by Adams, Lori
Dante stared at the monitors while considering the plan. Most of Julian’s instructions were gibberish to his traditional senses but one thing struck a chord. “Why the weapons?”
Julian became coy and shrugged. “I’ve been heads down on this for a while. Could make an impression at this year’s Demonic Games and … well, my bandwidth doesn’t allow testing down here so …”
“And why should we trust you? Why do you not embed one of these homegrown weapons in yourself and resurface?”
“Totally boss questions, but it wouldn’t do any good to embed the weapon in myself. First off, I couldn’t take the subcutaneous pain, and secondly, I can’t resurface. I’m a gatekeeper.” Julian shrugged out of his robe and revealed a green chain tattoo emblazoned around his bicep. It was identical to the ones Dante and Vaughn had just received but without the extension down their arms.
“You see, Isatou brands all gatekeepers. We’re stuck in this black hole forever. Whereas you guys got a bit of tether, at least ten links down to your wrists. I heard the witch proclaim you bound to Hell, ‘just like the Master.’ Well, Isatou was trying to clue you in; she did you a favor. The Master has a long tether, and if your brand is like his, you could probably resurface without much restraint. I mean, you can’t go continent hopping like before, but I bet it’ll get you where you wanna go.”
So that’s why Isatou had looked so pleased. She had deceived Lord Brutus and did Dante a favor.
“How do you know about a conversation that happened less than an hour ago?” Dante asked.
Julian tapped one of the touch-screen monitors. It sprang to life and revealed a live shot of the Death Bunker, particularly the two cells that held Dante and Vaughn.
“Damn,” Vaughn muttered. “I was on TV this whole time and didn’t know it.” He laughed and smoothed back his hair.
“Do you know why Isatou would help you?” Julian asked, but Dante refused to answer.
“She got a thing for you?” Vaughn elbowed him and grinned.
“I would hardly call it a ‘thing,’ ” he said, shrugging it off.
“Well, how ’bout it then?” Santiago asked. “Is it a deal? ’Cause if we’re gonna do this, we gotta make like a farmer and bail.”
Dante gave it some thought, and then looked at Vaughn for his decision.
“Hey, we’re dead either way, right?”
Julian got the nod of approval from Dante and began peeling back his Einstein poster. Carved into the wall was a secret shelf that held a black velvet bag. He opened the bag and emptied the content onto his palm. It was an obsidian handle similar to the one Isatou had used to create their tattoos.
“This is gonna burn like before, only worse. I’m not using a fire chain but direct pressure.”
As much as Vaughn wanted the pain, Dante insisted he be tested first in case something went wrong. Steeling his nerves, he offered his arm. Julian grasped Dante around the wrist and shook the crystal like a spray can. When the tip had turned bright red, he carefully placed it against the smooth skin of Dante’s left forearm.
Dante flinched as his arm sizzled and smoked. His body began to tremble while Julian went to work, etching an exotic-looking dagger into his skin. Blazing heat raced through Dante as though his blood were boiling. Sweat broke across his forehead, and his eyes rolled back in his head. Like all his torture sessions, he forced himself to escape the pain by focusing on Sophia.
By the time Julian started on his right forearm, Dante was lost in his self-induced visions. Thanks to Persuasion’s hypnotic powers, Dante could remove himself from the pain his body endured. He was with Sophia in the courthouse, feeling his arms around her slender body in the lavender dress. He reveled in her warm, sweet kiss as she offered herself in complete submission. She was his, as it was always meant to be. I’m coming, Sophia. And this time, I will not be asking your permission. You will come home with me.
“There! It’s done.” Julian sat back, panting. He wiped his forehead and stared at the elaborate artwork on Dante’s arms.
When Dante roused, the burning sensation came flooding back. It took his breath away, and he balled his hands into fists.
His forearms sported twin dagger tattoos. They were deep purple at the hilt, fading into red blades with gold tips. Swirling black lines overlaid the daggers like coiled snakes.
“Now what?” Dante said through clenched teeth.
“Shake your arms down like you have something up your sleeves.”
