by Kathy Miner
When she stirred, hours later, her first thought was how badly she needed to pee. She tried to sit up and froze, moaning long and low. Everything hurt. She thought about books she’d read, about descriptions of surviving a beating, and put that theory into practice. Starting with her toes, she inventoried. They were okay, as were her calves – the boots had saved her. From there on up, it got ugly. Her lower back was on fire. The ribs on her left side creaked every time she took a breath. And some of the fingers on her right hand were either broken or sprained so badly, she couldn’t use them. Her head was okay, though not unscathed. Her cheekbone ached dully, as did her jaw, and she had a whopping headache. She lay there, wondering if she’d been foolish to goad Loudmouth like that, and decided it had been worth it. It didn’t matter whether she acquiesced meekly or went out kicking and howling. She was going out, either way. Might as well sow dissension and incite rebellion while she was at it.
She steeled herself and rolled to her hands and knees, breathing until the pain became bearable, then crawled around the room. Her eyes had adjusted to the dark, and she could see the faint outlines of things: a messy stack of football shoulder pads, a mop bucket that still smelled faintly of ammonia, a tangled pile of jump ropes, boxes filled with cleaning supplies and the kind of paper towels that went in a dispenser. A catch-all janitor’s closet in the sports center, she’d bet. She pushed the bucket to the far corner of the room, then relieved herself in it. Just that simple act eased her discomfort considerably, and she sighed in contentment. It really was the little things. Then, she had to stuff her fist in her mouth to stifle wild giggles. Maybe she wasn’t altogether balanced, here.
She stood up and wobbled back across the little room, then slid down the wall next to the football pads. After a moment, she picked a set off the top and buried her nose in it. Yes, there, so faint but there: skunky boy. She thought about Friday night football games and William, and wondered, for the very first time, what he’d think of all this. What he’d think of her, now. How would it have been different, if he had been the one to survive instead of Quinn? She closed her eyes and swore she could feel William’s presence, his sorrow at this pass she’d come to, his loyalty to his brother, even beyond death. She could almost hear his voice. Quinn was the one you needed, not me. Quinn is the one this world needs. You can always trust him, Grace, always.
Grace opened her eyes and sighed, wondering idly if she was hallucinating, not really caring. She thought about Benji, then, sweet little brother, and her mom. She remembered making herself switch from “Mommy” to “Mom,” because it was what big girls said. “Mommy,” she whispered in the dark. She never let herself think of them, never allowed herself to remember all the people she’d lost. Her step-dad, all her friends, her teachers, William and Quinn’s folks. Where were they all now? Did they know what was happening here? What the human race had become?
And what had they become? Maybe that remained to be seen. Verity always said they were inhabiting the space between “no longer” and “not yet.” Grace’s thoughts shifted to the living, to the ways in which people had changed. Evolved. Naomi, and the depth of her connection to the natural world via her animals. Quinn, and his communion with growing things, as if he, too, sprang from deep roots in the Earth. Her dad, and his instinct for Truth.
And Lark.
Grace closed her eyes again and pictured her daughter, every detail she could remember. Wisps of dark hair. Curving pink cheeks. Tiny hands, chubby feet. She didn’t know how Lark had changed, but she knew for certain she had. The mystery of it was there in her sad, dark eyes. Grace pressed her hands over her heart and loved her daughter with all her might, and would do so with all the time she had left.
When the door was snatched open, she was ready. She smelled the fires, heard the thumping music and the crowd, and her legs wobbled. The past snapped at her from all around, memories of the violations and abuses, a rising flood that threatened to close over her head and reduce her to a wailing animal. She picked her chin up and breathed through it, rose above it. The man holding her arm – she recognized Little Man with a jolt – yanked and twisted cruelly, but it didn’t hurt.
No pain. No fear. I love you, Lark.
They were all there, gathered around what used to be the middle of the football field, seated shoulder-to-shoulder in a half-circle. Little Man forced Grace to her knees, then took his seat with the rest of them. The stands around them were packed with screaming spectators, their faces all open mouths and blood lust.
