Chariots of Wrath

by R. L. King

  I pause as the little ding of an incoming text goes off somewhere behind the counter. I hold up a finger and go hunting around, eventually finding my phone buried beneath some papers where Rory must have batted it.

  As I suspect, the text is from Twyla. It says:

  Can we change dinner plan. Found out something I need 2 tell U in private. Meet me @ the Blue Bird shopping ctr on San Pedro, #5, @ 7pm. Dinner after? Twyla

  Nick must notice me staring at my phone like I’ve never seen it before. “Something wrong?”

  I read the text again. “I’m…not sure.”

  “What is it? Who’s it from?”

  “Twyla. But…I’m not sure it is. Hang on a sec.” I hit Reply and send What’s going on? Call me.

  I wait a couple of minutes, continuing to focus on the screen as I wait for either a ring or a sign that she’s replying to the text. I get neither.

  “Hey, you okay?”

  “Just a second.” It’s odd that she’s not replying—her text just arrived, so unless there’s some problem with the connection, she must have sent it recently. I tap the icon to call her.

  It rings four times and goes to voicemail: “Hey, it’s Twyla. Here’s a beep just for you. You know what to do with it.”

  I frown. “Twy, it’s me. You just sent me a text about changing plans, and now you’re not replying. What’s going on? Call me back.”

  Rory pounces on the phone the instant I set it down.

  “Hey, Bron?” Nick sounds concerned. “Problem?”

  “I…don’t know.” I wave toward the phone. “She sent me a strange text.”

  He reaches for it, and when I don’t do anything to stop him, picks it up and scans it. “What’s strange about that? Sounds like she wants to meet you somewhere before dinner.”

  “Yeah, but…”

  “But what?”

  I sigh again. “Maybe I’m overthinking it, but that doesn’t sound like Twyla. When we were growing up, she always did really well in school. She was one of those annoying teacher’s-pet types who always got As in everything.”

  “So?”

  “So, I don’t have a lot to go on for comparison, but back when we were still hanging out together, she never used those text-speak abbreviations like ‘U’ and ‘2’, or forgot her question marks. And she never signed her texts either. Why bother? Her name’s right there.”

  “You think somebody stole her phone?”

  “I don’t know what I think. It’s probably nothing. And I should get going, I guess.” I take the phone back and stuff it in my pocket, then grab my helmet from under the counter. “See you tomorrow for book-sorting?”

  When he doesn’t move or reply, I shoot him a questioning look. “What?”

  He looks like he’s not sure whether he should say what’s on his mind. Finally he shrugs. “Listen—don’t jump down my throat or anything, but—you want me to come with you?”

  “Come with me? You mean to dinner?”

  “Not to dinner. Just to wherever this is, so you can make sure Twyla’s really there.”

  I glare at him. “Come on, Nick, don’t start that. I don’t need any of that ‘big strong man to protect me’ bullshit.”

  “Hell no, of course you don’t. I know what you can do. But…” he hesitates again. “…I’m not sure you really want to do it, do you? I saw what happened last time you did.” He offers a lopsided smile and spreads his arms. “Besides, I’m not exactly a ‘big strong man.’ But I do have something that might help if there’s any weird…uh…you-know-what stuff going down.”

  I’m about to protest again, but he does have a point. The way I nearly lost it last time I had to use magic, I won’t be much good if whatever’s going on with Twyla is related to magic. And if I don’t use magic and somebody else does, Nick’s glitch power might be the difference between handling things and…well…not handling them.

  Still…

  “This is stupid,” I protest. “I’m blowing this out of proportion. I haven’t talked to Twyla—including texting—for five years. Maybe she’s changed her style.”

  “Do you believe that?”

  I let out another frustrated sigh. “No. I don’t.”

  “Well, then, it makes sense to take some precautions, right? Most likely we catch up a little on the way over, you find out Twyla’s fine, and you guys stop off at the shop after dinner so you can pick up your bike. But if not…”

  Rory raises her head and looks at me as if to say, “Listen to him, Mom. He’s making sense.”

