The Wild Road

by Marjorie M. Liu

  She took the highway exit and turned left, following her instincts more than the signs. She could not remember if she had ever been here, but her gut seemed familiar with the area, and when she passed Cracker Barrel on her left, she knew it. Meijer’s would be on her right, ahead.

  And it was. She pulled off the road, bouncing slightly over the curb, and started coasting for an out-of-the-way parking spot. She found one on the east side. No other cars around. No tall lights. Just darkness and solitude. For now.

  The woman shut off the engine. Her hands shook the moment she took them off the wheel. She held them close to her stomach, rubbing her knuckles. Thinking about the man and his gun. What she had done to him.

  Lannes, she told herself fiercely. Worry about Lannes.

  She turned to him. Darkness was safer, but it limited what she could see. Which wasn’t much. He looked fine. Healthy. But he lay still, and the scent and heat of his blood filled the Impala’s interior, burning her heart.

  The woman touched his shoulder, just to remind herself. She did not feel a shirt. Just skin. Hot sticky skin. And past his shoulder, around his back, something even softer, like supple leather. Something bigger than his body. What she touched terrified her, but not nearly as much as the fact that she thought he was dying.

  But she could not take him to a hospital. That much was clear.

  Cell phone, she told herself. He said he was talking to his brother.

  Her breath caught. She began patting his pockets, grateful that his jeans seemed to be real. She was losing her mind, losing her mind. Oh, God.

  His jeans were soaked in blood, but she found the phone and wiggled it free. The case was also sticky, but she wiped it on her skirt and tried to make her hands stop shaking long enough to use the damn thing. Lannes stirred slightly, groaning. She whispered his name but he did not respond, not even with a flutter of an eyelid.

  She managed to punch into the menu on his phone and found the last number dialed. It was labeled with a name, Charlie. She hoped that was the right person to call. She also hoped the battery lasted. The dial was red, and she heard a loud warning beep.

  A man answered on the first ring. His voice sounded like Lannes. The woman heard a cartoon blaring in the background, and had to take a breath.

  Again, the man said, “Hello?”

  “Hello,” she whispered. “Are you Lannes’ brother?”

  There came no reply, but a moment later she heard a click like a door closing, and the cartoon music faded. He said, “What happened? Where is he?”

  She looked at Lannes, then twisted to peer out the car windows, checking to make sure they were still alone. The battery warning beeped. “Here with me. Someone came after us. He’s been hurt. Shot. I don’t know how to help him. I can’t see the wounds, but I can feel them, and there’s so much blood—”

  Charlie interrupted. “Where are you?”

  “Lafayette, Indiana. Meijer’s parking lot, just off the highway.”

  “Stay there, if you can. If you have to move, call me. I’m sending help.”

  The phone beeped again. “Wait. What can I do?”

  “Protect him,” Charlie said grimly. “I’ll call you when my friends are close.”

  And he hung up. The woman stared at the phone for a moment and slid it onto the dashboard. She looked out the windows again, taking in the mundane process of cars pulling in and out of the grocery store parking lot and the distant signs of restaurants and hotels. Normal lives, normal people.

  Lannes made another small sound. She remembered what had happened the last time she got close while he was unconscious, but even though her shoulder was a painful reminder, she scooted as near as she could and rested her hand against his face. His skin was hot, even feverish. She cast about for something, anything she could use to help him, and found nothing in her immediate vicinity. She opened up the glove compartment, hoping at least for a cell-phone car charger.

  She found nothing of the kind, though a block of wood fell out, an unevenly shaped chunk that looked as though it had been hacked from the heart of a tree. She picked it up off the car floor, turned it over in her hands. Six inches long and almost as wide. Part of it had been carved into what seemed to be the vague outline of a man with wings. Not much detail, but exquisite nonetheless. Every stroke was filled with character.

  She focused again on the carved wooden wings and remembered the motel. She would never forget. Never. Even if her memories were stolen again, she knew something—something of him—would remain.