Dante shook his arms, forcing the excruciating pain from his forearms, down to his wrists, across his palms, and into his fingertips. Again and again, he shook until the tattoos began to slide beneath his skin. It was almost unbearable, and Dante had to stop for a moment to catch his breath.
“Maybe it’s like a Band-Aid,” Santiago offered. “Just give it a good, hard—”
Dante flicked a cold look that stopped further suggestions, but he eventually took the unsolicited advice. He snapped his arms, first one and then the other. The dagger tattoos ploughed through veins and tissue in sporadic jerks until they shot out his wrists and landed into his palms.
“Well, I’ll be a son of a bitch,” Vaughn said, disbelievingly. His eyes were alight with excitement. “It hurt, didn’t it? Please say it hurt.”
Dante tested the weight and balance of the daggers. They fit perfectly in each palm. He tried to rotate them but they were stiff on the spin.
“Oh yeah,” Julian said. “They won’t rotate too easily, but with practice I think they’ll loosen up. And you can’t throw them. They’re obviously attached to the body.”
“Okay, my turn.” Vaughn forced his way between Dante and Julian. “Hit me with your best shot.”
Carving the tattoos for Vaughn went much faster; Julian didn’t have to work slowly to minimize the pain. Once done, Vaughn easily shook them into his palm and worked on rotating them.
“Seriously man, I think I love you,” he said, strolling around and whipping the daggers in and out of his flesh.
Julian checked the clock; they were nearly out of time so he began stuffing various items into a backpack. “Now, listen up,” he told Santiago. “I have a list of everything I want in here, so don’t lose it. This won’t hold it all so get another bag, okay? I don’t want the circuit boards damaged. And if you can’t find the electric conductive ink pens, don’t get the solar ones. Kind of useless down here. I’ll take a bag of quantum bits instead. And don’t forget the case of Top Raman and the Death Star soccer ball.” Santiago gave him a look. “What? It’s an icebreaker for hittin’ on underlings when I’m in flirt mode,” Julian said.
Santiago scoffed. “Wouldn’t want you to have an intergalactic episode when you’re trying to hook up.”
There was a scraping sound like a guillotine being dropped, and Julian rushed to his keyboard and tapped a button, killing the noise. “That’s the alarm. You have two minutes to reach the gate before it’s shut down and the new system is installed. Get through the gate as quickly and quietly as you can. Once you’re over the bridge and through the Badlands, well, you know the rest. Up and around until it spits you out at the Borderlands and then you flash to Haven Hurst. Just remember, you must return together through gate five. Good luck.”
Chapter 8
Get Thee to a Bakery
The moment I turn off the shower I hear it, the faint thumping of drums. I’m sure I didn’t leave my music on, so I dry in a rush, pull on sweats and a T-shirt, and twist my hair up into a small towel turban. I open the bathroom door as the beat climbs an octave higher. It’s quick and familiar, but I can’t figure why I should be hearing it now. I hurry down the stairs and catch Sundance, my golden retriever, at the bottom. I ruffle his ears and then we follow the wailing cry as the lyrics begin.
Dunna dunt, dunna dunt, dunna dunna dunna dunt, dunna dunt dunna do.
“What the hell?”
I stop in the kitchen doorway and there is Dad and Bailey, dancing their hearts out to “Chelsea Dagger.” They
are wearing frilly pink aprons and are wielding spatulas. The kitchen smells of sugar, fresh bread, and honey, while the countertops are a wild concoction of various dry ingredients. Something is sizzling in the deep fryer but nobody seems to care.
Bailey’s spatula is a microphone, and she sings at the top of her lungs. I break up laughing. Dad is radiant in his absurdity; he never could dance. He used to be a punk rock devotee back in the day; I was raised on the Violent Femmes, The Clash, and The Kinks, so it’s no wonder that he’s euphoric over The Fratellis. I can hear the similarities.
I’m spotted and dragged into the kitchen, my turban tossed aside. I can’t help but join in, bouncing and singing and laughing. Dad leads us into pogo dancing and then goes old old school in some contorted combination of the mashed potato and the twist. Pointing index fingers seem to be an important requirement. It is such a joy to see Dad happy! But seriously, I wish he could dance.
