The Rising dr-3

by Kelley Armstrong

  “Ah . . .”

  “He was a minor god,” Corey said. “He taught Dionysus.”

  “Like Chiron and Achilles.”

  “Huh?”

  “Oh, right. You slept through Greek and Roman mythology. You said you didn’t need to know it because it wasn’t applicable to your life. Guess you were wrong, huh?”

  Daniel chuckled.

  “So Silenus was a minor deity,” I said. “What’s the connection to you?”

  “It’s complicated. You remember those long stories we had to write in English last year? Mr. Parks accused me of having constancy errors?”

  “Continuity errors,” I said.

  “Whatever. It wasn’t a big deal.”

  “Your characters changed names. More than once.”

  “Only by a few letters,” he said. “Anyway, obviously Parks never read myths. Those guys were zinging out continuity errors all the time. Sometimes Silenus was one guy and sometimes sileni was a word used for all his followers.”

  “It’s the influence of other cultures. Plus regional difference and the impact of oral storytelling.”

  “Was that an exam answer you memorized?” He shook his head. “No one likes a keener, Maya. Stuff the commentary or I’ll call your brother back.”

  “I heard that,” said a voice from the woods.

  “Yeah?” Corey called back. “You know how to avoid hearing things you don’t want to? Don’t eavesdrop.”

  “Hard to do when you have super hearing,” Ash said as he stepped into the clearing.

  “Also hard to do when you won’t go very far, in case that Uzi-toting sparrow finds you.”

  Ash flipped him off and strolled back to the “campfire,” taking his time, so we wouldn’t make the mistake of thinking he wanted to join us.

  “Yeah, you’re a sileni,” Ash said as he lowered himself onto a log.

  “You knew?” Corey said. “Thanks for the 411.”

  “You never asked.”

  “I’m asking now, then. What else can you tell me?”

  Ash shrugged. “Nothing, really. I know what benandanti, xana, and sileni are, but it doesn’t have anything to do with me, so I didn’t see the point in studying up. You’re supposed to see visions, which I guess you do. That’s your main power. That and charm.”

  “Charm?”

  Another shrug. “Like benandanti have the power of persuasion, sileni have the power of charm. People like them. Doesn’t seem as if that one kicked in yet. Maybe someday.”

  “Hey, I’ve got charm. It just works better on chicks.” He glanced at me. “Right?”

  I arched my brows.

  “Not you,” he said. “I mean chicks I actually like.”

  Daniel sputtered as my brows went higher.

  Corey glared at both of us. “You know what I mean.”

  “Yes,” I said. “Speaking purely from an observational standpoint, you have your charms. Particularly with girls who’ve been drinking or whose sense of judgment is otherwise impaired. Which probably comes from the satyr angle.”

  “Very funny. What happened to wanting to make me feel better about this whole vision thing?”

  “That was before I discovered you’re a Greek god. I don’t think you get to feel bad about that.”

  “Greek god?” He smiled. “I kinda am, aren’t I?”

  “Great,” Daniel muttered. “His ego really needed that.”

  “A minor Greek god,” I said. “Very minor. Possibly with a horse tail. Or goat legs.”

  Corey reached over to thump me in the arm and I ducked away, laughing.

  I could see Ash getting ready to leave again, so I turned to him. “Is there anything else you can tell us? About any of the types?”

  He shrugged. “Probably not. Depends on what you already know.”

  I could just ask him to tell us everything he did, but I had a feeling that the more specific our questions were, the more likely he was to answer. Lengthy discourses weren’t his style. Yet another reason to wonder if we really were related after all.

  “Can we tell you what we know and you can help us fill in the blanks?” I asked.

  “Guess so.”

  His tone suggested he’d really rather not, but he’d agreed, so I plowed forward before he changed his mind.

  According to Ash, Project Phoenix hadn’t attempted to resurrect four extinct supernatural types. It had tried for six. Two had been a complete bust, though, as far as anyone could tell, which is why they weren’t on Mina Lee’s list. As for what those two types were, Ash didn’t know. It didn’t concern him.

