by S W Vaughn
Megan stood reluctantly and stared at her feet. “You don't have to buy me dinner."
"I want to."
"Why? I mean, you don't even know me. You'll probably never see me again. And I can't pay you back.” Megan blinked rapidly and a funny little hitch escaped her throat.
"You are paying me back.” Grace scrambled to think of something the girl could do that didn't involve money. Inspiration struck. “You're going to write me a song."
"I am?” Megan looked up. Her eyes narrowed. “You don't have to humor me, you know. I'm not an idiot. My songs are worthless."
Grace caught the dull edge of loneliness in the girl's voice, the expectation of rejection. She knew the feeling too well. “Come on. How many people get to have songs about them? And you've already got one line down, and a band waiting for you.” She held out a hand. “Write me a song, and we're even. Deal?"
"If you say so.” Megan frowned, but she took the offered hand with palpable relief.
"Good. Now, what kind of sub do you want?"
"Ham and Swiss, with everything but onions."
Grace laughed. “Sounds good. See you at the gate."
They headed inside the train station. Grace only glanced over her shoulder once. No psychotic angels, invisible or otherwise, leered at her from the shadows.
* * * *
On the nearly empty train, Grace and Megan agreed to take seats across the aisle from each other with the caveat that if things got crowded, Megan would move over to Grace's side. It was after one in the morning when the train pulled out. Time to try for some sleep.
Grace faked it until she heard Megan's even breathing from the next seat. She slipped out and headed for the bathroom at the back of the car. Her contacts were fine to occasionally sleep with, but they had to be cleaned. Her eyes had been burning for a while now. She didn't relish the idea of waking up with swollen, watering eyeballs.
Cramming herself and her bag into the miniature bathroom proved tricky. She managed to wedge her bag under the narrow sink, and knelt to retrieve her cleaning kit while the train rolled and swayed beneath. Kit in hand, she set it on the counter and washed her hands, then lined the stainless steel basin with paper towels.
Though she was supposed to leave the moisturizing drops in for ten minutes, she only waited two or three before she removed the lenses. She didn't want to be in here long, especially with her contacts out. Filling the lens case with cleaning solution, she nudged them into the bath and stared at her reflection. Freak. Her glowing eyes served to put everything else over the top—with the piercings and the burnt mop on her head, she looked like a metal band groupie on a drug binge. Maybe that was how others like her survived in the real world. She giggled at the thought. Some conspiracy theory. Yes indeed, Marilyn Manson was actually a crossbred alien with supernatural powers. Or whatever. She'd bet the good nutcases of SARET would love to interview him.
Grace popped her lens case open, extracted and shook the right lens dry, and popped it in place with practiced ease. When she went for the left, the train lurched, sloshing liquid and lens out at once. The lens landed on the counter to teeter on the edge. Grace made a grab for the rapidly sliding contact. Her foot slipped forward and her balance shifted backward. The back of her head cracked solidly against the rear wall.
"Damn it!” She managed to grab the toilet and keep from going down completely. She straightened by awkward degrees, rubbed the back of her head. The contact had disappeared.
Grace inched toward the sink and hoped she hadn't already stepped on it. A closer inspection of the floor around the base revealed a quarter-inch gap between the sink's drainpipe and the floor. Flashes of the track below skimmed the space. She had no doubt her contact had found its way to the great outdoors.
Wonderful. This was her last brown pair. She'd have to use a different color. Megan would probably wonder why a night's sleep had made her brown eyes blue. Or green. She'd use the green ones. Megan's eyes were blue, and the girl might think she was a stalker or something.
She put them in quickly, tossed everything back in her bag, and weaved her way back to her seat. Megan hadn't stirred. Grace slid over to the window seat, propped her complimentary train pillow over the armrest, and curled on both seats. She closed her eyes and the forest returned.