  I make a show of straightening the stuff on the counter. “Fine,” I finally say. “I’m not going to be an idiot just to save my pride. Let’s go, though—I don’t want to be late.”

  Nick picks up his bag, gives Rory a final skritch behind the ears, and makes an ‘after-you’ gesture.

  It’s a good thing we leave when we do, because traffic on the way over is worse than usual. We spend most of the next hour and a half at a slow crawl, and I begin to regret that I didn’t take the bike. People can say what they want about motorcycles, calling them “donorcycles” or going on about how stupid I am for riding one, but when you’re dealing with Los Angeles freeways and actually want to get anywhere in a timely manner, lane-splitting is the way to go. It almost feels like cheating, being able to scoot between lanes of stopped traffic, but it’s not—in California it’s perfectly legal. Unfortunately, many drivers don’t know that, so you have to watch out for the road-rager types who get pissed that you’re moving and they’re not, but it’s a small price to pay.

  I can tell by looking at Nick that he wants to ask me about what’s going on with me and Twyla, but to his credit he doesn’t. In exchange, I don’t ask him about what’s going on with him and Happenstance. We both make a few attempts at small talk, all of which fall flat, and eventually finish the rest of the drive in silence. It’s another thing I have to admit I like about him: he knows when to keep his mouth shut. I hate it when people insist on filling every moment of silence with babble.

  By the time he pulls off the freeway near San Pedro, it’s five after seven. “We’re late,” I say. I’m getting nervous now. I check my phone again to see if Twyla’s sent me any more texts or left any voicemails, but she hasn’t. I’ve already tried to call and text her myself, twice more each, but no reply. My tension has been steadily ramping up throughout the trip, and now I feel like a slingshot that somebody’s pulled back too far and too long. Something’s got to happen soon or I’m going to snap.

  “You know, her phone probably died, and that’s why she hasn’t replied,” Nick says, glancing over as I try another text.

  “Yeah. Probably.” But I don’t believe it any more than he does.

  “I have to say this doesn’t look good, though.” He pulls into the parking lot of what looks like a mostly-abandoned strip mall, the kind you find on every other street around here. At the far end, the lights are on at a liquor store, but everything else is dark—either closed or vacant. “You sure this is the right address?”

  I check the text again, then check the street sign. “Yeah, this is it.”

  He points at the lot, where a few vehicles are parked. “Do you see her car?”

  “I don’t know—she was going to get a rental.”

  “Do you still want to do this?”

  I consider. Part of me—the part with sense—thinks the best choice is to call the police. But Twyla’s always been a little odd by mundane standards, so maybe she did pick this as a private location for a chat. It’s not too far from the restaurant where we were going to meet. And what if she’s there and something’s happened to her?

  “Yeah,” I say at last. “Let’s be careful, though.”

  “Good choice.”

  He parks under a light next to another car, and we get out. There’s nothing menacing about the place: the area isn’t deserted, other cars drive by on the street in a steady stream, and I even see people pulling in to park at the liquor store at the other end. Several
of the stores closer to us have FOR LEASE signs in the windows, and the walls don’t have more graffiti than usual.

  I check the store numbers on the ones closest to us. “The text says it’s number five. I don’t see that, do you?”

  “Nope.” We walk along the sidewalk in front of the shops, but there’s no number five. I point at another walkway leading toward the back of the mall. “It’s probably back there. She did say private.”

  He pauses. “And there’s no way you can do anything to make this a little easier? Like that trick where you make people not notice us?”

  “No,” I snap, and my heartbeat quickens again. “I don’t do that stuff, remember? Please stop asking me to.”

  “Okay, okay. Forget I said anything.”

  “You don’t have to come with me if you don’t want to.”

  “Yeah, I’m gonna go sit in the car while you walk into what might be a dangerous situation.” Before I can protest, he adds, “Would you, if things were reversed?”

  And of course I wouldn’t. I sigh again. I’ve been doing that a lot lately. “Let’s just do this. Keep a lookout.”