  That seemed like a selfish way to look at things. But living in Salmon Creek, I could afford to pursue anything that interested me. I had parents who gave me everything I needed. I didn’t even have to take a part-time job. No Salmon Creek kid did. Our “job” was school. If we wanted to do more, we were encouraged to volunteer in our community.

  If you lived on the streets, though, your job was survival. You couldn’t afford to take an interest in much that didn’t directly affect you. Obviously, Ash had focused on the skin-walker aspects of Project Phoenix. Anything else, he’d learned incidentally. I couldn’t imagine not wanting to know more. Not being curious. But so far, he hadn’t shown much curiosity about anything—our situation, our experiences, our lives. Maybe even that—basic personal curiosity—is a luxury for some.

  Given his lack of interest, I suppose it was surprising how much he remembered of things he’d heard in passing. He knew what the four successful types were even before meeting us. He also knew that every kid between the ages of fifteen and seventeen in Salmon Creek had been a Project Phoenix subject.

  Every kid between fifteen and seventeen. Every kid in our grade, most in the grade below us, and a few in the grade above. That didn’t even cover all the subjects, though. There’d been a lot of attrition at the beginning—parents realizing they didn’t want their kids being brought up in a lab after all, however utopian that lab might be. All four skin-walker parents went on the run, as Rafe already told me. Which is why they’d fought so hard to get me back into the fold.

  There’d been six subjects in each of the six groups. Thirty-six altogether, excluding the preliminary subjects like Annie. Of the eight in Salmon Creek showing powers—me and Rafe, Daniel and Sam, Serena, Nicole and Hayley, and Corey—seven had been on that helicopter. The eighth—Serena—was already dead. Was that a coincidence? No. We were the only ones for whom the modifications seemed to work.

  While it was still possible there would be late bloomers, we were the guarantees. That’s why we’d been on the same helicopter. That’s why the mayor went with us. We were the most precious cargo. The Nasts knew that, which is why they’d targeted our helicopter. Hell, it’s probably why they started the fire to force the evacuation.

  That was really all Ash knew. I’m not sure how much it helped our situation, but at least we understood it a little better.

  TWELVE

  OUR MEMORIAL SERVICE WAS set for three thirty the next afternoon. That seemed like an odd hour, but maybe it was the only time they could get the park. Or maybe it was like holding it in Vancouver—a way to minimize the turnout. I’m sure they would have liked to skip the memorial altogether, but that was impossible, as long as they were pretending they gave a damn.

  As soon as we realized the St. Clouds had declared us dead, we’d understood that they’d washed their hands of us. Traded us to the Nasts. Ash had a little more insight into the deal from his contacts, who knew supernaturals in both Cabals.

  Cabals were, as we’d figured out, corporations run and staffed by supernaturals. Huge corporations. For regular supernaturals—like witches and half-demons—it gave them a job and a community where they didn’t need to hide their powers. Kind of like what they apparently had in mind for us. You work for us; we’ll look after you. Wage slaves provided with a decent job and good benefits.

  The St. Clouds were the second smallest Cabal, more heavily invested in science
than industry. The Nasts were the biggest. They’d let the St. Clouds do all the hard labor of creating and raising us, then they’d swooped in to steal the finished product. After the fire and crash, the two Cabals had negotiated a deal. The Nasts got all the kids on the helicopter . . . if they could catch them. The St. Clouds got paid for us and kept the “rejects” in hopes that some would be late bloomers.

  So we’d been sold. Did that mean Rafe and Sam were with the Nasts now? What about Annie? We had no idea.

  Not surprisingly, Ash hated the idea of showing up at the memorial. Also not surprisingly, he didn’t keep his objections to himself.

  “This is the stupidest idea ever,” he grumbled as we lay on adjacent tree limbs a hundred meters from the memorial site.

  “Is it any more stupid than it was the last fifty times you said that?” I asked.

  “Maybe.”