When the song ends, Bailey and I fall into each other laughing, and Dad takes a proper bow. I ask what’s going on, and Bailey presents their culinary clutter with a grand flare and a thick Russian accent, “Ve are mak-ink chak-chak!”
“What—What?” I ask, peering into the deep fryer.
Dad says, “Here, try one,” and offers a plate. There is stack of short stick-like treats that have been fried and bathed in warm honey. They are rich and dreamy and make my eyes roll around.
“We’re testing out treats for the Winter Carnival,” Bailey explains, shoving a chak-chak in her mouth and licking her fingers. “I know you’ve heard everybody talking about it—the big Russian prazdnik where we haul out the ol’ valenki and ushanka and take troika rides through the snow?”
I raise my eyebrows in question and say, “Share with the class, please,” and Bailey says, “Boots, hats, sleigh rides,” and the light goes on.
“So any-vay,” she continues, playing the czarina tour guide, “the dance is the highlight, ah-v course, but the prazdnik—the festival—itself, is pretty ama-zink. It ah-vayz starts in December, and it’s ah-vayz Rrrussian-themed. Ve are steeped in Rrrussian culture all through Christmastime.” She helps Dad remove the last batch of goodies from the fryer. Things are hot and they have to be careful.
“I offered to cook something,” Dad says proudly. He settles the treats onto a fresh plate and beams at me. I have a vague sense of déjà vu. Dad used to love to cook. Before Mom died. Dad used to love music. Before Mom died. I’m ashamed to have forgotten that Dad used to be a normal guy, before our lives were turned upside down by her death and the nightmare with Psycho Steve. Seeing him so happy again, dancing and cooking and … well, it’s enough to make me tear up.
“Hey, none of that,” he says, pulling me into a hug. He strokes my wet head and shushes me. “It’s all good now. It’s time we were happy again, right?”
I sniffle and mumble, “At least you’ve outgrown The Kinks,” and Dad says, “Hey, there’s an idea!”
“You never told me ser papa could cook,” Bailey says, snagging another chak-chak. “Of course, I had to teach him how to make these. Just be thankful he wasn’t asked to make the borscht.” She flinches and we laugh.
Bailey gives Dad the final approval on his first round of Russian desserts, and then we traipse upstairs so I can continue my morning ritual before school. The kitchen goes quiet for a moment, and then we hear “All Day and All of the Night” by The Kinks, grooving from Dad’s iPod. I grin and feel my heart warming.
Bailey lounges on my bed while I sit at my desk and squint into the mirror, applying two coats of mascara. I’m almost finished when she rolls over and asks a question that snaps my eyes open. We stare in the mirror and I force a swallow.
“What?” I croak, trying to pretend I didn’t hear.
“C’mon, Soph, I know something was going on at the morgue. Sister ain’t no dummkopf.”
I say, “Uh, that’s German not Russian,” but she ignores me.
“Michael and Raph were pissed and you were so pale. Like you’d seen a ghost or something.”
I drop my head and make like I’m searching for something in the drawer. Bailey gasps. “Oh my God! You did see a ghost! That’s it, isn’t it?” She marches over and swivels my chair around, forcing me to look at her. She reminds me about our little tête-à-tête in the library basement back in October, when Abigail Monroe and the McCarthy twins tried to hypnotize me so we could put a hex on Psycho Steve. Bailey is not beyond believing that I could’ve seen a ghost.
I scramble for an excuse but give up and wince. “Well …”
Bailey whoops and hollers and flings herself around the room. “I knew it! I mean, I can’t believe it but … I knew it! People are always seeing weird shit in hospitals.” She flops back onto the bed and demands that I spill the beans. Every last little legume.
So for the next thirty minutes, I tell Bailey about Colin Firth dying, which she finds hilarious—not him dying but being called Colin Firth. I remind her of the way she shivered when Colin walked through her and the coldness she’d felt. Then I explain that Colin thought I could help him.
“I don’t get,” she says. “Why would he think you could help him cross over? Just ’cause you could see him?”
I consider my answer for a moment. I want so much to tell someone what I’ve been going through. How I’ve been desperately waiting for someone to come and explain how things work. Michael and Raph have their opinions but it’s not the same as sharing with a girlfriend. I don’t have anyone. So on impulse, I decided it’s not fair and say, “Because I actually might be able to help him.”