Night this time. She stood closer, bathed in the songs of crickets and spring peepers. An owl's mournful hoot drifted on a feathering breeze. Though the floor of the ravine still wasn't visible from her position, silver-white moonlight washed the opposite wall. Tree roots clung to the edge of the drop and a tangled mass of creeper vines curled down the surface.
She willed herself toward the chasm. She wanted to dangle her feet over the edge, slide down the vines, and explore the cool shadows waiting in the depths. She moved and the ravine moved with her, remaining just out of her reach. A profound and painful sadness settled into her. She struggled harder against the invisible chains that kept her from this place.
Black. Don't go down there.
Grace whimpered. The words unraveled the dream. She wanted to stay.
Hey. Wake up.
The ravine retreated in the distance. The woods thickened around her and the ground shuddered.
Please wake up I need help.
Megan's voice. Not part of the dream. The shuddering ground became the rumble of the train. Grace surfaced from the depths of unconsciousness toward the light—and found it coming from a pair of glowing blue eyes.
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Chapter 9
"I'm sorry,” Megan whispered. “I wasn't going to wake you, but you started thrashing around and I thought you might fall. And ... I feel really weird."
Grace blinked several times. Shook her head. Megan's eyes remained luminous and worried. When did that happen?
"When did what happen?"
Oh, crap.
"What do you mean? Kayla, what's going on?"
"Megan.” The remaining sleep fog dissipated and Grace knifed upright. Do me a favor and close your eyes. She didn't dare speak aloud. If anyone else was awake, the bizarre request would attract attention.
"Why?"
Please. Trust me.
"Okay, but I don't know how this is going to help.” The glow disappeared.
Heart racing, Grace fumbled her bag onto her shoulder and tried not to think random thoughts. “We have to go to the bathroom.” Don't open your eyes until I tell you. I'll lead you. Don't let go, and don't say anything. She grabbed Megan's hand, slid into the aisle, and shuffled toward the back of the car.
Megan came without a struggle, but her panicked thoughts screamed in Grace's head. What's going on what's wrong with me am I bleeding why is everything so fuzzy I think I'm going to faint....
Grace squeezed her hand in what she hoped was reassurance, though her grip felt desperate and clammy. It seemed ages before they reached the bathroom. She slid the door open, entered, and pulled Megan in after her. She reached around the girl, locked them in and turned her so she faced away from the mirror.
"Okay,” Grace whispered on a shaking breath. “You can open your eyes. But I need you to try and stay calm, all right? I'm sorry for freaking you out. You're okay."
Megan's eyes fluttered open and fixed on Grace with shimmering fear. “What happened? Why did you bring me in here?"
Grace shushed her. “Take a deep breath. I'll explain, but you've got to keep it together. Can you do that?"
Megan nodded.
"Okay. First things first.” She paused. Can you hear my voice?
Megan flinched. “How ... did you do that? Throw your voice?"
You're reading my mind.
"Bullshit. Come on, this isn't funny. Stop messing with me."
"Think back, Megan. When you woke me up, I didn't say anything but you still answered me. Those were my thoughts. You heard them."
"No. You said ... You said ‘When did that happen?’ and I didn't know what you meant."
"I didn't say it. I tho
ught it."
Megan shivered. This is crazy. This can't be happening.
"It's not crazy and it is happening. I can hear your thoughts, too."
"Jesus!” Megan stumbled back and bumped the sink. Before Grace could stop her, she whirled to face the mirror. She caught sight of herself, drew a sharp breath.
Grace grabbed her from behind and clamped a hand over her mouth. The scream vibrated against her palm.
"You can't do that. People will hear you. What do you think will happen if anyone sees your eyes like that? Calm down."
Megan froze for an instant, then frenzied against the grip Grace held. Her chest heaved with ragged gulps of air. Let go of me you crazy bitch!
Grace released her and stepped back. The girl's statement stung, more than any of the thousand insults she'd borne with stoic detachment over the years. “Fine. You go out there and tell someone the crazy bitch in the bathroom is reading your mind. With that lunatic story and those freak eyes, I'm sure you'll be a big hit in the psych ward."
