by Rick Yancey
“What? What do you see, Evan?” My voice quivering. He was scaring me. Maybe it was the fever talking, but Evan was acting very un-Evanish.
“The way out. The way to finish it. The problem is Grace. Grace is too much for you—for any of you. Grace is the doorway and I’m the only one who can walk through it. I can give you that. And time. Those two things, Grace and time, and then you can finish it.”
44
THEN DUMBO, with perfect timing, popped his head into the room. “They’re back, Sullivan. Zombie said—” He stopped. Obviously he’d interrupted an intimate moment. Thank God I hadn’t unbuttoned my shirt. I pulled my hands from Evan’s and stood up.
“Did they find a canister?”
Dumbo nodded. “They’re putting it in the elevator now.” He looked at Evan. “Zombie said anytime you’re ready.”
Evan nodded slowly. “Okay.” But he didn’t move. I didn’t move. Dumbo stood there for a few seconds.
“Okay,” he said. Evan didn’t say anything. I didn’t say anything. Then Dumbo said, “See you guys later—in Dubuque! Heh-heh.” He backed out of the room.
I whirled on Evan. “All right. Remember what Ben said about the enigmatic alien thing?”
Then Evan Walker did something I’d never seen him do—or heard him say, to be accurate.
“Shit,” he said.
Dumbo was back in the doorway, slack-jawed, red-eared, and in the grasp of a tall girl with a cascade of honey-blond hair and striking Norwegian-model-type features, piercing blue eyes, full, pouty, collagen-packed lips, and the willowy figure of a runway fashion princess.
“Hello, Evan,” Cosmo Girl said. And of course her voice was deep and slightly scratchy like every seductive villainess ever conceived by Hollywood.
“Hello, Grace,” Evan said.
45
GRACE: A PERSON, not a prayer or anything close to being connected to God. And armed to the teeth: She had Dumbo’s M16 in addition to the hefty sniper rifle hanging from her back. She shoved the kid into the room and then blew out my eyesight with her megawatt smile.
“And you must be Cassiopeia, queen of the night sky. I’m surprised, Evan. She’s nothing like I pictured. Kind of a ginger. Didn’t know that was your type.”
I looked at Evan. “Who the hell is this person?”
“Grace is like me,” Evan said.
“We go way back. Ten centuries, give or take. Speaking of taking . . .” Grace motioned for my rifle. I tossed it at her feet. “Sidearm, too. And that knife strapped to your ankle, under the fatigues.”
“Let them go, Grace,” Evan said. “We don’t need them.”
Grace ignored him. She gave my rifle a little kick and told me to toss it out the window with the Luger and the knife. Evan nodded at me as if to say, Better do it. So I did. My head was spinning. I couldn’t grab hold of a single coherent thought. Grace was a Silencer like Evan—that one I could hug tight. But how did she know my name and why was she here and how did Evan know she was coming and what did he mean by Grace is the doorway? The doorway to what?
“I knew she was human.” Grace was back on Evan’s favorite subject. “But I never imagined how completely human she was.”
Evan knew it was coming, but he tried to stop it anyway. “Cassie . . .”
“Fuck you and the horse you rode in on, you fucking alien motherfucker.”
“Colorful. Imaginative. Nice.” Grace motioned with Dumbo’s rifle for me to sit.
Again, Evan shot me a look: Do it, Cassie. So I sat on the bed next to his, beside Dumbo, who was breathing through his mouth like an asthmatic. Grace remained in the doorway so she could keep an eye on the hall. Maybe she didn’t know about Sam and Megan in the next room or Ben and Poundcake waiting for Evan in the elevator downstairs. I understood Evan’s strategy then: Stall. Buy time. When Ben and Poundcake came up to see what the hell was going on, that would be our chance. I remembered Evan taking out an entire squad of 5th Wavers, outgunned and outnumbered, in pitch darkness, and thought, No, when they show up, that will be her chance.
