by Ryan Dalton
“So, why Fred’s house? Not that I mind,” he added quickly with a glance at Fred. “But you said it was the perfect spot.”
“Yeah. Well . . .” Valentine shifted, eyeing Fred with embarrassment.
Fred grinned. “Bet I know why. Wanna hear?”
She relaxed and smiled with gratitude.
“Carmichael don’t think a lot of me. Val’s the favorite, but he thinks I’m grade-A useless. So, no way could I bring anything to the group, right? It’s the last place he’d look.” He raised eyebrows at Valentine. “That about right?”
“Yeah. Sorry, Fred, I’m just trying to think like him.”
He waved away her apology. “Don’t sweat it, girl. It’s a good idea.”
Malcolm’s eyes drifted between his companions. On the surface, everyone had dealt stoically with Lucius’s true identity. They had a job to do, and they would put their lives on the line without hesitation.
However, as quiet fell and they settled into their own thoughts, subtle emotions played across their faces. The shock of betrayal. The weight of knowing that time had run out. The possibility that this night would be their last.
He couldn’t help feeling responsible. Logically, any pain or loss was worth saving thirty thousand people. Still, when it came down to it, they were all here because he’d been unable to ignore an abandoned house across the street.
Whatever happened tonight would be unpleasant. In the years to come, would they be able to leave all this behind? Could they have normal lives?
Walter rounded into view and caught his eye. “We could use you now.”
Malcolm nodded and stood. Valentine startled to attention and moved to join him. “No, it’s okay.” He gave her a gentle downward push. “Rest. You can check it out later.”
With a weary and grateful smile, she snuggled back against the cushions.
“I’ll give them a little more time,” Oma Grace said. “Then we’ll fix breakfast.”
Oh, that’s right. Food. Malcolm couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten. Ignoring the hollow sensation in his stomach, he slipped the spectacles from Valentine’s grasp and followed Walter.
In the billiard room, two of the four pool tables hid under a sea of diagrams and scribbled notes. Malcolm noticed hand-drawn renderings of Lucius’s house and various gadgets, and page after page of battle plans. Curtains were drawn across the French doors leading out to a side patio, and only a small overhead lamp illuminated the tables. It reminded Malcolm of a darkened war room in some movie.
At the far table, Clive pored over Lucius’s journal and jotted notes on a drawing of the house. “How are they?”
“Shell shocked,” Walter replied. He moved to stand over Clive.
“Figured as much. Go on, Mal, have a look around. Just finishin’ some thoughts, then we can talk.”
Malcolm wandered to the nearer table. The Spike sat on one corner, a shapeless jumble of metal. When placed in Lucius’s machine, though, it would rearrange itself into the proper form. The faded paper bearing Albert’s original design rested nearby, next to renderings of this new device.
“Walter, I’ve been thinking.” Malcolm bent to examine the drawings. “The war you fought in, all those medals. It wasn’t Vietnam, was it?”
From the corner of his eye, both men stiffened.
“No,” Walter said. “I fought in World War II.”
“And if people knew, they might wonder why you look so young. Might start asking questions. Right?”
“Something like that.”
Even to his untrained eye, the two Spikes looked different. Yet, he was still unsure what exactly made them different. Can’t afford to have questions at this stage. I need to understand.
With a flick of his wrist, he opened the spectacles and pushed them on as best he could. After two blinks, a three-dimensional outline of the Spike split into pieces and lines of technical data scrolled across his vision.
“Look, Malcolm,” Walter said. “I’m sorry for lying to you.”
He waved it away. “You didn’t really know me. I’d do the same in your—” A piece of data caught his eye, and he leaned closer. “Wait a minute. What is this?”
He met guarded expressions from the two older men.
“You said this Spike would send them somewhere specific, not just cut their jump short.” His eyes narrowed at them. “I kept asking, but you never said where or when.”
“Maybe you should stop pokin’ at that, son,” Clive said. The lines around his eyes tightened.