Slowly, with as much dignity as she could manage, Grace stood. She would not face this mock court on her knees. She looked around at every face. Bean Counter and Loudmouth, Little Man and Sleeper, the Giant. And the Boss, his two Trigger Fingers standing slightly behind him. Grace ignored all of them except for the Boss, gazing at him with quiet composure. She turned to look to the west where the sun was gone, nothing but a faint, creamy glow over the mountains. Her eyes lingered on the familiar outline of Pikes Peak, and it comforted her, knowing the mountains would witness this and go on. Long after she was dead, like her beloved monoliths in Garden of the Gods, they would remain.
She swung her eyes back to the boss just as the first, distant explosions rumbled up through her feet.
It took a few minutes for the crowd to fall quiet. Somebody cut the music, and the abrupt silence pressed on her ears. All the men were on their feet now, staring tensely to the south, where a bank of low-lying clouds glowed orange, yellow, and red. Explosion after explosion vibrated the night. She lost count after a while, and just closed her eyes, hoping with all her might that both Tyler and Adam would make it through safely, that they’d live on and love each other.
She kept her eyes closed, waiting for Brody’s shots to begin. On and on, time stretched, until it felt like her heart was beating once a minute. Still, nothing. Something had gone wrong.
She opened her eyes, and became aware that the explosions had stopped. The men were still all watching the southern sky, their faces grim, speaking to each other in low voices. As if he felt her eyes, the Boss turned his head to look at her.
“Do you know anything about this?”
It was the first time he had spoken directly to her, and Grace was startled by the ripple of power his words carried, the imperative push of them. She didn’t just want to answer him, she needed to. And so she did, smiling sweetly.
“Score one for the ants.”
There was a commotion in the crowd, then, a series of startled exclamations and a parting of bodies. Over the buzz, Grace heard a voice she knew well, polite, lilting, and insistent.
“Excuse us. Yes, coming through. Move aside, if you don’t mind – thanks so much!”
Verity. Persephone cradled in one arm, the other arm looped through the crook of Brody’s as they strolled across the field. And around them, the angels.
Grace blinked, and scrubbed at her eyes. You couldn’t see them if you looked straight at them, not really. They were a suggestion, a majestic force field of shifting opalescent light that rose above and around Verity and Brody. As they walked, Verity nodded and smiled, lifting her fingers in an occasional wave. Brody looked strange. He was wearing a bulky jacket, and there was something odd about his face. It took Grace several moments to realize what it was: No tension. No calculation. Peace.
They reached the edge of the group, and Verity released Brody’s arm, skipping to Grace’s side. She bundled Persephone’s quaking body into Grace’s arms, then frowned. “Oh, honey.”
She reached up and touched Grace’s bruised cheek. Then her fingers coasted over Grace’s ribs, slid around to her back, and ended with her fingers. Pain flashed and ricocheted everywhere she touched, making Grace gasp and flinch, but when she flexed her fingers, they obeyed. She caught Verity’s wrist.
“What’s happening? What are you doing? This is not the plan!”
Verity cupped Grace’s face between her delicate palms. “This was always the plan. Since the time before time.” She lo
oked over her shoulder at Brody, then back at Grace. “He thought Piper would be the death of him, and all along, it was me!” She shrugged impishly. “Men can be so silly!”
“You told me angels don’t work this way – why did they change their minds?”
“This isn’t angelic, sweetie.” She winked. “Though they did get us in the door, I have to admit.”
Verity turned and looked over her shoulder, and Grace’s gaze followed. Brody and the Boss were standing, staring at each other, less than a foot apart. The Boss’s dazed eyes drifted to Verity, and his lips parted. His eyes narrowed, then widened, then narrowed again as he tried to understand what he was seeing. Verity twiddled her fingers at him and turned back to Grace.
“This is a reckoning. It’s mercy. It’s a good and faithful servant, going home.” She closed her eyes and hugged herself, the joy on her face as brilliant as sunrise. “My brother. We’ll be together at last.” Her eyes popped back open and she laughed, Christmas bells ringing. “Can you imagine the mischief we’ll get up to?”