  I sighed, shook my head, and looked around. Our ceremony was being held in a park. Outdoors, at the request of the parents. I knew whose parents had initiated that. Mine. An outdoor ceremony for the daughter who loved the wilderness. If I had any doubt who’d selected the location, it vanished when we’d arrived and I realized we’d been there before, my parents and me, for “breaks” when we’d come to Vancouver and the city got to be too much for me.

  “I still don’t get what you hope to accomplish here,” Ash said.

  I twisted to look at him. “We’re going to try to make contact with one of our parents. Hopefully mine.”

  “Yeah, I get that part. What I don’t get is how in hell they’re supposed to help you.” He put up a hand against my protest. “Your dad’s a forest ranger. Your mom’s an architect. You’re sure they don’t know about Project Phoenix, but hell, we’d be better off if they did, so at least they’d have some idea what’s going on.”

  “Which is why they’ll talk to Corey’s mom. She’s the police chief. Corey doesn’t think she knows about the project, but she might. If she doesn’t, they’ll talk to Daniel’s dad, who does know.”

  “So why not target him?”

  I couldn’t tell Ash about Daniel’s father. Not without breaking a trust. So all I said was, “He isn’t a good choice.”

  “Great. So we have a guy you don’t trust, a small-town cop, and your parents, who know zip about the experiment, zip about fighting bad guys, and probably zip about supernaturals in general. Can I ask again what exactly it is you hope they can do?”

  He already knew the answer. We’d told him the first time he asked. He was just making a point now. We really didn’t know what our parents could do. We held on to the hope that someone would know about the experiment and the Cabals, and if they didn’t, then they’d know someone who did, someone from Salmon Creek who could help us.

  Help us do what? Free the others. But we couldn’t take Annie on the run if the Cabals knew how to fix her. We couldn’t take Corey on the run either if they could fix his headaches. And what if I started regressing?

  The trouble was that the source of care was also the source of the threat. How were we supposed to reconcile that? I had no idea. All we could do was focus on making contact. On getting help and answers, and as nebulous as that plan was, it was all we had. Even Ash himself had admitted he didn’t have another.

  Ash wasn’t the only one who didn’t think I should be here. Daniel and I had a bit of a dustup about it this morning, when I’d declared my intention to watch the proceedings.

  “I don’t think you should do that, Maya,” he’d said.

  “Um, that’s the plan, isn’t it?”

  He’d gone quiet then, shoving his hands in his pockets before saying, “The plan is for us to go and try to talk to someone. Not for you to watch the service. I think it’s going to be too much for you.”

  I’d stared at him, unable to believe what he’d just said. Daniel might have a mile-wide protective streak, but he’s never treated me like “a girl.” If he had, our friendship would have ended years ago.

  “What? I’m going to start sobbing and run to Mommy and Daddy? Seriously? You think—”

  “I worded that wrong. I think it’ll be too much for you and Corey. Watching your families grieving . . . It’s going to be tough.”

  “I know that.”

  “Good. That’s why I’m asking you both to hang back. Ash and I will watch. If my dad is mourning, the most I’m going to feel is shock.”

  “That’s not true.”

  He shrugged. “Okay, maybe, but it’s not going to hit me as hard. You know it won’t. We haven’t gotten along in years and I’m past the point of wishing it was otherwise. It’ll upset me to see my brothers, but we’re not really that close, either.” He looked at me. “The point is that I’ll be okay.”

  “And I won’t?”

  “I’m not saying—”

  “Then don’t say it. The more eyes on the service, the more likely we are to spot someone we can approach.”

  That hadn’t ended it. We’d fought. Really fought. Enough to bring Corey running, and when I told him what Daniel wanted, Corey lit into him, too. Yes, this would be hard, but we could handle it and we weren’t happy with Daniel for implying otherwise.

  “What are the chances one of your parents is going to wander off anyway?” Ash said, bringing me back to the present. “We’re taking a huge risk here, you know.”

  “If you’re worried, you can go wait—”

  “I’m not worried.” His chin shot up, eyes flashing, and I recognized the look. Probably the exact same one I’d given Daniel when he suggested I couldn’t handle this. At least we had something in common.

