Halfway through, it changes back into Irvine.
Jasper doesn't hesitate. She buries the ceramic blade hilt deep into his throat, and I hear it scrape bone as it catches on his spine.
Jade's face is buried against Caleb's chest.
Sophie is throwing up the fine breakfast I made not too long ago.
Still, that pudwacker tries to lift his arms and choke the Reflective.
Jasper casually bats away the seeking hand and jerks the hilt to the side, successfully widening the gap into an oblong wound from which there's no return.
Irvine gurgles and coughs, spraying blood. Jasper turns her face to the side as droplets splatter her uniform and face.
He grips her upper arms, takes a last, rattling breath then is still.
“God, that was gross,” Tiff says in a soft voice. John puts an arm around her.
We all turn to face the dead squadron of babies.
I raise an eyebrow at Tiff.
“Well, this is so much more normal.” She sweeps a hand at the zombie infants.
“I don't see how,” Kim says.
Tiff glares at her.
Kim doesn't back down. “You calling all of these babies here is somehow normal?”
Tiff glowers then crosses her arms. “Shit was getting saucy.”
Jasper stands from straddling Irvine's body.
Merrick walks to her position, one eye on our group. When he reaches her, his hand lands on Jasper's shoulder, giving it a squeeze. “Good job, Jasper.”
They face us. Jasper looks like she has a case of the measles, courtesy of Irvine’s blood. But just on the one side of her face. “We have been tracking that Atomic for some time. He is extremely dangerous.”
I chuckle. Nooo shit. It's revelation time.
“It wasn't until he left a trail the size of one of your Three highways that we successfully tracked him. He didn't stay long enough in Sector Three for us to do anything but land and jump again.”
They look at Deedie.
Tension coils in my gut.
Merrick turns to Deegan. “Worry not, young Three.”
“You just decapitated Irvine,” she says in a tight voice.
There is that.
“Is that what he was calling himself?” Merrick asks, shaking his head.
“He was a world-jumping, murderous assassin for hire who could morph form to escape true justice. And was an Atomic with incomparable finesse. He topped the list of cleansing for The Cause,” Jasper says. She still holds the blade naked in her hand. Long, thick strands hang from her wrist, and the white blade is now stained a dirty crimson.
“Irvine got us here, and now we can't get home,” Deedie says.
“Excellent point,” I say, looking at the Reflectives. “Listen, you two, thanks for the...” I look at the mangled Irvine. “Help.” I insert the word there, but I'm not entirely sure it's the right one. Still, I forge on, “But let's get the hell out of Kansas here.”
They give me twin expressions of puzzlement.
“Three slang,” Jasper notes.
“No. Old-guy slang,” Tiff snorts.
I give her a look, and she laughs.
“Can you blink us out of here?” Jade asks hopefully.
Merrick frowns. “We do not blink. We reflect.”
“Right,” Caleb says. “Can you reflect us back to our...” He hesitates for a moment then says. “Sector?”
The Reflectives both look at the frozen undead infants.
“What is the meaning of this atrocity?” Jasper asks, indicating the infants with a sweeping hand.
Tiff laughs nervously. “I thought I'd need the dead to battle Irvine.”
“Two wrongs do not make a right.” Merrick plants his large hands on his hips.
I grunt. Some expressions really make their rounds.
Jasper whips her thick, dark braids behind her back. “We followed a tailwind. This is not the true Sector Three, but an echo world to us. We don't police these offshoots.”
“Why not?” Sophie asks.
“Manpower,” Merrick says.
Jasper gives Merrick a scathing glance.
“Apologies. Reflective power.”
“Not a lot of chicks in the Reflective police?” Tiff asks.
“That line of discussion isn't really relevant.”
“Whoa, just curious, guys.” Jonesy throws up his hands. “Damn, you two are touchy.” He plants his feet apart, folding his arms and cupping his elbows.
“Jones,” Caleb says.