She kissed Grace’s cheeks, both of them. “For the boys. Tell them I simply adore them.” She leaned to plant a final kiss between Persephone’s ears, then skipped back to Brody’s side. “Is there time for Grace to monologue? No? Sad day. Shall we, then?”
Brody nodded at her, then looked at Grace over Verity’s glowing head. “Tell Piper…” He trailed off, then shook his head. “Never mind. Grace, run.”
He said it so quietly, it took a moment for his command to register.
She whirled, and dug in. Clutching Persephone to her chest, she ran as she had never run, ran for her life, for her life. The joy of it burst in her chest like a super nova. Behind her, shouts arose, panic and scuffling, then a strange whooshing sound. Noise and heat and light lifted her off her feet and threw her through the air, and her ears popped painfully. She twisted her body, trying to protect Persephone, and landed badly on her shoulder and side. She lay there, stunned, while all around her, flaming debris rained down. A partially burned chair landed in the stands, scattering the screaming crowd, and acrid smoke dimmed the blazing lights.
Persephone appeared in her field of vision. Her fur was singed and she was favoring one of her back legs, but otherwise she looked okay. She licked Grace’s forehead and cheek frantically, whimpering, until Grace reached up and curled an arm around her. Finally, she summoned what strength she had left and sat up.
Where Brody and Verity had been a moment before, there was a crater. Bodies, many of them torn apart and still burning, lay in a ring around the devastation. Two men appeared to have survived, one of them dragging a mangled arm as he combat-crawled away, the other being helped to his feet by people who had rushed in from the stands. Grace squinted. Bean Counter. And Little Man.
She continued to analyze the carnage, making sure, making completely sure, before she let her head fall forward, slumping in relief and grief. No one else. She looked up at the sky, at the swirling sparks, searching for angels. No one else. Grace struggled to her feet and picked Persephone up. As people around her screamed and ran, scattering into the night, she limped into the rest of her life.
SEVENTEEN: Naomi: Woodland Park, CO
“What do you mean, ‘She left?’” Martin leaned across the library desk, until his measured breaths stirred the spiky silver hair above Anne’s forehead. “Where the hell did she go?”
Anne’s chin gave a great wobble and her eyes filled with tears. Then she sucked in a deep breath of air through her nostrils and rose from her chair with regal poise. “How dare you speak to me using that tone! Do you have any idea who I am?”
Martin’s head fell forward for a moment, and Naomi could feel his exhaustion, his effort to throttle it back. “No, Anne, I really don’t.” He looked back up at her. “Please. Where is Grace?”
Naomi stepped forward, laying a hand on Martin’s shoulder and moving him to the side. She reached across the library desk to grip Anne’s knotted hands. “Anne, honey, it’s so good to see you. We had a rough trip.” Understatement of the century. “What do you mean, Grace left? Where did she go?”
Eyes still locked on Martin, Anne reached for the corner of her desk and picked up a large manila envelope. She handed it to him, a queen bestowing her favor on an undeserving serf. “She left this for you. Now leave me at once, before I forget I am merciful.”
Martin turned away and tore open the envelope, removing a stack of papers and what looked like a letter. Naomi tucked in close to his shoulder, and began to read Grace’s familiar, neat handwriting.
“Dear Dad: By the time you get this…”
She finished reading, then slumped to sit on one of the tables close by, more tired and heartsick than she could remember being since Macy had died. Martin shuffled through the papers, muttering, then returned to the letter, scowling as he scanned it one more time.
“I don’t understand. She’s left us all of her calculations, all of her research. There’s material here on the politics of gangs. On survival strategy in an ‘End of the World as We Know It’ scenario. She plotted out the safest course to Pagosa Springs, and one to Crested Butte, just in case.” He looked up at Naomi, and she could see that logic hadn’t yet penetrated his exhaustion. “Why would she leave all this? These are her projects. This is what she does, what gives her purpose.”
Naomi stood up and took the papers from him, laying them aside. “She left them because she doesn’t expect to be back.”