“No.” Malcolm’s body tensed. “I know what I just saw, and I want to hear it from your own mouths. Where are you sending Lucius and Ulrich?”
The men exchanged a long, hard look. It seemed like an entire conversation happened in those few seconds. Then Clive shook his head and stared down at his notes with resignation. Walter turned that steel-gray stare on Malcolm.
“We’re sending them straight to the gates of Hell.”
Malcolm felt as if he’d been punched. The original Spike had been designed to vent the time machine’s energy and interrupt Lucius’s jump. This new Spike appeared to have the same purpose. Except instead of venting the energy, it would force the machine to keep drawing more and more power until it exploded. When that happened, nothing near the house would survive.
This Spike would turn the time machine into a time bomb. The adults weren’t just planning to defeat Lucius and Ulrich.
They were planning to kill them.
“Okay, everyone.” Oma Grace stood. “The others are hard at work, and now it’s our turn.”
Valentine forced her leaden eyelids open. With a yawn and a stretch, she dragged herself from the sofa.
“Come on, sleepyheads! We’re on breakfast detail.” Oma Grace grabbed Winter’s arm and pulled her up with twinkling eyes.
Valentine marveled at her grandmother. How is she doing this while we’re dragging? Her smile seemed brighter and more eager. She moved with purpose and strength, as if she were waking up from a long sleep. Like all this time she’d been waiting for the chance to set things right. She almost looks young again.
Winter rubbed her eyes. “What’re we making?”
“We took what we could from Clive’s kitchen.” Oma Grace led them toward the staircase. “The bags are in the car.”
Fred stumbled to the steps behind them. “You know I got a huge kitchen, right?”
“Yes, my boy. We’ll combine our supplies and make a meal to remember. One should never battle evil on an empty stomach.”
Valentine’s stomach rumbled. When’s the last time I ate? She hadn’t the faintest idea, and her mouth watered at the prospect of a hot meal.
“What on earth are you thinking?”
Walter’s eyes narrowed. “Careful, Mal.”
“Careful about what? Making you angry? This is our fight, too, and you’re keeping this a secret!”
“Ain’t like we can wait around for ‘nother try, son,” Clive defended. “We can’t risk that they’ll get by us again.”
“Well, if you’re so eager to kill,” Malcolm asked Walter, “why not just shoot him when you found us behind the house?”
“I wasn’t about to blow a man’s head off in front of a teenage boy,” Walter snapped. “And there would have been a body. People would have asked questions. Then we’d still have Ulrich to worry about. So I waited. I stuck to the plan so we could accomplish everything in one move. No witnesses, no questions, no enemies.”
“And you decided to just keep lying to us. Why?”
“‘Cause o’ this,” Clive indicated Malcolm’s whole body. “‘Cause we knew how you’d feel. And ‘cause it ain’t your burden. We gotta finish what we started.”
“Yeah,” Malcolm said bitterly. “And you had no problem letting us help you do it.” His accusing glare switched to Walter. “I t
rusted you!”
“You’re too young to understand.”
“To understand what?”
“To understand that war is a terrible choice, but sometimes it’s the only one. After all these years, everything I’ve seen, I’m ready to accept the burden if it saves lives.” Walter’s fists clenched. “And I refuse to let the past repeat itself.”
Malcolm crossed his arms. “And what would Albert say about this? Do you think he would approve?”
Walter’s eyes burned like hot coals. In a blink he crossed the room and stood inches from Malcolm’s face. His arms flexed as if he struggled to keep them at his sides.
Malcolm’s blood raced, pulse pounding in his ears. He stood his ground, barely resisting the urge to jump back. He could probably kill me with a finger.
Stifling tension hung thick in the space between them. The silence stretched on as Malcolm struggled to keep his fear controlled, his breathing slow and even. Be strong. Don’t show him you’re afraid.
Then Walter’s face fell. He stared at the floor, anger crumbling away like a shell he could no longer hold together. His shoulders slumped and his mouth turned down in a grimace.