  Lannes, stepping into the path of those bullets. Taking them. Protecting her. Falling to his knees. Getting back up again.

  The woman looked over and saw a human man. A big, strong, handsome man. A man who looked healthy but who was dying, maybe. The closest thing she had to a friend in all the world.

  “Don’t go,” she whispered. Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me alone.

  He stirred. She touched his face—a careful, tentative brush of her fingers against his feverish cheek. His bone structure was strong, pronounced. Still craggy. Her heart rate began to slow. Her hands stopped shaking. She remembered touching him in the parking lot just before the gunman had arrived. She remembered the sensation of what she had felt. His horror when he had turned on her.

  You’re more mystery than I am, she thought, then heard something behind her on the driver’s side. A car engine idling.

  Black Humvee. Huge car. She could hardly imagine how it had pulled up without her noticing, but its lights were off. The woman suddenly wished she had taken the gun with her. Or that she knew how to…to do that thing again. Whatever it was that had stopped the gunman. It had been a force in her mind that was hers and hers alone, not the work of an outside influence. Which was frightening, but not nearly as much as being unable to protect Lannes.

  It was a woman who got out of the Humvee. An old woman, tall and slender, with short silver hair and a narrow face that sagged around her chin. She wore all black, except for a string of heavy pearls. She was elegant and feminine, but her gaze was as cold and sharp as knives.

  The woman could not see if anyone else was inside the Humvee. She started the Impala’s engine, shoved down the clutch and shifted into first gear. She did not go, though. She thought about Charlie. He had said he would call.

  The old lady tapped on the car window with one slightly gnarled finger. “You. Open up.”

  Like hell. The woman glared, trying not to let on how frightened she was. “Who are you?”

  “My name is Etta Bredow,” said the old lady, speaking loudly. “I work with your friends.”

  “What friends?”

  Etta’s withered lips pulled into a hard smile. “Charlie. Fredrick.”

  The woman hesitated, then reached for the cell phone. Its battery light was shining red. She remembered Charlie’s number and dialed quickly, trying not to take her eyes off the old lady, who stood back, arms folded over her sunken chest.

  “I’m here,” Charlie answered, his voice strained.

  “I’ve got company,” she said immediately. “A woman who says she knows—”

  The battery finally went dead. She squeezed the phone until her knuckles ached and searched Etta’s gaze. Wondering if she had a cell phone. All it would take was one call.

  But Lannes suddenly coughed, and though it was dark, she felt something wet hit her face and she knew instantly it was blood. The woman stared, torn. Trying to listen to instincts that might as well have been stripped away with her memories.

  Protect him.

  She reached over to squeeze Lannes’ hand and unlocked the car door. She pushed it open slowly and got out, keeping the door between herself and the old lady.

  “You act like I’m a monster,” said Etta. “You should relax.”

  “Of course I should,” replied the woman dryly. “Are you alone?”

  “Would you prefer an army of thugs at my back?” Etta smiled again, rather unpleasantly, and the woman had the distinct feeling she knew
this person. Somehow. It was that smile that felt like proof. All teeth.

  Etta peered into the Impala. “He’s too big to move. Follow me in your car.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “My home. It’s close.” Etta snapped her fingers to suggest they hurry. “Follow me.”

  The woman did not like her tone or the risk, but she saw little choice but to do as she was told. Lannes had to survive. He needed help that she could not give him. Not here, not in this car. She could not even rent them a hotel room, not looking as she did.

  They drove. The woman lost track of all the twisting roads, though she saw signs for Purdue University and all the trappings of a major college town: restaurants and shops, small neighborhoods cluttered with trees and old homes perfect for students and professors. It was night, but the town glittered like a strip mall cut into chunks.