The moment her words penetrated was an awful one. Martin’s face locked down tight, but his eyes blazed with agony. “No. No, no, no, that is not how this is going to go.” He whirled away from her, but Anne had beat a quiet retreat. “I need to talk to someone who saw her, talked to her.”
“You’re back.” Rowan’s voice. She walked towards them from the library entrance, and it struck Naomi like a fist, how much her friend had aged. The weight of their small world bowed her back and pulled her face into age lines, years before her time. “We were starting to think about sending out a search party. What took so long?”
Naomi answered. “We ran into trouble on the trail. The rains have damaged Rampart Range Road, and Shakti lost her footing, took a bad fall. Rolled right over the top of Martin – we were lucky it wasn’t a lot worse. We had to let her rest for a day, then redistribute our loads and walk her in.”
“I’m not a vet, but I’ll take a look at her.” Rowan’s eyes narrowed on Martin. “What damage did you sustain in this little adventure?”
Martin ignored her question. “Anne says Grace is gone. Did you know about this?”
Rowan sighed deeply, and hung her head. “Yes. She mixed it up with Karleigh the day you two left. Tore a strip off her, off the whole community, really. Shook some people up, for sure. She left with Verity later that morning, according to the note she left for Anne.”
“Verity went with her?” Rowan nodded, and Naomi’s eyebrows felt like they rose to her hairline. She couldn’t decide if she was comforted or terrified by this information.
“Why didn’t someone go after her?” Martin started pacing back and forth, overcome with frantic energy. “What the hell, Rowan?”
Rowan’s eyes sparked with temper, but she reined it in. “Quinn asked us not to.”
Martin stopped pacing, and the air all around them seemed to darken and throb with menace. “He what?”
“You heard me,” Rowan snapped. “He said we would only endanger her, that she had to do what she had to do. He’s been on the receiving end of this with Grace before, if you’ll remember.” She walked towards him. “Now sit down! You bruised your damn spleen, you moron.”
Martin caught Rowan’s probing hands and stilled them. “I’m fine.” He looked up at Naomi. “I have to go after her.”
“Of course you do.” They moved towards each other. “You should take one of the ATVs, or one of the motorcycles and go down 24. Go through fast, and no one will have a chance to give you trouble. What do you need me to do?”
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br /> “Nothing, honey – just get the horses back to Ignacio and tell him I’m sorry I rolled Shakti. I’ll grab my gear right out of the saddlebags and go.” His eyes were already far away, already searching. “If she’s not at the ranch, I’ll have to find a way to slip in with the gang’s people, get my ear to the ground. I could be gone a while.”
Her heart stuttered, but she nodded. “I know. Do what you need to do, and tell her I love her when you find her.”
He stepped close and wrapped both arms around her waist, lifting her off her feet and kissing her so thoroughly, heat tingled across her scalp and down her spine, in spite of everything. He broke the kiss and leaned his forehead against hers, lowering her slowly to the ground and nuzzling her face with his. “I love you,” he breathed. “Be safe while I’m gone.”
She staggered a little when he let her go, and then he was striding for the door. Her head cleared, and she called after him. “Martin – wait.” When he turned, she said. “If we’re not here when you get back, meet us in Pagosa Springs.”
That made him pause. He turned to face her fully. “You’ve decided, then. You’re going.”
“As soon as I can talk everyone into packing up. It’s past time.” She pressed her fingers to her mouth and tried to hide the tremble there. “I love you. Be safe. Bring our girl home – and Verity, too, while you’re at it.”
He nodded, and was gone, the door sighing shut behind him. Naomi turned to find Rowan watching her with wide eyes.
“So it’s like that, huh?”
“Yes. It’s like that.” Naomi’s cheeks had to be bright pink, and she decided then and there she didn’t care. She and Martin had become lovers on the trail, the long nights of heat and discovery counter-balancing the long days of frustration and delay. Since she had no intention of hiding the change in their relationship, she’d better learn to ignore the raised eyebrows. “What other hell has broken lose while we were gone?”