I can’t believe I just told her! I glance around for something catastrophic to happen. If any sacred codes were violated, there’s nothing to show for it.
Bailey stares wide-eyed and says, “Uh, this is me being confused. Explain, please.”
Against my better judgment, I tell Bailey of my potential to be a spirit walker. I don’t tell her that I had to die to get this info, but I say Mom visited me in a dream and explained everything. I describe the visions I’ve had, the strange sensations, and the anguish I feel for not being able to help Colin. I worry about him all alone in the spirit world.
I can’t reveal much else, certainly nothing about the Patronus family, or what Dante and his fake family are. I hate omitting that part because I know how much she liked Vaughn. She has a right to know he is a demon. But they’re gone now, and the less said about them, the better.
I pretend I’m not freaked by the whole thing myself and finish getting ready. I comb out my wet hair while Bailey stammers expletives and follows me in and out of the bathroom. I dry my hair upside down while she pelts me with questions. Most of them I can’t answer. I don’t know who is supposed to come and train me, and why they haven’t yet. I don’t know why my Awakening hasn’t progressed beyond visions. I don’t know why I have this ability in the first place. And I don’t know why it probably isn’t going to happen, after all.
We’re digging through a pile of clothes on the floor when Bailey gasps with an epiphany. “That night at the haunted mansion! Wolfgang pushed you too far, and you went all Bourne Supremacy and threw that knife. You almost hit Dante!” I nod, and she sits back on her heels, stunned for the second time.
We haven’t spoken about Steve since the night we tried to put a hex on him, but I tell Bailey the details now. How I reacted when he came at me a second time. “I threw a paring knife at him. Sundance attacked Steve at the same time, so the knife didn’t actually hit him. It was the first time I’d ever thrown a knife, and I swear, Bailey, I wasn’t myself. In that moment, when I was pushed too far, I felt like someone else. Someone I think I’m supposed to be. Which is frustrating, to know I have some kick-ass fighting skills somewhere inside me but I just can’t get to them.” I feel myself choking up but force it down. This only makes my chest hurt, and I grimace and try to keep it together.
Bailey pats my hand and asks in a maternal voice, “So why do you suck at paintball?”
; I wipe my eyes and laugh. “That’s a mighty fine question.” She’s joking but I mull it over. “Bailey, I must’ve done something wrong. Or maybe they decided I wasn’t good enough. Or maybe it was all a mistake. Or maybe—”
“Maybe schmaybe,” she says. “Listen, tchotchke, if they don’t want you, it’s their loss. Now—”
I start to cry, and Bailey wraps her arms around me. “C’mon, Soph, don’t cry. I can’t stand when people cry.” She rocks me for a while, and I feel pretty pathetic. Michael talks about how tough his Halo Masters are, how impressive and disciplined and demanding. As scary as they sound, I still want to be trained. I still want to be a spirit walker.
“Tears and mascara don’t play well together,” Bailey says, wiping my face. “Now, let’s take your mind off things with some tedious education. I don’t know about you, but I need my caffeine hit before our daily incarceration.” She offers me a smile, and I reluctantly accept it.
Once Bailey and I are stuffed into the appropriate amount of winter paraphernalia—boots, coats, scarves, and beanies—we clomp downstairs. Dad is still in the kitchen, waxing nostalgic with “Real Wild Child” by Iggy Pop. I smile wistfully. Times are indeed a’changin’ if I’m happy to hear Iggy’s Blah Blah Blah album again.
After yelling adios to ser papa, we head out and make straight for the town square, which is hectic with people and snow machines pumping out fresh snow. Bailey tells me the snowmaking gods will continue for days because the carnival booths and decorations are constructed mostly out of snow and ice. We need more than our fair share from Mother Nature or Jack Frost or whomever.
Already, I can see the makings of familiar onion-shaped Russian rooftops and small domes coming to life. The gazebo is being modified with sculpted pillars and a round tentlike roof. The giant Christmas tree has not been fully decorated, but the scaffolding around it looks promising. An ice rink is in the works across the courthouse’s frosty lawn.