Paling, Megan slumped forward and leaned on the sink. “Oh God. I'm sorry. I just ... can't believe this. It's impossible."
"You have to believe it because it's true. The sooner you accept it, the easier everything will be. Not that it's at all easy. But it's manageable most of the time."
Megan turned slowly, sniffled once. “What's happening to me?"
"I don't know. I only know that it happened to me six years ago, and I didn't have anyone there to keep me from flipping out. So I know what happens when you let it get to you. They lock you up and throw away the key."
"Shit.” Megan stared at her. “Okay, so I can hear your thoughts and you can hear mine. But your eyes aren't all screwed up. They look...” She blinked. “Green? I thought they were brown."
"They were.” Grace lowered her head and pinched out one of her contacts. She looked at Megan. “They're naturally this color. I call it ‘post-nuclear reactor.’”
Megan uttered a weak laugh, and Grace finally let herself relax a little. She'd never voluntarily shown anyone her eyes. It was almost a relief. She replaced the lens and crouched to open her bag. “All right, let's get you covered. Ever worn contacts before?"
"You have more of them?"
"Lots. They're kind of a necessity.” Grace smirked up at her. “We'd better stick with blue for you. Somebody might ask questions.” She picked out a fresh blue pair in a blister pack, a lens case, and a bottle of saline solution. Straightening, she handed the supplies to Megan. “Stick the case in your pocket for now."
Megan nodded and did so. “Now what?"
Grace walked her through the steps, surprised to find the girl calm and willing to listen. At first she felt stiff and distant, as though she were giving a complicated order at a restaurant. Gradually, Grace realized her smile came easier, her words emerged lighter. She'd set aside her reserves, if only for a moment.
Friendship had never been in her repertoire. She hoped she was doing it right.
After Megan had both contacts in place, Grace put things back and reached for the door. “The train will make a stop soon. We might as well get out and smoke, and try to sleep after that."
"Good idea.” Megan shifted and threw her arms around Grace. “Thank you, Kayla. I would be so screwed right now without you."
She hesitantly returned the embrace. “It's Grace."
"Huh?"
"My name is Grace. I ... just wanted you to know."
"Grace. I like that name better. It fits you."
"Thanks."
Grace sent Megan out first to allay suspicion, in case anyone was awake. She stood in place for long moments after the girl left. In an instant, her world had changed, the future an ominous fog of uncertainty. For better or worse, she'd finally found someone like herself. And her head was still attached—for now.
With the witch and the monster hunting her down though, she suspected things would only get worse.
* * * *
"So, like, before. When I said you were reading my mind, you really were."
Grace and Megan sat on a narrow ledge at the base of a massive pillar. The train purred in place on the opposite side. A bleary-eyed conductor had informed them they would be stopped for twenty minutes and cautioned them not to leave the platform.
"Yes,” Grace admitted. “I didn't mean to. When I'm near someone and they're thinking really loud, I can't help hearing. It just jumps into my head. Haven't figured out how to stop that yet."
"I hear something right now. A lot of whispers. I can't understand them."
Grace nodded. “That's what I learned to tune out. I'll try to help you do that too."
"Cool.” Megan drew on her cigarette. Her hand trembled when she lowered her arm. “What else have you heard me thinking?"
"Not much."
Megan gave her a doubtful look.
"Honest. I don't like spying in people's head.” Grace glanced at the sky. Thin layers of clouds rippled across the surface in measured rows, obscuring all but the brightest stars. The sky in her dream had been clear. “I can pick up some things on purpose, but not everything. And I don't usually go looking for information. I haven't with you."
"All right. I trust you.” Megan leaned forward and propped her arms on her thighs. “This is so unreal. You know what's the worst thing about it? My stepfather was right."
"What do you mean?"