  Etta led the woman to a dead end, a dark quiet neighborhood that looked like a burglar’s paradise. Fat oaks, thick bushes, few lights. The driveway was shaped like a half-moon, and rather than follow Etta into the massive garage that opened before her, she pulled up parallel to the main entrance. The Impala would be easy enough to sabotage; she was not going to drive it into a cage.

  She held the keys tight in her fist and opened up the passenger door. Etta appeared from the garage and stood for a moment, arms still folded over her chest, watching carefully.

  “You sure you’re here alone?” the woman asked.

  “Still afraid?” replied Etta.

  “No,” she lied. “Show me where to take him.”

  Etta frowned. “You’re going to move him by yourself?”

  “Yes,” she said firmly, unwilling to let the old lady touch Lannes. Charlie, if that was his brother, no doubt knew and understood the discrepancy between sight and touch when it came to him, but she had no faith in anyone else. And while the mystery of it both frightened and boggled her, Lannes had saved her life—in more ways than one—and she was willing to suspend her notions of reality to keep him safe.

  But it was going to be a hell of a job.

  Etta stood back, studying her. The woman thought about hopping in the car and driving away. She stopped herself, though. Blood dripped from the Impala’s leather seats to the floor. When she leaned in, it smelled like a charnel house compared to the crisp night air.

  “Lannes,” she whispered in his ear. “Lannes, wake up.”

  He did not twitch or make a sound. Gritting her teeth, her feet throbbing, she raised his arm and slung it over her aching shoulder. She reached around his back, her hand gliding over soft skin that reminded her of thin leather. Appendages. Her fingers glided over the joints in his shoulders.

  She had to take a moment, dizzy. And she found something else—a wide belt strapped around his chest and back. Holding down those…things.

  Wings, said her mind. Lannes has wings.

  She forced herself not to think about it. But she grabbed the belt and used that to tug on him. He would not budge. Too big, too heavy. Face flaming hot, more than a little desperate, the woman dug in her aching heels and pulled with all her strength.

  Move, she thought. Goddamnit, move.

  And just like that, something clicked inside her brain. It was the same sensation, the same instinct, from the motel parking lot, as though her brain had an extra arm.

  She had felt hints of it ever since her encounter with Orwell Price. The thing that had invaded her mind had flung Lannes across the room—without laying a hand on him.

  Right then, like wires crossing inside her brain, something had connected. As it had again.

  Come on, she begged silently, wrapping her thoughts around Lannes. Needing him to move. Needing it with all her will. She yanked on the invisible belt strapped around his waist, groaning with the effort.

  He moved. He was still unconscious, a dead weight, but she felt her thoughts squeeze around him as though he were inside her mind, like a hard silver marble. And like a marble, she was able to lift and pull until he slid free. It was a tremendous effort, though, more so than merely striking the gunman had been, and she held his arm across her shoulder so that he was bent over, his feet dragging. It was hard to breathe.

  “Open the damn door,” she muttered, sweating. But Etta was already there, holding it open, and the woman hauled Lannes into the house, step by painful step. Fighting not to lose her concentration.

  She hardly noticed her surroundings. She could have been walking into a pair of iron jaws and she would not have paid attention. Just one foot in front of the other. Just one more. And another. Her hands and clothes became soaked and slick with Lannes’ blood. She ignored that. Followed Etta to the kitchen. Blankets had been spread on the floor.

  “Put him down,” Etta ordered. “I’ll get towels.”

  The woman settled him with a stifled groan, her back and arms screaming in protest as she straightened. Her mind still tingled. Every object around her seemed vibrant, small, light as air. For one moment, she could feel the entire kitchen inside her mind, and it was a delirious sensation, wild and heady.

  No. Stop. Focus on Lannes.

  She crouched beside him as Etta appeared again. The old lady carried towels and another blanket, as well as scissors. She dropped them on the floor.

  The woman said, “I need a phone.”

  “I already called Charlie,” said Etta. “He’s on the way here. I let him know where we are.”

