Percy pointed up the street. “Turn left up there. Then four blocks and turn right.”
“Left, four blocks, then right.” He nodded. “Thanks.” He looked at Percy curiously. “Can I give you a lift somewhere?”
“No thanks.” He squinched his eyes shut as his head throbbed more fiercely. This one’s a creep.
“You sure? Maybe just up the block?” His mouth smiled, but his eyes were hungry. “Most kids would die for a chance to ride in a car like this.”
Percy paused, looking at the car. Flat black with big wheels and a racing stripe over one side. He shrugged. “Yeah. I guess.”
“Come on. Here.” The creep put the car in park and turned the ignition off. “Why don’t you sit in the driver’s seat? I’ll sit over here.” He stepped out of the car and came around to the passenger side. “Just for a minute.”
Percy looked up and down the block, but it was empty. The old folks who lived on that street were already inside eating dinner. “Okay. But just for a minute.”
He walked around the car, slid into the driver’s seat. The leather was soft and smooth against the back of his knees. Even sitting up straight he could barely see over the dashboard, clinging to the steering wheel in a sudden rush of fear that the car was about to swallow him whole.
“Hey.” The creep reached out and laid his hand over Percy’s. “You okay?”
The magic was subtle, comforting—like sunlight in early spring. Percy blinked, sleepy. “You shouldn’t touch me like that.”
The creep smiled again. It was as dark as his eyes. “It’s okay. Just relax.”
Percy shivered as the magic grew colder, his heart slowing with every passing second. He twitched, tried to move his legs, his arms, his head, but the soft leather seat of the car held him fast.
His throat hurt, a scream building in his chest. A whimper at first, it grew as his fear did, and the hot, dark thing in his gut woke up.
It was not afraid. It was angry. And it was hungry.
Percy screamed. The thing inside him roared and sank deep claws into the creep, tearing the life right out of him.
The weight holding Percy in the car lifted, and he scrambled out into the street, skinning his knee on the blacktop as his feet tangled with each other. The scream faded into hiccups as his heart started to beat again, and the hiccups faded into silence.
He licked his palm and wiped it across his bloodied knee, then stood up and straightened his backpack.
The creep in the car sprawled across the seats, dead. His eyes were bloodshot and glassy, skin pulled tight across his cheekbones.
Percy leaned forward and poked his outstretched hand, but he remained dead. The thing in his gut grumbled as it went back to sleep. “You shouldn’t have touched me,” Percy whispered.
He brushed at his knee again and then turned back up the street. He was late and Mom would be getting worried.
1
Time moves different when you’re dead.
Maybe because of the crazy sun Addie’s dreamed up. It never sets, just dips down to kiss the horizon, then plods back the way it came. Back and forth with barely a pause for breath at each end.
I try to keep track, but it ain’t easy. I’ve got no pencil or paper. Not even a stick to make marks on. Just my head, and it’s never been so good at holding onto thin things like facts or numbers. Nonetheless, I count how many times I’ve seen my shadow growing long across the rippling grass. Count and then divide by two.
Seven.
I think.
Addie don’t plan on letting me go again. Her shoulders get real square every time she sees me looking at the dark line at the edge of her sunny field, and her eyes start to look like Momma’s. Maybe remembering how she learned too late that all my talk about the Touch weren’t imaginary, and Daddy and I weren’t just plain crazy.
But the field and the sun are not of my making. If I want to reach the woods, I’ll have to wait ‘til Addie’s sleeping.
Twice I’ve waited for Baby to grow an oak tree and the two of them to lay down in the deep shade and sleep. Twice I’ve run as far and as fast as I could and come up short. Close enough to smell the sick-sweet moulder of old leaves and feel the damp air under spreading branches. Close enough to see the smooth grey bark of the beeches and hear the insistent peep and chirp of the tree frogs. Running ‘til I can’t stand any longer and never crossing the last stretch of grass between me and the dark edge of the woods.
It’s not ‘til the third time I see Baby pulling an acorn out of her pocket to grow another oak tree that I realize the woods are not of Addie’s making. She is not keeping me here; Baby is keeping me out.
I wait until they are both asleep—Addie curled up like a kitten, knobby knees almost touching her nose; Baby flat on her back, arms thrown over her head.
I take off my sweater and roll Baby up in it real careful-like. She smacks her lips, but settles in my arms, content. I smooth her hair across the top of her head and start walking.
It doesn’t take long to reach the point where I can go no farther. I hold my breath and keep walking, hoping that having Baby with me will be enough to cross the last stretch. My feet move on the ground, step after step, but the woods remain stubbornly out of reach.
I plop down in the grass with a scowl. My arms are tired. Despite her tiny size, Baby is heavy.
The woods breathe out, fluttering the edge of my dress. I blink back tears, desperate for the company of trees and the silver light of the moon. Desperate to find Percy.
In my lap, Baby sighs and stretches. She pushes my sweater aside and stands up. “Tears, Delaney? That’s not like you.” Her voice is strange and small.
“I need to find Percy.”
She squints at me. “That boy is nothing but trouble.”
I shrug. “They all are, one way or another.”