“Albert was the best man I ever knew. Better than I’ll ever be. We all lost something when we lost him.” His voice came out thick as he battled to hold back tears. “But I couldn’t save him. He was my best friend, and I miss him . . . every day.” He regarded Malcolm with eyes full of sorrow. “And you remind me of him.”
Peering up at Walter, Malcolm realized he was seeing a side that few people ever witnessed. The vulnerable, human side that he kept hidden away. It turned out that underneath all the grit and steel, Walter Crane was just a man who missed his friend.
Turning his back to Malcolm, Walter slumped against the table and stared down at the Spike. “If he were here, he’d have found another way. When we were planning, he’d always remind us, ‘We are constant as the northern star.’ That no matter what happened, we should never lose who we are.” He scraped a forearm across his eyes. “But I can’t find another way.”
Malcolm’s heart battled with itself. There should be a better way. But was there, or had they run out of options? He rubbed his eyes, feeling more lost than ever.
“I . . . I’ve got to think this over.” He moved toward the open doorway.
“Perhaps I can help you decide,” a new voice said.
Malcolm’s head whipped toward the far side of the room, where a dark blur detached from the shadows and charged toward him. Eyes wide, he raised his arms to defend himself. Then he was hurtling backward.
They found—!
Wood paneling splintered as he crunched against the wall. Air crushed from his lungs and light exploded behind his eyes. He dropped hard to the floor.
Footsteps approached him.
Chapter 25
“Ain’t cooked a day in my life,” Fred protested.
“Well, young man, this is the perfect day to start.” Oma Grace gave him a lighthearted shove. “Scoot.”
Valentine stood next to her grandmother as Fred approached the front door with his key. As always, Winter stayed by his side.
“Oh yeah, perfect day,” Winter said. “Right when we’re about to—”
The front door caved in, exploding into wooden shards. Valentine screeched and shielded her face from flying debris.
“What in the—?” Fred cut short with a choking sound.
Valentine brought her arms down and fear knifed into her chest. Ulrich stood in the doorway, clutching her friends by their throats, his bracers gleaming in the morning light. Dripping with disdain, he regarded them as if they were fleas.
“Idiots,” he spat. “Not vorth my time.”
With a casual flick, he flung them through the doorway. They skipped across the gravel driveway and spun out of sight.
“You, though,” he said to Valentine and Oma Grace. “I am here for.”
How did he find us?! Valentine ran a thumb across her accelerator ring as Ulrich drew closer, praying that it would help her survive the next few moments. Gathering her courage, she rushed forward.
Oma Grace jumped in front of her.
“Oma, no!”
Ulrich pointed at her. “Zat vas you, years ago. Yes?” He flashed a predatory grin. “I remember.”
“Run, girl. Warn your brother,” Oma Grace said over her shoulder. Her eyes lit with anticipation. “I’ve been waiting for this.”
Pushing Valentine toward the stairs, she stalked forward and brought up her fists. Ulrich moved to meet her, while Valentine stood rooted to the floor. Should I help? Should I go? Everything was happening too fast! What do I do? Then another thought flooded her with horror. She doesn’t have her ring!
Oma Grace and Ulrich collided, raining blows on each other. Valentine cringed at the hollow thump of fists on flesh and bone. She reached out instinctively, desperate to do something.
Oma Grace bloodied Ulrich’s nose and knocked the wind from him with a rabbit punch to the solar plexus. She withstood two blows to the jaw and swung forward with abandon, driven by decades of grief and anger. Ulrich countered with a haymaker, knocking her to the side. By the time she recovered, he was on her. One blow to the eye, one to the stomach, a vicious overhead chop to the collarbone, and Oma Grace crumpled to the tiles in a heap.
Valentine cried out and lurched toward her. Ulrich blocked her path, clutching his nose and drilling a murderous glare at her. Crashes echoed from the direction of the billiard room, and she remembered Malcolm and the others with alarm.
“Oh, yes. He is here, too. None of you vill last ze day.”