  “Really,” said the woman. She glanced around the kitchen but saw no phone. Just white countertop and wallpaper covered in red roosters. The kitchen looked as though it had not been used in some time. There was dust on the stove.

  “This your house?” she asked.

  “It belongs to my family,” replied Etta. “You’re safe here.”

  The woman gave her a sharp look. “What do you know about it?”

  “I know you are hunted,” she said simply. “And I know that neither of you are what you seem.”

  Etta backed up a step. Graceful, light-footed in black ballet flats. The woman felt like an exploding train wreck in comparison. She watched the old lady leave the kitchen and wanted to follow her with questions.

  Instead she dug into the cabinets and found mixing bowls. A kettle was on the stove. She filled it with water and set it to boil. Then got down and began removing Lannes’ clothes. Starting with the belt around his chest.

  She could not see it, and feeling one thing while seeing another was too disconcerting. Especially when she noticed that the very tips of her fingers disappeared out of sight when they touched his skin.

  She shut her eyes. Her fingers found the belt loop and she undid it, blind. But she was nervous. She was afraid he had it there for a good reason, and so left it on, but loose.

  Lannes made a small sound. She whispered his name but got no response.

  Her hands fluttered over his chest, searching for wounds. Every time she found one, she laid a towel over the spot, but some of the injuries were too massive. His chest was a mess. Her eyes burned with unshed tears.

  You should be dead, she thought, and then, Don’t. Don’t die. Don’t leave me.

  Her mantra. Her prayer over him as she worked. Don’t leave me. Don’t. Please. You’re all I know. My biggest memory. My only friend. Don’t leave me. Don’t die. Don’t.

  She found a hole in his upper thigh. She had to cut away his jeans. Used a towel to make him decent once she had him fully disrobed. She had no idea what he really looked like—which was an odd thought in itself—but she supposed whatever his appearance, it must be radical. Truly wild.

  The kettle whistled. The woman poured the steaming water into one of the mixing bowls, then set more to boil. She dumped two small towels into the hot water and, when it cooled, began washing Lannes’ body. Most of the bleeding appeared to have stopped on its own, if the blanket he lay on was any indication. Stains, yes. But not the soaking that had occurred in the Impala. Incredible, miraculous.

  Not human.

  M
aybe you’re not human, she told herself. Maybe her entire definition of humanity was nothing but a joke. Perhaps her mind was so messed up she had forgotten the existence of men with wings or folks who had the power to control minds and turn normal women like herself into assassins. Maybe the world was strange, had always been strange, and amnesia had turned her into such a square peg she had forgotten it all.

  Maybe all of this is one big hallucination.

  Maybe you should be afraid of him.

  Maybe be afraid of yourself.

  All kinds of maybes. She hated every single one.

  She listened for Etta as she worked but heard nothing in the rest of the house. It was like she and Lannes were alone. She wondered if the Impala’s tires had already been slashed. She wondered if men with guns were coming.

  The woman could not be certain how well she was washing the blood from him, but four bowls of hot water later, she called it quits. All she could ask for was a heartbeat and working lungs, and Lannes was giving her both. She cleared away the dirty towels and his ruined jeans and leaned up hard against the kitchen cabinet near his head. She smelled like blood. She had a feeling she had more of it on her than he had on him.

  The woman drank some water. Poured a little down his throat. Somewhere, a clock ticked. It matched time to her heart and to the words in her head.

  Don’t. Don’t. Don’t.

  The woman sank closer to Lannes and curled into a tight ball. She reached out just slightly and let her pinky rest on the invisible edge of something soft that was not a blanket, and not her imagination.

  A wing, she told herself, chilled to the bone.

  But she did not stop touching him. She lay very still and waited for Lannes to wake.

  Chapter Ten

  Waking was the hard part. Dreaming, unfortunately, was not.

  Lannes lost himself in dreams. Part of him knew he was hurt, but it was a small thing, insignificant, compared to the visions inside his head.