“Huu.” She flexes tiny fingers. “Addie’s bound and determined to keep you here. Said she ain’t letting you back to do nothin’ that will get you burned up.”
My cheeks get hot. “I haven’t hurt anyone recently,” I say, indignant. “I mean, maybe the Trainer boys. But after all the killing they did, I figure they deserve what they got.”
Baby is silent, watching.
“Gil Mains made a bargain and got the better end of the deal, if you ask me.”
But she isn’t.
“Ms. Drowner weren’t my responsibility. All I did there was make sure she went a little easier. And Percy…” I shake my head. “He only stays hurt if I don’t get back to him. So that’s on you and Addie if you keep me here.” I smooth my dress across my knees. “You know what would have happened if I hadn’t done what I did.”
“Same thing as will happen if you go back.” She looks at me stern. Unsettling with her oversize head and big eyes. Maybe she’s seen something I haven’t.
I flex my fingers, instinctive, trying to find the threads. Trying to get a feel for the future she sees. “You know there aren’t many who can stop Percy once he remembers he’s strong.”
“I ain’t worried about who will stop him.” She leans up on tiptoe. “Who’s going to stop you?”
“Me?” I blink and sputter. I’ve seen that too, a few times. Little threads on the edge of things that lead to a place where I go wild and hurt folks deliberate-like. “I haven’t hurt much of anyone recently, and I don’t intend to start.”
Baby steps up in my lap and presses one tiny hand to each of my cheeks. Stares deep into my eyes ‘til my head starts to ache with the strain. “Ah.” She hops back into the grass. “You always forget, Delaney. Your own future is the hardest to see.”
“You cannot keep me here. I will find a way out.” The ground beneath us trembles, the grass blurring with the strength of my words.
She frowns. “I don’t aim to keep you. But first there is something you must see.”
I turn and look back across the field—dusky where we sit, but bright under the distant track of the sun. Aside from the oak tree there is nothi
ng but grass from one horizon to the other. “Here?”
“In the woods.” She holds up her hands. “Up.”
I stand up and reach down for her, reluctant. “My arms are tired.”
“Then put me on your shoulders. But my legs are too short for this journey.”
“Just how far are we going?”
“Far enough.” She settles herself on my shoulders, little arms wrapped around my head. “Mind the branches.”
I take a breath and a step forward. This time the ground doesn’t go all squirrely. Another couple of strides and dry leaves crackle under my shoes. “What about Addie?” I glance back over my shoulder toward the solitary oak tree.
“If you tell her you are leaving, she will try and fight you.”
“You will tell her I said goodbye?”
“Yes.”
It will have to be enough. I cannot stay.
I turn my back on the field. “Which way?”
Baby’s hands tighten against my forehead. The leaf mold creeps back, slow, to reveal the dark earth underneath. “Follow the path.”
Something in her voice makes the hair on my arms stand up. But whatever she wants to show me can’t be worse than what I’ve already faced. I grasp her feet in either hand and head down the path beneath the gentle light of the moon.
2
The psychiatrist works out of an unmarked office on the second floor of an old house turned into boutiques. Down the hall is a wedding photographer, and the main floor is occupied by a graphic design firm. Supposedly it's all about confidentiality and protecting the FBI from potential embarrassment, but Percy feels distinctly awkward sitting on the floral print couch, the plastic cup with his mandatory urine sample resting on one knee.
The door opens and the receptionist smiles at him. She's a younger woman with the charm and inflection of a kindergarten teacher, dipped in flour and Southern fried. “You can come on back, honey.”
He follows her down the narrow hallway, deposits his cup of urine on the tray next to the office door, and steps inside.
It's warm today, and he takes off his jacket, tosses it over the back of the chair before he sits down. It took a couple of weeks before he figured out that Ms. Carver was deliberately tweaking the temperature in the room. Now he comes prepared with a jacket and short sleeves underneath every time. He’s irritable enough over the continuing sessions, and there’s a sense of satisfaction in thwarting Ms. Carver’s attempts to manipulate the environment.
She picks up her notepad from the glass table beside her chair. Clicks her pen and looks at him. Calculating. Searching for signs of instability. Makes a note on the lined yellow paper. “Shall we begin?”
He settles himself more securely in the chair. “Why not?”
“You're still taking your meds?”
A sigh. “Yes.”
“Both the aripiprazole and the… booster?”
The muscle in his jaw trembles, but he nods. “Yes.” The so-called booster is Magiprex. He took it for three days before he got so wooly-headed he woke up not remembering his name.
She pauses, makes a point to look him in the eye. “We do check those samples you give us.”
“That's why I'm still taking them.” In reality, Percy's only been taking the anti-psychotic to dull the teeth of the depression following him around like a lost dog. He still collects the refills for both. On the days he has an appointment with Ms. Carver, he crushes one of the Magiprex tablets and dumps the powder into his pants pocket. Then dabs his finger in the drug residue and mixes it into the pee cup. He'd not been certain at first that it would work, but they haven't ordered him into an institution or started monitoring his dosing, so it must work well enough.
She presses her lips together, trying to stare him down, but he doesn't look away. Finally, she makes another note, clicks her pen a few times. “How are you sleeping?”
