—and my mother’s—doomed me to live in that hell forever. There is no place for me anywhere—I am unfit for human companionship and my father’s kind consider me a mongrel. I am banished from heaven, despised in hell. And in this world—I will never belong in this world.”

  His pain was etched clearly in his face, and she wanted to comfort him somehow, but it was all she could do to comprehend what he was telling her.

  “When the mighty Oberon learned of my . . . inopportune. . . existence,” he said bitterly, “he told my mother I would be an abomination—not angel, not human—and he insisted she abort me. She refused and he left her.”


  “That’s awful,” she said.

  “So, Aimee—my fate is decided. I’m going to live for a very long time and then I’m going to die an unimaginably horrible death. But until then, I intend to have everything I want—for as long as I want it. And I have decided, my sweet innocent, that I want you.”

  “Like I said—for what?”

  “To reign with me. What else? If I am to be trapped here, I fully intend to make the best of it.” He laughed, a cynical, hollow sound.

  She thought about it a moment, considering what her mom would say—or maybe Lily Rose—because they were the only truly religious people she knew. “But there must be a way around it,” she said at last. “The half-soul thing, I mean. It hardly seems fair to punish you for the choice your parents made.”

  He laughed now, really laughed, as if enjoying the most supreme joke the universe had ever told. “So incredibly guileless,” he whispered. “And so human—already looking for the loophole. You are such a fascinating creature, Aimee. Never before have I seen . . . or touched . . . such goodness.”

  He kissed her at last, and she felt like she would lose herself in the sensation. It reached down into the depths of her soul and drew her to him, into his melancholy sweetness, into his undeniable spell. She felt warm and tingly and lighter than air. He pulled away for a moment and looked into her eyes, and she wanted to disappear into them.

  And she realized she wanted stay with him forever even though she knew in the end he might find nothing but eternal damnation. Eternal darkness. Absence—forever—from the light.

  But not if she could help it, she decided. Because it wasn’t fair. There had to be something that could save him, something that could change his destiny. After all, it wasn’t through his choice, and he did have half a soul. There had to be a way. And after he helped her bring her mother home, she would find it.

  “Would you truly stay with me?” he whispered, reading her mind again. He seemed moved to tears by the words she hadn’t even spoken aloud. “And will you comfort me when I am denied?”

  “I’ll help you,” she said. “I told you—any way I can. If you help me.” She opened her purse and took out the old sepia photograph of her mother. “This picture was taken, here in Middleburg, in 1877.” She pointed at the woman in the center. “That’s my mother. And that’s where—or when—I have to go to find her. So when can we get started?”

  “One more day,” he told her, smiling again. “Only one more day. In the meantime, we’ll practice and improve your ability to control the teleport, so you’ll be ready.”

  “So what are you going to do—just kiss me silly until I’ve got the hang of it?”

  He bellowed with laughter as he stood and pulled her to her feet. “As much as I’d like that, it won’t be necessary,” he said. “Strong emotion creates endorphins that act as a trigger for a true teleport. You must learn to use the trigger at will, when you’re alone—because you’re going part of the way without me. But yes. Any strong emotion—it doesn’t have to be love—can trigger it. It could be hate, disgust, desire. And all you need is the trigger. When you learn to recognize it, you’ll be able to reach deep down inside yourself and pull it up at will.”

  “And you think I’ll be ready by tomorrow?” she asked doubtfully.

  “Yes—if you stay with me tonight. I want to show you the world that could be yours, just for the asking.”

  “But my dad—you told him you’d have me home within the hour.”

  “Don’t worry about your father,” he said. “He’ll go along with whatever I suggest.”

  

  The blast rattled the entire train car and sent Kate to her knees. While she was down there, she crossed herself and muttered, “Jesus, Mary and Joseph, protect us!”

  A profound silence followed the explosion: the snowdrifts muffled every sound. After a moment, she was able to make out distant voices sifting through the wind. The workers had been absent for several days, but today she’d seen them around again, moving equipment through the forest. Now, there were explosions.

  Her time in Middleburg had been sometimes frightening and often confusing, to be sure, but she had managed to remain reasonably content as long as she was safe in her little train car—and (more and more) as long as Zhai was around. But now strange men were stamping all about the place and Zhai was nowhere to be found. She wished once again she was at home—her real home, living the simple life she’d known before. She missed her family terribly. But, she knew, wishing would do no good.