“Huh?” He swings his head to Caleb. “Oh, right. Gotta be subtle. Hell, I hate that. Feels so unnatural.”
I shake my head, smiling. Jonesy is as consistent as the sun rising.
“He reminds me of Jacky,” Merrick comments.
“Yes, he does,” Jasper says, and there's a whisper of some emotion I can't identify.
“Who's Jacky?” Deedie asks.
“It doesn't matter.” Merrick casts another uneasy glance at the dead circling us.
Looking around at the zombies myself, I decide maybe I've kind of gotten used to the whole undead mess. This is a little more effort to shrug off, but so far, I'm damn glad to be the unflappable type.
“Put these”—Jasper looks at the dead babies—“younglings back to rest.”
“They'll never rest,” Tiff says, sadness in her voice, hand at her belly.
“Jeb!” Jasper says.
“I hear,” he replies.
Hear what?
A moment later, Brad Thompson shows up—with about two hundred undead.
So much for blinking—or reflecting—anywhere.
Barbecue for the geese.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Pax
It's so tough to relax and act naturally when every male instinct is screaming at me to get back and protect my family.
Of course, I can't stop obsessing about Tara. What was I thinking? Getting her pregnant?
I wasn't. The little head was engaged while the big head was out to lunch.
Yeah. Tara's not Emily. That soft, sweet girl died in my arms while Gram was down the hall, suffering as she lost her own life to cancer, day by day.
“Son?”
I snap my head up. “Huh?”
“Pass the peas.”
I pick up the mustard-colored porcelain dish and pass it to Frank. Steam rises from the peas with three melting pats of butter sinking into the only green food I'll eat.
His wife, Patty, sits at his side, with the kid—Lowell—across from her. They have a small, four seater. A nook table, Gramps would call it, but it's in a separate room adjacent to the kitchen. I know what the names of all these rooms are because we live in an old house, and its design isn't too different. Our place was built one hundred-thirty years ago, or something like that.
I'm starved and can't wait to dig in. But Mom would die if she knew I ate first.
So I wait, tapping my foot underneath the table and watching the sun’s slanting rays that lean against the table, threatening to light the entire thing up in another minute or two.
“Lowell, go shut those blinds.”
The boy hops up and rushes to close the shades.
That golden late afternoon sunlight is cut off like a knife through lard, masking the table in deep shadow.
Table lamps in the corners of the room glow with soft light, casting a sickly pallor over Patty.
It's not just the false light of incandescent bulbs causing the façade of illness.
She is ill.
I can tell. That's part of the bullshit of being an Organic. When a human being isn't well, I can't help but know on some primal level that everything's not good. I'm only a three point in my world.
And this is my world—but a world in the past.
I feel my eyebrows creep together. Why would I be more powerful in the past?
That’s a question no one can answer.
Except maybe Drextel Tate. Mr. Random Headhunter.
I've never met ano
ther blinker. So there's no one to complain to, like, “Hey, man, sucks not to be able to world-hop except in the dark.”
“So, Paxton...” Patty begins, and I randomly wonder how two blond parents have a kid with orange hair.
I try on a smile. Starving here.
“You must be starving,” she says, seeming to have a moment of telepathy.
I nod.
“Well, dig in, Pax,” Frank says.
Don't need to tell me twice. I pile hot mashed potatoes with real butter, cream, and fluffy awesomeness, smacking a huge spoonful with a resounding plop on a mustard-colored plate that matches... well, everything.
Hot damn, could use some fuel. This being a Random stuff takes more calories.
I wolf down half the potato load, swallow a third glass of milk, and take a stab at the meatloaf. Then I shovel that in, doing the hot-food juggle from one side of my mouth to the other.
When I look up, everyone's staring.
I set the fork down with my tines on the edge of the plate.
“You have an impressive appetite,” Patty says like she's seen a ghost.
I grin. “Yup, that's what my parents say.” Wait until Lowell's about thirteen, I think.