I studied her, the way she leaned against the jamb with one ankle thrown casually over the other, golden tresses flowing over one shoulder, her head turned slightly to display for our admiration her stunning Nordic profile, and I thought, Sure, makes sense. If you can download yourself into any sort of human body, why not pick an impeccable one? Evan, too. In that sense, he was nothing but a big phony. And that’s weird to think about. Deep down, the dude who gave me the Jell-O knees was an effigy, a mask over a faceless face that probably ten thousand years ago looked like a squid or something.
“Well, they did tell us there was risk, living so long as humans among humans,” Grace said. “Tell me something, Cassiopeia: Don’t you think he’s perfectly perfect in bed?”
“Why don’t you tell me,” I shot back. “You extraterrestrial slut.”
“Feisty,” Grace said to Evan with a smile. “Like her namesake.”
“They have nothing to do with this,” Evan said. “Let them go, Grace.”
“Evan, I’m not even sure I understand what this is.” She left her post and floated—there’s no other word for it—to his bedside. “And nobody is going anywhere until I do.” She leaned over and took his face in her hands and kissed him long and lingering on the lips. He fought her—I could see that—but she immobilized him with her otherworldly überwiles, which she carried in spades in her wheelhouse. “Did you tell her, Evan?” she murmured against his cheek, though she made sure I could hear. “Does she know how all of this ends?”
“Like this,” I said, and launched myself at her, leading, as I usually did, with my head, aiming the hard crown part of it at the soft temple part of hers. The impact knocked her sideways into the closet doors. I ended up sprawled across Evan’s lap. Perfectly perfect, I thought, a little incoherently.
I pushed myself up and Evan wrapped his arms around my waist and yanked me back down. “No, Cassie.”
But he was weak and I was strong and I ripped free easily and jumped from the bed onto her back. That was a big mistake: She grabbed my arm and hurled me across the room. I smashed against the wall beside the window and plopped straight down on my ass, sending a hot jolt of pain up my back. From the hallway, I heard a door fly open, and I shouted, “Get out, Sam! Get Zombie! Get—”
She was gone before I got the second get out. The last time I saw someone move that fast was at Camp Ashpit, when the phony soldiers from Wright-Patterson spotted me hiding in the woods. Like, cartoon fast, which might be humorous if not for the reason she bolted.
Oh no you don’t, bitch. Not my little brother.
I raced past Dumbo, past Evan, who had thrown off the covers and was struggling to swing his badly wounded self out of bed, into the hall, which was empty, not a good thing, not good at all, then two steps to Sam’s room, and when my fingers touched the handle, a wrecking ball smashed into the back of my head and my nose smacked into the wood. Something went crunch, and it wasn’t the wood. I stepped backward, blood pouring down my face. I could taste my blood and somehow it was the taste that kept me upright—I didn’t know till then that rage had a taste and it tasted like your own blood.
Cold fingers locked around my neck and I watched my feet leave the ground through a shower of red rain. Then I was soaring down the length of the hallway, coming down hard on my shoulder, and rolling to a stop a foot from the window at the far end.
Grace: “Stay there.”
She was standing by Sammy’s door, a lithe shadow down a dimly lit tunnel, shimmering on the other side of the tears that welled uncontrollably and spilled down my cheeks to mix with blood.
“Leave. My. Brother. Alone.”
“That adorable little boy? He’s your brother? I’m sorry, Cassiopeia, I didn’t know.” Shaking her head in mock sadness. Like they mocked every decent human thing.
“He’s already dead.”
46
THREE THINGS HAPPENED then, all at the same time. Four, if you counted my heart blowing apart.
I ran—not away but toward. I was going to rip her cover-model face off. I was going to tear her pseudo-human heart from between her perfectly shaped human boobs. I was going to open her up with my fingernails.
That was the first thing.
The second was the stairway door flying open and Poundcake entering the hall in anything but Eeyore fashion, shoving me back with one arm as the other brought his rifle to bear on Grace. Not an easy shot by any means, but Poundcake was the squad’s best marksman after Ringer, according to Ben.
The third thing was a shirtless, boxer-shorts-wearing Evan Walker, crawling out of the room behind Grace. Expert marksman or not, if Poundcake missed . . . or if Grace dived out of the way at the last second . . .