  She got to her feet and made her way tentatively to the window, expecting another blast at any moment. She peered out into the night and caught sight of a figure moving through the broken-down rail cars and crossing the tracks that ran between her and the tunnel. He disappeared behind a car again, and she thought she had to be mistaken. But when he came out from behind it, she saw him clearly. It was Zhai.

  Her heart leaped in her chest and she felt several conflicting emotions—she was worried about him, furious that he had just disappeared without a word, and desperate to be close to him, all at once. She grabbed her heavy coat, pulled it on over her sweater and jeans, and bolted out the door. Soon she was jogging up the tracks toward him.

  “Zhai!” she shouted as she drew close. “Zhai!”

  He turned to face her, and she stopped running and stared at him. It was Zhai—there was no question about that—but it wasn’t Zhai, too. His hostile energy, the cold, blank expression on his face, the utter lack of recognition in his eyes as he looked at her—even his posture—were nothing like Zhai’s. And his clothes were dirty and wrinkled, as if he’d been sleeping in the woods.

  “Are you all right?” she asked quietly.

  Her first impulse, as he began walking toward her, was to run, but she stopped herself. It was Zhai, after all. No matter what strange, evil spell he was under, she knew he wouldn’t hurt her. By the time she saw the Chinese markings on his hands glowing red, it was too late to run—but he was looking at her with such rage that she was starting to doubt the wisdom of staying where she was. But behind the rage, she could see a reasonable, intelligent struggle going on, as if he were trying to regain control.

  “Run,” he said, his voice hoarse and distorted—not like his own.

  “What?”

  “Run!” he repeated. “Get as far away from me as you can, Kate!”

  He knew who she was, then—Zhai was still in there somewhere. “I only want to help,” she said.

  “There’s nothing . . . you can do.” His face contorted as he spoke, as if he was in great pain. “Now go! Run!” And he turned and moved away from her, deeper into the forest.

  After watching him for a moment, she said aloud, “I’ve never run from anything in my whole life, Zhai. I’m not about to start now.” And she took off after him. “Zhai, wait!” she called.

  If he heard her, he gave no indication, but she soon caught up with him. Together they ran into a clearing in a ring of towering pine trees. One of the Asian men she’d seen poking around the train graveyard was sitting cross-legged against a tree trunk, his eyes closed. The marks on his hands were glowing, just like the marks on Zhai’s hands.

  A shadow fell over her, and she looked up to see another man in a matching hat, standing over her, a thin smile on his face.

  “Well, look what the slave dragged in,” he said in a thick Chinese accent. He grabbed Kate and clapped a pair of handcuffs on her wrists and ankles, his hands moving so incredibly fast she hardly knew he was doing it. “Sorry—no witnesses,” he explained politely. “You understand.”

  Then he approached Zhai, who meekly offered his wrists and with no resistance allowed the man to shackle him next to Kate. When Zhai’s bonds were secure, the man pushed him down into the snow beside her.

  “Sit,” he said, as if commanding a dog, and laughed.

  “W
hatever it is you’re doing, you’d best watch yourself,” Kate said. “He won’t be your slave forever, and when he’s free he’ll have your hide!”

  He laughed at her, then turned to his friend who was still sitting beneath the tree. He was stirring now, and the red glow was fading from the back of his hands.

  The taller man helped him up, and Kate wondered at how much alike they looked.

  “Our slave caught a pretty intruder,” the shorter man said, glancing at Kate with lascivious interest.

  “Forget her,” his companion said. “Any sign of the fallen ones—the duo luo tian shi?”

  “Nothing. I’m sure they’re biding their time. You know how patient the immortals can be.”

  “Any sign of the what?” Kate asked, unable to contain the question.

  The shorter guy gazed at Kate, looking amused. “What, you don’t know the duo luo tian shi?” he joked, approaching her. “Well, you will know them when you see them. They will fly in on invisible wings and try to make trouble for us, and the Snake Lord will eat them. That’s what duo luo tian shi is,” he chuckled. “Snake food!”

  “Quit messing around,” the other man groused. “The explosives aren’t working. We need something more powerful.”

  And the two walked away together, further into the circle of pines.

  Kate could see it wasn’t a natural clearing. They’d cut down several trees to give their work crew enough room to maneuver, and a large, yellow machine with a big scooper on it sat nearby, next to a huge, rose-colored stone that looked like it had been been pulled out of the ground. A few workers stood around with their hands on their hips, shaking their heads. Two of them glanced over at Kate and Zhai and then quickly looked away. The two men in the derbies walked over and stared down into the hole where the stone had sat. The taller one shook his head. After a moment, they headed back toward Kate and Zhai and she caught a bit of their conversation.