“You're a big man, mister.”
My attention shifts to Lowell. “I guess.” Never thought much about my size. Other people notice it way more than I do.
“So why don't you”—Frank indicates my piled plate, laden with twice the food that I've already consumed—“tell us the real story, between bites.”
My heart sinks some at the thought that I'm going to have to get into it. “Don't think that'll help my cause.” I glance at Lowell. “Probably shouldn't talk about all this in front of the kid, either.”
Frank and Patty exchange an uneasy glance.
“Talk about what, Paxton?” Patty asks. She puts down her napkin, food untouched, and leans back in her chair. Her fair and gentle eyes are steady on my face.
I try for diversion. “I need to get going. I got somewhere to be.”
Lots of somewheres.
“But you haven't finished eating.”
I cup my arm around my plate. “Don't worry, Patty—I'll be finishing this. I'm no good to anyone if I'm not fueled up.”
Frank frowns. “Good to anyone?”
I guess that was giving shit away some.
Lowell's eyes are bright, missing nothing. “What do you do, mister? I mean, Pax.”
“Not much of anything,” I admit, though I think of the past week or two and decide I'm awfully busy for not doing anything.
And if I can ever get back to my earth, maybe—just maybe—I can do something with my talent.
My exhale is tired. I think of Tara, and our kid. It'd make me happier than hell to take a stab at normal.
If I could just get back to 2049.
“Maybe he doesn't need to talk about his reasons, Frank.”
Frank shakes his head, studying me quietly for a moment, then slowly says, “I think the authorities would be really interested to hear about Pax's sudden appearance in the lake.”
I know a threat when I hear one.
Instead of answering, I shovel more food. After plowing through another third of my plate, I drain the milk and pour more.
Stare at the family, I decide to play hardball. “You're sick,” I tell Patty.
I shove in another bite of food. Chew deliberately. Swallow. Repeat.
Patty's mouth drops open, and Frank narrows his eyes on me and my nearly empty dinner plate.
Lowell's gaze drops to the table.
Shit. “Sorry, bud,” I say to him.
“It's okay,” he answers.
My eyes peg the parents. “Still want the kid in the room?”
Patty shakes her head with jerky movements.
“Lowell,” Frank says in a low voice, putting a tender hand on his wife's shoulder, “why don't you go play with your science kit for a little bit while Mama and I talk to Pax.”
Lowell scoots back from the table and reluctantly shuffles off.
“Scrape your plate, Lowell.”
Lowell returns, scoops the plate, and stacks the glass on top before walking off. A few seconds later, the grating of a fork against the plate is the only sound between us.
The remaining silence is heavy.
Water runs, and a half minute later, far off in the distance of the house, a door slams.
Lowell and Patty relax.
“Patty's got the cancer,” Lowell states quietly.
“What kind?” I ask. Because I've got a plan. It's sort of loose and unscripted, but it's better than nothing.
“Breast—they think. But it's far gone enough, they think it's...” She gives a helpless little shrug. “Maybe in other places now,” she finishes in a low voice.
I feel a grin tug the corners of my lips. This is too perfect.
Frank's rage is instant. “What is so funny, young man?”
The grin leaves me as I lean forward with classic Hart intensity. “I can fix it.”
Patty's expression is total confusion. “Fix what?”
I lean back on my chair, put a fist over my mouth to hide the burp begging for escape, and reply, “The cancer.”
*
Once they’ve gotten over the initial shock, I say, “I have conditions.”
“Okay,” Patty says, her hands fluttering around like birds that can't find a place to land.
Frank captures them. “It sounds authentic, honey.” Frank gives me a look that says he can't believe.
Doesn't want to allow himself to hope.
I've been there. The torture of Gram's cancer and Emily’s death is still fresh.
“So since you're from the future. And you can teleport...”
“Blink,” I say absently, swabbing the decks of my buttery plate with my fifth biscuit.
“Blink...” Patty echoes in a dazed voice.