“So, you’ll just kill us now? Why didn’t your boss start with me in that alley?”
“You vere all crucial to his plan. Now you are together and ve can move forward.” He grinned again. “And he orders me, no kill. Only cripple.”
We’re crucial to his plan? What does that mean? Valentine pushed the questions away and steeled herself. “So I’m next, right?”
She brought her fists up, heart threatening to pound through her ribs. Okay. This had to happen sooner or later. Make it count, Val.
He advanced on her, then a blur of motion exploded from behind him.
Ulrich’s feet flew out from under him, and his shoulders yanked backward. He smacked onto the tile with a sickening plop. Wrapping her legs around Ulrich’s knees, Winter yanked his foot until the ankle twisted at an unnatural angle. He gasped and cringed.
From behind Ulrich’s back, Fred put a scissor hold around his arms, pinning them helplessly to his sides. His feet crossed over Ulrich’s chest and dug into his rib cage. Fred swung wildly with both fists, bringing them down on Ulrich’s face and punctuating each strike with a shout.
“Don’t—you—touch—my—FRIENDS!” Chunks of his casts broke away under the assault. He didn’t notice. Breathing hard, he looked up at Valentine with frenzied eyes.
She stepped back involuntarily, stunned by their ferocity. Her mind could barely process the sight of Winter and Fred intertwined with their enemy like a pretzel.
“Focus, Val,” Winter commanded. “We heard what he said. Go help Mal.”
Valentine hesitated.
“Go, girl!” Fred insisted. “We got this.”
With effort, she seized control of herself again. The terror began to fade, and she felt purpose replace her confusion. They’re right. I’m the only one who’s fought Lucius. They’ll need me.
Nodding gratitude to her friends, she charged down the stairs.
Malcolm came to his knees, rattling his head as a mass of darkness approached. Steps away, the darkness receded and Lucius stared down at him with an eager glow.
“Hello, Malcolm.”
The light switched off, plunging the room into darkness, and something whistled through the air above Malcolm’s head. Wood splintered and Luc
ius grunted in surprise.
“Now it’s even,” Walter declared.
By the faint light spilling in from the hallway, Malcolm barely made out three figures locked in battle. A storm of fists and feet struck out with fury.
“Enough!” Lucius shouted. His dim outline exploded into motion.
Something cracked and Clive cried out, followed by a crash. Walter’s body jerked and spasmed under a flurry of blows, then lifted high into the air. He came down with an ear-splitting boom.
The fight had lasted a matter of seconds.
Light flooded the room. Clive sprawled on the carpet, clutching his left arm. The nearest pool table had buckled in the middle and folded in on itself. Walter lay dazed at the center of the crack, as if he’d been used as a battering ram.
Lucius stood by the wall switch, his lip split and bloody. He glared venom at Walter.
“See, now, that’s one thing you never understood, Buster,” he spat. “We’ll never be even.” He held up a hand, and Malcolm realized with a start that he clutched the Spike. “Still trying the same old tricks?”
Shaking his head in mock dismay, Lucius crunched the Spike in his iron fist, reducing it to a tangled mass of useless metal. Malcolm’s heart sank—it was an evil thing, but it had been their only chance. It’s over. We just lost.
Lucius flung the broken device toward Walter’s prone form. Flaring with anger, Malcolm leaped to his feet and smacked it away, placing himself between Lucius and Walter.
“No!” he said, pointing at Lucius. “You don’t get to—”
Lucius closed the distance. A fist connected with Malcolm’s jaw, snapping his head to the side, and another blow sank into his stomach. Disoriented, Malcolm stared at his enemy in shock as a wave of nausea assaulted him. Lucius kicked his feet to the side and he tumbled limply to the floor.
“H-how did you . . . ?”
“You’re in a dark room with a door to the outside, hiding from a master of shadow and silence? Perhaps you truly are a simpleton. As for how I found you, that will be clear soon enough. In the meantime,” he knelt beside Malcolm. “You have something that belongs to me.”