So I did the diving, wrapping my arms around the kid’s ankles. He toppled forward, his rifle discharged, and then I heard the stairway door again and Ben shouting, “Freeze!” just like they used to in the movies, but nobody froze, not me, not Poundcake, and not Evan—and certainly not Grace, who was gone. She was there and then she wasn’t. Ben hopped over me and Poundcake and limped down the hall to the room opposite Sam’s.
Sam.
I jumped up and raced down the hall. Ben was motioning to Poundcake, saying, “She’s in there.”
I yanked on the handle. Locked. Thank you, God! I pounded on the door. “Sam! Sam, open up! It’s me!”
And from the other side, a voice no louder than a mouse’s squeak: “It’s a trick! You’re tricking me!”
I lost it. Pressed my bloody cheek against the door and had a good, solid, and very satisfying mini-breakdown. I’d let my guard down. I’d forgotten how cruel the Others could be. Not enough to punch a hole through my heart with a bullet. No, first you have to pummel it and stomp on it and crush it in your hands until the tissue oozes from between your fingers like Play-Doh.
“Okay, okay, okay,” I whimpered. “Stay in there, okay? No matter what, Sam. Don’t come out till I come back.”
Poundcake was standing to one side of the door across the hall. Ben was helping Evan to his feet—or trying to. Every time he loosened his grip, Evan’s knees buckled. Ben finally decided to lean him against the wall, where Evan rocked, gasping for air, his skin the color of the ashes at the camp where my father died.
Evan looked over at me and he hardly had the breath for the words: “Get out of this hallway. Now.”
The drywall in front of Poundcake blew apart in a rain of fine white dust and chunks of moldy wallpaper. He staggered backward. His rifle fell from his limp fingers. He knocked into Ben, who grabbed him by the shoulder and threw him into the room with Dumbo. Ben reached for me next, but I slapped his hand away and told him to grab Evan before picking up Poundcake’s rifle and opening up on Grace’s door. The sound was deafening in the narrow hall. I emptied the magazine before Ben got hold of me and pulled me back.
“Don’t be an idiot!” he shouted. He slapped a full magazine into my hand and told me to watch the door but stay down.
The scene played out like a TV show going on in another room: just voices. I was flat on my stomach, resting my upper body on my elbows, the rifle trained on the door directly across from me. Come on, ice maiden. I have a little something for you. Running my tongue over my bloody lips, hating the taste, loving the taste. Come on, you creepy Swede.
Ben: Dumbo, how is it? Dumbo!
Dumbo: It’s bad, Sarge.
Ben: How bad?
Dumbo: Pretty bad . . .
Ben: Oh, Christ. I can freaking see that it’s bad, Dumbo!
Evan: Ben—listen to me—you have to listen to me—we have to get out of here. Now.
Ben: Why? We got her contained—
Evan: Not for long.
Ben: Sullivan can handle her. Who the hell is she, anyway?
Evan: (unintelligible)
Ben: Well, sure. The more the merrier. Guess we’re well into Plan B. I’ve got you, Walker. Dumbo, you have Poundcake. Sullivan will take the kids.
Ben eased down beside me, placing his hand on the small of my back. He nodded toward the door.
“We can’t bug out until the threat’s neutralized,” he whispered. “Hey, what happened to your nose?”
I shrugged. Swipe, swipe went the tongue. “How?” I sounded like I had a bad head cold.
“Pretty simple. Somebody takes the door, one low, one high, one to the right, one to the left. Worst part the first two and a half seconds.”
“What’s the best part?”
“The last two and a half seconds. Ready?”
“Cassie, wait.” Evan, on his knees behind us like a pilgrim at the altar. “Ben doesn’t know what he’s dealing with—but you do. Tell him. Tell him what she’s capa—”
“Shut up, lover boy,” Ben growled. He tugged on my shirt. “Let’s roll.”
“She’s not even in there anymore—I guarantee you,” Evan said, raising his voice.
“What? She jumped two stories?” Ben laughed. “That’s great. I’ll pop her broken-legged ass when I get down there.”
“She probably has jumped—but she didn’t break anything. Grace is like me.” Evan was talking to both of us but looking desperately at me. “Like me, Cassie.”