“You can somehow cure cancer?” Frank’s skepticism is back, though God knows I've talked my history to death.
It's six o'clock here. I need to make this fast. Minutes might make a difference back home.
“My conditions are”—that intro gets their attention—“I heal Patty, you never talk about me again or tell anyone I was here. She doesn't die.” I jack an eyebrow. “I get back to my time.”
“I can't help but think you're a straitjacket candidate,” Frank says quietly.
“Frank,” Patty elbows him.
“Have ya listened to this kid? He pops up in the middle of the lake and says he's from the future, where people teleport, heal the sick—pyros. It's just a lot to swallow, hun.”
“I believe him,” a small voice says from the door.
I dump my face in my hands. Great.
“Lowell,” Frank says, beginning to stand.
“No, just let him be here, Frank. He needs to know why—why I might be okay.”
“Are you still gonna die, Mama?” Lowell asks, his hazel eyes moving from me to his mom.
“I don't know, sweetheart, but if we promise not to tell anyone about Paxton's visit, he says he'll try to make the cancer disappear.”
Lowell sticks his thumb in his mouth, a habit that looks to have been given up some time ago then resurfaced just now.
I stand, and Frank moves protectively in front of his family.
“You've told me some horrible things.” Frank clears his throat. “Some beautiful things.”
I stand, as well. “I'm not gonna hurt your wife.”
“I don't trust you.” Frank fists his hands.
I nod. “I don't trust anyone, either.”
His smile is uneasy.
I shrug.
Patty moves around Frank's body.
“I'll do it.”
She's the bravest one in the room.
I take her hand and she leads me back to their bedroom, where old-fashioned pill bottles line the nightstand like poisonous soldiers. Offering false hope.
Take these, so you might live.
<
br /> Barbarian medicine of the twentieth at its finest.
“I'm not leaving you alone with Patty.”
Duh. Like that wasn't perfectly obvious. “Gotcha.”
Patty sits on the edge of her bed, clearly intimidated.
It's not every day your husband punches out a complete stranger then comes home with the drowned rat and said rat proceeds to tell you he's from the future.
Sort of doesn't happen like that ever.
“Lie back and lift your arms above your head.”
Tears slip out of Patty's eyes. Don't know what kind they are, but not loving seeing a chick cry. Just one of those things.
“Hey,” I say, flicking a quick glance at Frank to make sure he doesn't clock me again then returning my attention to Patty, “you're gonna be well.”
“Don't tell her that,” Frank barks.
Lowell takes Frank's hand. “Daddy, don't.”
Frank makes an obvious effort to calm his shit down, and I turn back to Patty again.
She's arranged herself, and I see her small body is already shrinking because of disease. Her skirt, some coarse drapery-type plaid fabric, hits at the knee level, and she’s wearing low heels over some weird stockings. Her blouse is stretched taut across her small chest.
But my eyes are all for the lymph nodes. I reach for them, and Frank grabs my wrist.
“Gotta get the lymphs.”
“Frank,” Patty says softly, eyes shining, chin trembling.
Their eyes meet, and his soften.
Lowell carefully climbs onto the bed. “Is this gonna hurt my mama?”
This I'm sure about. “Absolutely not.” I shake my head.
Picturing what Jezebel taught me, I lay my hand directly on the lymph nodes under the lower part of her armpit.
They're swollen.
My mind opens, piercing the thin covering of flesh. When the tendrils of my energy sink into the marrow, I hear Patty sigh.
Vaguely, I listen to their stilted conversation, then I'm gone.
Healing.
The ghost of Jezebel's memory follows me, showing me the path.
I don't drag my mop this time.
I scan this wrecked body. There's so much cleaning to do. Her cancer inside her is thicker than the parts that are healthy.
The chore feels like it takes hours.
Finally, after the last bit of the oil-slicked greenish-black gunk is cleaned and the interior of this body is free of the disease, I move to stand and feel myself falling backward.
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