  I looked over to where Daniel and Corey were hidden in the long grass, just inside a patch of woods. I couldn’t see either of them. Which meant they were well hidden. Except that I’d feel better if we had visual contact.

  Ash had a cell phone. We probably should have bought a cheap prepaid ourselves. I hadn’t thought of it until now. Hindsight . . .

  At the rumble of tires on gravel, I looked over to see a black car pulling in to the parking lot. It had been roped off, but a man in a dark suit now held the rope as a line of black cars rolled in. They parked. Doors opened. I inched forward, wriggling to see better. My branch creaked.

  “Careful,” Ash said.

  I stopped moving.

  Mrs. Tillson climbed out of the first car, leaning heavily on the arm of a white-haired man I recognized from corporate literature as the head of St. Cloud corporation. Head of the St. Cloud Cabal, I should say. A sorcerer. Ash said all the Cabals were led by families of sorcerers. Did Mrs. Tillson know what he was? Did she care? Not right now. She’d suffered the greatest loss. Her husband—the mayor—really had died in the crash, and she believed that both her daughter, Nicole, and her niece, Sam, had perished, too.

  Corey’s mom was next. Chief Carling. Only she didn’t seem like the Chief Carling I remembered, a petite blonde who could make her son quail with a single look and make him laugh just as easily. She looked tiny now, fragile and overwhelmed, clutching the hand of Corey’s brother, Travis. He was all she had left—her husband had died a few years ago from an epileptic seizure. Was that seizure caused by sileni blood? One more thing to worry about for Corey.

  Mr. Bianchi and Daniel’s older brothers were in the next car. His brothers walked stiffly, side by side, gazes straight ahead. They hadn’t helped their father from the vehicle. Hadn’t even waited for him to get out. Just walked away, as if they blamed him for this. He followed, head bowed, like he accepted that blame, shambling along in a daze. I glanced toward the thicket where Daniel was hiding. I couldn’t see him. I wished I could. I wished I wasn’t up in this tree. My idea. A stupid idea. We should have been together for—

  My parents stepped out of the last car. Dad first, then reaching in and helping Mom, and when I saw them, my heart stopped. I just lay there, frozen, clutching the tree so hard I dimly registered pain in my fingers, but only clutched it harder.

  “Those them?”

 
; Ash’s voice brought me back again. I tore my gaze away just long enough to nod. When I looked back, Mom and Dad were at the front of the car, helping Grandma from the passenger seat.

  “They Navajo?” Ash asked. “The women?”

  “My mom and grandmother. They’re Haida.”

  “What the hell’s that? Some Canadian tribe?”

  “Yes.”

  He snorted. “Figures. Got a spare Indian baby? Give it to any Indian who’ll take her. They’re all the same anyway.” He waved at my parents. “Hell, doesn’t even matter if the new dad is Indian or not. He’s a forest ranger? That’s close enough. At one with nature and all that—”

  “Shut up,” I snarled. “Just shut the hell—” I choked on the rest and turned back to my family. They were making their way forward. Dad had his arm around Mom, gripping so close he seemed to be holding her upright. Grandma was on her other side, clasping her hand.

  Someone met them and gestured to chairs in front of a giant photo. It was from this past spring, of me crouched, hugging Kenjii, and grinning. We were both splattered with mud after Dad let Daniel and me take his Jeep off-roading after a heavy rain. We’d come back and Mom made us stay outside—not because of the mud, but because she wanted pictures. In the real photo Daniel was there, too, standing behind me, and I could see his hand in the blown-up version. A disembodied hand resting on my shoulder. I wished they’d left him in it, maybe even let us have a joint photo, but his dad had picked one of Daniel in a suit, looking somber and uncomfortable and not like Daniel at all.

  When the man directed them to their spot, Mom seemed to notice the photo for the first time. She stopped, making Dad falter and Grandma stumble. Then she . . . she made this noise. This horrible noise. A keening wail as she dropped. Just dropped, like someone had cut her legs out from under her, and Dad grabbed her before she hit the ground, and he crouched there, bent on one knee, with Mom collapsed against him, and I could hear her crying. Even from here, I could hear her crying.