  “Like I haven’t been doing that since we got here.”

  Nothing jumps us as we head down the side passage toward the back of the mall. There’s a long, narrow open courtyard with benches and a non-functional fountain, then more stores facing it on the other side. Another passage mirrors the one we came down, and there are two others at each end. The place even has a few lights. I feel a little stupid for getting so nervous—it’s seven p.m., not three in the morning, and this isn’t exactly the slums of east L.A.

  “There’s number five,” Nick says, pointing.

  Unlike most of the others, number five doesn’t look abandoned. The name Stitch Witchery Yarn and Sewing is painted on the window, along with cartoons of a witch riding a broom made of a knitting needle and a black cat in a pointy black hat playing with a ball of yarn. No light comes from inside, but the sign on the door says the hours are ten to five.

  I try the door—it’s locked. “This doesn’t make sense. Why would she ask to meet me in a closed shop?” I step back and scan the courtyard. “Hey, Twyla? If you’re here, come on out and quit screwing around!”

  No reply. As Nick looks around, I try calling her again, closing my eyes in the hope of hearing a ringtone nearby.

  Nothing.

  “I don’t think she’s here,” Nick says.

  “I don’t either.” What is going on? Is this all some elaborate way of getting back at me for what happened to her mother? I don’t remember her ever being that vindictive, but people can change in five years. I sure as hell have.

  I jam my phone back in my pocket. “Come on—this is ridiculous. Let’s go to the restaurant where I was supposed to meet her. Maybe if she doesn’t find me here, she’ll go there.” I doubt it, but my only other choice at this point is to give the whole thing up and head home. I’m not ready to do that yet.

  “Fine with me.” Nick looks relieved to be getting out of here.

  It happens as we turn back toward where we came in.

  First the growls, coming from our right and our left. Then, an instant later before we can react, two figures dart out of the shadows and run toward us. As one of them passes under the light, I get a quick impression of wild eyes, a wide-open mouth, and long, black hair.

  Twyla?

  Chapter Seven

  “Run!”

  I grab Nick’s arm and take off forward, toward the passage where we came in.

  “Holy shit!” he yells, catching on only a second after I do.

  They’re fast, though—faster than we are, and apparently not completely mindless. As soon as they figure out where we’re going, they both put on bursts of speed and head us off.

  “Behind us!” Nick yells, spinning around. And then, “Shit!”

  I don’t have to ask why—I can hear the growl coming from back there. Three of them at least, now, and they’re closing in on us.

  “That’s Twyla!” I’m sure of it—even though her face is twisted in a grimace of rage and pain, I still recognize her black hair and tall, slim form.

  We both back up, edging back toward the middle of the courtyard where the fountain is. I look madly around for anything we can use as weapons, but there’s nothing. The benches are stone and too heavy to lift even if they aren’t bolted down, and there aren’t even any trash cans to dig through.

  There’s not a lot of time to think, either—Twyla and her two friends are coming in fast. Their hands are raised, and as they pass in and out of the light, I can see long claws poking out of them. Not fingernails, but actual claws. All three of them are moaning and growling, their eyes burning with unhinged hatred.

  “What do we do?” Nick yells. He’s shifting around, trying to keep all three in sight at the same time. “Maybe this is a good time for you to get over your problem with magic?”

  He’s right, but even the word makes my heart pound faster. Come on, Bron. You did it before. You can do it again!

  As they keep coming, I struggle to form the pattern in my mind. When I did it a month ago, to save Nick from being squashed at the factory, I didn’t think. My reflexes took over and I fell back to the lessons Mara had drilled into my head. But that was only to nudge something out of the way. I’d never learned any offensive magic. We hadn’t gotten that far before…what happened.

  The pattern spins, slamming around my brain, refusing to coalesce into the ordered form I’d need to cast a spell. The harder I try to make it fit, the harder it gets. “I—can’t!” I yell, bright panic lacing my voice. “Nick, I can’t do it!”