“But you’re human—I mean, your body is,” Ben said. “And no human body could—”
“Her body could. Not mine anymore. Mine has . . . crashed.”
“You getting all this?” Ben asked me. “Because to me, this sounds like more of Mr. E.T.’s bullshit.”
“What do you suggest we do, Evan?” I asked. Despite the mighty tasty blood in my mouth, the rage was draining out of me, replaced by the very uncomfortable and, by now, very familiar feeling of being in five thousand fathoms over my head.
“Get out. Now. It isn’t you she wants.”
“Sacrificial goat,” Ben said with a nasty smile. “I like it.”
“She’ll just let us walk away,” I said, shaking my head. My sense of drowning was growing more acute. Could Ben be right? What was I thinking, trusting Evan Walker with my life and the life of my brother? Something was off here. Something was wrong. “Just like that.”
“I don’t know,” Evan answered, which was a point in his favor. He could have said, Sure, she’s an okay person once you get past her itsy-bitsy sadism problem. “But I do know what will happen if you stay.”
“Good enough for me,” Ben announced. He backed into the room. “Change of plans, boys. I’ll handle Poundcake. Dumbo, you take Megan. Sullivan’s got her brother. Drop your trunk and grab your junk, we’re goin’ to a party!”
“Cassie.” Evan scooted beside me. He turned my face toward his, ran his thumb over my bloody cheek. “It’s the only way.”
“I’m not leaving you, Evan. And I’m not letting you leave me. Not again.”
“And Sam? You made a promise to him, too. You can’t keep both. Grace is my problem. She . . . she belongs to me. Not the way that Sam belongs to you; I don’t mean that . . .”
“Really? I’m surprised, Evan. You’re usually so clear about everything.”
I sat up, took a deep breath, and slapped his beautiful face. I could have shot him but decided to let him off easy.
And that’s when we heard it, like the slap was the signal it had been waiting for: the sound of an attack helicopter, coming in fast.
47
THE SPOTLIGHT HIT NEXT: Brilliant bright light flooded the hall, poured into the room, flung hard-edged shadows against the walls and floor. Ben raced over and yanked me to my feet; I grabbed Evan’s arm and tugged. He pulled free, shaking his head.
“Just leave a gun with me.”
“You got it, pal,” Ben said, handing over his sidearm. “Sullivan, get you
r brother.”
“What’s the matter with you guys?” I said. I couldn’t believe it. “We can’t run now.”
“What’s your plan?” Ben shouted. He had to shout. The roar of the chopper smashed down anything softer—by the angle of light and the sound, directly over the hotel now.
Evan wrapped his fingers around the splintered doorjamb and heaved himself to his feet—or to his foot; he couldn’t put any weight on the other one. I shouted in his ear, “Just tell me one thing, and for once in your ten-thousand-year-old life be honest. You never intended to rig a bomb and escape with us. You knew Grace was coming and you were planning to blow both of—”
At that moment, Sammy banged out of his room, one hand locked around Megan’s wrist. At some point, the little girl had acquired Bear. Sams probably gave it to her—he was always passing that bear to someone in need. “Cassie!” He barreled into me, hitting me hard in the gut with his head. I hauled him onto my hip, swayed, Jesus, he’s getting heavy, and grabbed Megan’s hand.
A maelstrom of icy wind roared through the broken window, and I heard Dumbo scream, “They’re landing on the roof!”
I heard him because he was practically climbing into my back pocket trying to get into the hall. Ben was right behind him, Poundcake leaning against his side, the big kid’s arm draped around his shoulder.
“Sullivan!” Ben shouted. “Move it!”
Evan locked his fingers around my elbow. “Wait.” He looked up at the ceiling. His lips moved soundlessly, or maybe there was sound and I just couldn’t hear it.
“Wait?” I hollered. The general sense of panic had become quite specific. “Wait for what?”
Eyes still heavenward: “Grace.”
A banshee howl rose over the thrumming of the rotors, increasing in volume and pitch until it became an ear-piercing, unearthly scream. The whole building shook. A crack raced down the ceiling. The horrible hotel prints in their cheap frames toppled from the walls. The spotlight winked out, and a second later, the explosion, and a superheated blast of air rumbled into the room.