“Like a baby.” Another lie. But insomnia would be enough of a flag to put him under more intense supervision.
“No dreams?”
“Maybe. If I am, I don't remember.”
Carver stares at him long and intent. Finally makes another note on the notepad. “Let's talk about Delaney Green.”
“Okay.” He waits.
“The other members of your team reported you seemed to have developed a close emotional bond with this young woman.”
Percy nods. “Yes.”
“Yes?” She waits for a qualification. Steady. Sharp as a razor.
He drums his fingers on the arms of his chair, mimicking agitation. “Yes, I had a close relationship with Delaney.”
“Relationship.” She leans forward. “You considered her to be a friend?”
“Friend. Partner. Lover.” He shrugs. “We were close.”
Carver blinks, scribbles a note, and clears her throat. “You knew her for barely more than a day.”
“She had known me for much longer.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean she had known me for years, although I knew her only a short time. I loved her.”
“That is a strong word, Mr. Cox.”
“And strong feelings, too.”
“You did not think perhaps she was using her influence on you? To create a sense of bonding that was not grounded in reality?”
“I considered it.” He rubs his fingers through his hair. It's not the first time he's thought about it. Every night since he met Delaney with her green-brown eyes and mud-colored hair spilling down over her shoulders. Every hour since he first felt the electricity and ice in her skin.
“There was a synchronicity to our experience,” he says after a pause. “Even if we had met under less... intense circumstances, we would have been friends. I understood her.”
Ms. Carver is scribbling furiously. “How exactly does one understand a Power?”
Percy shrugs. “Perhaps understand is an overstatement. But I understood her more than others had. I stood in her shoes when I was younger. The fear and loneliness… there was a connection there. Something other than magic or her influence on the future.”
“So you felt sorry for her because of everything that happened to her.”
“No.”
“You didn't sympathize with the loss of her family? Or the way she had been shut away from society?” There's a triumphant quirk to her lips. “This young woman who had lost everyone she loved, been abused, and nearly murdered as a child, and you felt no sympathy for her.”
“I did not say I felt no sympathy. But Delaney... it's hard to explain if you have not met her. But she is not damaged by the terrible things in her life.” He pauses. “She is transformed.”
Ms. Carver pauses. “Don't you mean she was transformed?”
He leans back in his chair. “She was transformed, yes. But...” This is a game, played fiercely and in an attempt to keep her away from the questions that might bring him to actual harm.
“You think her presence still lingers?”
Percy raises an eyebrow. “You think it doesn't? A woman who pulled and twisted the future like a spider in a web. Who was committed enough to her purpose to embrace death by fire. A Power for certain. And you think that her skin and bones turning to dust is the end of her?”
Carver licks her lips, her face the same grey-white as a t-shirt that's been washed too many times. “Have you seen her, Mr. Cox? Since that night?”
“No.” He shakes his head with certainty. He's dreamed of her, but those are just memories. Like Del's house, with her desperate mother filling every space. He sees her in his dreams, but he can't hold her or feel her fingers in his hair or change what happens. No matter how many tears he cries.
“No. I've not seen her since that night she burned. But when I do, it'll come as no surprise.”
She isn't expecting that. Her usual mask is gone. Too frightened to maintain an emotional distance. Because she's read all the reports and the thought that Delaney, a Power who could manipulate the future, might come back leaves her cold.
“Are you certain she wasn’t taking advantage of her pre-cognizance? Maybe that supposed convergence of events was just coincidence.” She licks her lips. “Isn't it possible her Power was embellished with imagination and spite? Small town folk who couldn't comprehend what had happened to a child that young and invented an elaborate story to justify the horror of it?”
Percy knows better. He remembers Del's woods, as real as the actual thing. He remembers that it took the full fear and anger of another Power and an old man with a shotgun to put an end to her. She don't just burn. But he nods. “Maybe.”
She fidgets in her chair and writes another page of notes. The pen scratches loudly on the pad, the tension in her body driving the tip deep into the paper. Finally, she glances up. “I think we're done for today.”
He stretches to diffuse the smile threatening to break loose, reaches for his jacket on the back of the chair. “It doesn't feel like it's been an hour.”
“There is not much point in continuing further today.” The drawer in the table beside her chair squeaks when she opens it, but she is the one who flinches. “Here's this week’s supply of medication. Continue to take them until our session next week.”
He stuffs the pill bottles into his jacket pocket. “How much longer do you think these will be necessary?”
“Until I say they are not.” Ms. Carver glares at him, lips pale under the worn layer of lipstick.
For the first time, he realizes he is not here because they are afraid he might be insane— anxious, depressed, or suicidal. It's not just departmental procedures to mediate PTSD that have put him here week after week. The real fear is that somehow Delaney will have rubbed off on him. Maybe even woken a Power in him.
He considers telling her that he is still only mortal. He gets headaches in the presence of other magic, and his guts hurt when he crosses paths with a murderer, but his Sensitivity is not a Power. It touches no one but himself.
He wishes for a moment that he was changed, that he had the ability to reach into that shadowed world Delaney had traversed so easily and draw her to him.
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