  They’re on us now, their alien growls loud and terrifying. They don’t even sound human anymore, but more like rabid animals. One of them lashes out at me, slashing with its clawed fingers, and only my leather jacket saves me from getting my gut unzipped. I don’t scream, but it’s only because I’m still fighting desperately to make the pattern line up enough to let me do something—anything—to drive them off before they kill us.

  Twyla rises into my field of view, both hands stretched out, her mouth wide open, her eyes bulging. Has she got fangs? It’s hard to tell in the dark. Everything’s happening so fast. I—

  Then, suddenly, as quickly as they had attacked us, they stop.

  One of them, a young guy who’d been about to lunge at Nick, loses his balance mid-lunge and pitches forward with a cry of surprise and pain. He catches himself against the fountain as Nick leaps out of the way.

  Twyla drops to her knees, staring down at her hands in horror.

  The third creature, a woman in a business suit and one high-heeled pump, backs off slowly, moaning—but this time in misery, not in zombie bloodlust.

  What the hell is going on?

  “B-Bron?”

  I recognize Twyla’s voice, and she sounds like Twyla again—or at least a Twyla who’s just been through a shattering event. “Twy?”

  I don’t approach her, though—I’m not ready for that yet. Instead, I back off to the side, away from the fountain.

  None of them join me. All three of them seem like they have no idea where they are or what they’re doing. The man who fell on the fountain pulls himself to his feet, looking around as if seeing the place for the first time. The other woman continues backing away, staring at us with wide eyes. An instant later, she whirls and lurches off into the night.

  “Get away from us,” Nick growls. He grabs my arm and pulls me back farther, away from Twyla and the man. “Just—stay away.”

  “Bron…?” Twyla says again. She holds up her hands as if expecting to see long, pointed claws, but nothing remains of them. She’s back to her usual perfect, red-painted manicure as if they’d never been there.

  I’m looking between her and the guy, as confused as they obviously are, when the answer suddenly hits me.

  I stare at Nick in wonder, pulling free of his grip. “Nick…I think they’re okay.”

  “What?” He stil
l sounds half-panicked himself. “Didn’t you see them? They were gonna rip our guts out.”

  “Oh, my God…” the guy moans. He’s young, maybe early twenties, wearing jeans and a white tank top. Tattoos cover both his arms and what I can see of his chest. He looks at me, at Nick, and at Twyla. “Oh, fuck…”

  “What…am I doing here?” Twyla demands. “Where is this? Bron, what’s going on?” Her voice shakes hard. She takes a step toward us.

  “Stay away!” Nick yells, louder this time. “Just—stay where you are.”

  “Nick…” I say again, and my voice is shaking almost as much as Twyla’s. “It’s okay. They’re okay now.”

  “How do you know that?” he demands, jerking a quick glance toward me before turning his attention back to Twyla and the other guy. “Did you do—you know what?”

  “No. I think you did.”

  His eyes narrow, then widen when he realizes what I mean. “Wait, you’re saying I—”

  “I think so, yeah.”

  He pales and steps back. “Oh, shit…”

  “What is going on?” Twyla demands again. “Bron, what are you doing here? What am I doing here?”

  The young guy sags back onto a bench. He’s pale under a deep tan, and sweat runs down his face.

  Cautiously, I approach him. “Uh…are you okay?”

  His gaze snaps up. “I don’t know. I got no fuckin’ idea.” He looks at his hands in the same way Twyla had done. “Last I remember, I was in a bar over in Chinatown. Where am I now?”

  “Nowhere near that,” Nick says. “We’re near Downtown.”

  “Oh, fuck…”

  “Are you okay?” I ask him again. “Are you hurt?”

  “No…not hurt. Dunno about okay, though.” He scans us, scared. “I didn’t hurt you guys, did I? I remember running after you, tryin’ to attack you…oh, fuck, was it all some kind of freaky dream? I had claws. And fangs. You know, like those guys on the news?”

  Before I can answer, Nick steps forward. “Yeah, it was a dream, man. Got to be. Or else maybe somebody spiked your drink. Check it out—no claws.”