"He always said there was something wrong with me. He'd jump into my room all the time, trying to ‘catch’ me at ... whatever. And he—” She shuddered and hung her head. “Nobody ever believed me. Not even my own mother. After she died, he did it all the time."
"Did what?"
Megan slumped further.
"Hey."
She looked up, bit her lip.
"I'll believe you,” Grace said. “If you want to tell me."
Instead of replying, Megan glanced around to see if anyone was watching and pushed up the sleeve of her sweatshirt. Scores of needle marks stippled the fold of her elbow and marched down her forearm. “Everyone I've shown just thinks I'm a junkie.” Her voice shook and she yanked the sleeve back down. “But it was him. He had this room in the basement. He made ... I don't know. The black formula, he called it, and he kept testing it on me. He took blood from me too, every week, and sent it to this group he works for. S-A-R-something. Sarter, or Sartie..."
Grace's stomach turned. “Not SARET."
"Oh no. That's it. How do you know that?"
"I ran across their website. They think...” Grace glanced at her. “What about your real father? Who is he?"
"I don't know. Mom never talked about him, but I think it was a one-night stand kind of thing. I've never met him."
"Damn.” Grace drew a sharp breath. “This group, SARET. They think we're half alien."
"What?"
"Yeah, they're pretty persuasive about it too. I was hoping you knew your father because I've never met mine either. So there's no proof there."
"Do you think it's true? About the aliens?"
Grace frowned. “No. I considered it but there are too many flaws in their arguments. I know they're convinced, though, and that makes them dangerous. The other possibility..."
When she didn't continue, Megan asked, “What's the other possibility?"
Grace hesitated. She didn't want to scare Megan, but she owed her the truth. Better to let her know what she might be up against.
"Yeah, the truth would be nice."
"Huh?"
"Did you forget already? I can read your mind now too."
A short laugh escaped Grace. “Guess I need to stop thinking so loud. Okay, the truth—at least as much as I know of it."
She started with the flying woman. Megan listened, cringing when she mentioned the decapitation and the room full of body parts. When she told her about the woman's voice in her head and what she'd called her—Nephilim—the color drained from Megan's features.
"You mean, like, half angels?” she whispered.
/> Grace nodded. “This woman might be a member of SARET, because they use that term too. But I don't think she is. It's not likely she's Nephilim, if there is such a thing, because she apparently hates them. Us. Whatever. I just don't know. But I suppose either she actually believes she's an angel..."
"Or she actually is,” Megan said.
"Yes. And that's where I start having trouble.” Grace sent her a puzzled look. “How did you know about the Nephilim?"
"Sunday school.” Megan scuffed a heel against the pillar. “The church Mom went to was really out there. We learned all about the angels coming down here and sleeping with women and creating monsters. The Nephilim are in the Bible, you know?” She glanced up as though the night sky held the answers. “All my friends, the ones who didn't go to our church, believed angels were fluffy harp-players with robes and white wings. But our minister said they were God's enforcers, and if we didn't behave the angels would smite us in our sleep."
"If there's any truth to this mess, I think your minister might have been on to something.” Grace laughed to cover the worry plucking her taut nerves. “Come on. We'd better get back on the train or they'll leave without us."
Nodding, Megan stood and followed her to the door. “Grace?” she said just before they boarded. Her voice sounded strained.
"What's wrong?"
"Can I ... sit with you?” I'm scared.
A lump formed in Grace's throat. “Sure. Of course you can."
The darkened, silent car offered a temporary haven. Grace found her seat and slid over next to the window. Megan grabbed her bag from across the aisle, plunked down next to her, and settled the bag on the floor between her feet. The train eased ahead through the night.
In less than five minutes, Megan dozed off, though her sleep was not easy. She twisted and fidgeted until Grace put an arm around her shoulders. Megan curled against her side with a sigh and stilled at last.
Rest evaded Grace longer. She stared out the window for almost an hour before a troubled half-sleep claimed her. This time there was no forest—only a madwoman with fluffy white wings, poised to smite her in slumber.
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