Pull

by Anne Riley

  I’m in shock, that my brain is trying to shut out the horror of what’s happening, but then I realize that’s not it at all.

  Papa is doing something inside of me.

  Images flip through my mind like a photo album. Snapshots from the past few hours appear in a flash and are replaced almost immediately. We’re in the Fiat. Isaac is talking to the cops at the hospital. I’m on the phone with my dad. We’re parked behind the pub. The black van is already there. We’re inside The Black Swan. Albert is searching through the kit. We’re going down the staircase with our flashlights.

  Then the images stop.

  You weren’t there at the right time, Papa says. I can guide you, but you have to Pull. I am not strong enough to do both.

  My mind spirals out of control. I have to Pull?

  Yes. I have managed to slow things down around you, but I don’t know how long I can do it. You have to Pull quickly. I will put you where you need to be.

  The Mortiferi are moving as if they are underwater, their expressions taking too long to change, their strides drawn out in slow motion. Even Gareth Long’s frantic gestures seem sluggish.

  My eyes drift over the arena to my executed friends. Casey’s black hair fans around her head like a dark halo; Dan’s laughing face is pale and drawn; Isaac’s wise eyes stare without seeing.

  And Albert.

  Unless I can pull this off, I’ll never see his smile again, never feel the softness of his shirt against my cheek, never hear him laugh at his own lame jokes.

  My hands are still in position. I close my eyes and search the corners of my mind, looking for the handle. At first, just like in the police station, there is nothing.

  Then: something.

  This, Papa says. An image of the back of The Black Swan, barely visible through the darkness, projects itself onto my mind. Focus on it.

  I focus.

  I haven’t seen this scene in real life, I’m sure of that. There’s no Fiat parked behind the garbage bins. No black van. No Albert, Casey, Isaac, or Dan. No me.

  I adjust my mental fingers on the handle that’s not quite there.

  I love you to the end of the universe, my sweet Rosemary, Papa says. Now—Pull.

  I take a deep breath, and I draw the handle toward my body.

  Swirling colors. Imploding stomach. Pressure on my limbs from conflicting directions. A liquid feeling in my bones. And the whooshing sound that threatens to shatter my skull. A vortex opens up inside my chest and I’m sucked into it, turned inside out, and spat out the other side. Pain stabs through my head and my body crumbles into a million pieces. It’s worse than the feeling of being next to Albert when he Pulls—so much worse.

  The last thing I hear is the sound of my own deafening scream.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  LIGHT. FAINT, BUT IT’S THERE. SOMEONE IS TALKING. A girl. She sounds familiar, but I can’t place her voice.

  “Is she okay? What happened?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know how we got here.” A guy, breathless with worry. His voice catches on the next words. “Why isn’t she waking up?”

  Pressure under my jaw, followed by another male voice, this one deep and full of command. “She has a pulse.”

  “Unngh.”

  “There! Did you hear that?”

  My mind perks up. Did I make that moaning sound?

  “Unnnnngh.”

  Yes! That’s me!

  “What in the bloody hell happened? Why are we out here again?” Another guy.

  My eyelids crack open. Light green eyes stare down at me, sparkling in the beam of a flashlight.

  A name comes to me. “Albert?”

  He falls back and rubs a hand over his face. “Oh, sweet holy mother.”

  And then I remember everything.

  “Albert!” I shout, pushing myself upright. “You’re— How did—”

  I gasp between the sobs that choke me. My vision floods with tears and I can’t support myself anymore, so I sink to the ground. A strong pair of arms wraps around me and squeezes. My face is squashed against a solid chest and I cry into it, breathing in Albert’s unmistakable scent, clenching the back of his T-shirt in my fists.

  “It’s okay,” he says to me. “We’re okay.”

  I look at him. “Do you remember?”

  “Yeah,” he says slowly. “I remember going down those stairs and ending up in a huge room. I remember the Mortiferi. And I remember—” He pauses. “I remember dying.”

  He looks at me, and then at the others. Casey’s eyes are unfocused. Dan massages his forehead. Both of them lean against the Fiat, which is parked behind the garbage bins, right where we left it. I’m sure it’s not supposed to be here yet. But I guess if Papa can get us somewhere we haven’t been, he could get the Fiat there just as easily.

  “What happened?” Albert says. He adjusts his position on the ground and curls an arm around my shoulders. My head rests on his chest.

  “Papa,” I say. “The opus postremum is real.”

  The three Servatores gape at me.

  “Edward?” Albert whispers. “He Pulled one last time?”

  “No,” I say. “I did.”

  Silence.

  “Tell us,” Dan says, wonder laced through the words.

  “Papa showed me what to focus on, and—I don’t know. We’re not supposed to be here yet, but he was able to give me this image to focus on, and then—”

  Tires crunch on gravel somewhere to our left. Albert edges away from me and creeps toward the garbage bins. He peeks through the gap between them.

  “Black van,” he whispers. “Unmarked. Headlights off. Same one that was here when we pulled up earlier.”

  One of the van’s doors opens and shuts, followed by another.

  “Two men,” Albert says. “Can’t tell if they’re Mortiferi, but I’d be willing to bet they are.”

  I prop my arms on his shoulders and look through the gap over his head. The two men yank the van’s sliding door open. They wear black from head to toe, and even though it’s too dark to see their features, one of them seems familiar. I squint at him, wishing he would turn around so I could get a good look at his face, but he’s busy with something inside the van.

  Finally a cloud moves and the moonlight filters through the trees. It hits his profile just as he turns to say something to the other man.

  Recognition hits me hard. “James,” I breathe.

  “James?” Albert echoes in a whisper. “As in, the James?”

  “Yeah.”

  He might have been an awful date, but there’s no way having his soul darkened by sorcery is fair punishment for being a jerk. His eyes burn with an orange glow.

  “Mortiferi,” Albert whispers. “Fortes, at that. At least one, probably two.”

  One of them—the one who’s not James—grabs something large from the backseat and places it carefully on the ground. It looks like an oversized black duffel bag.

  James heaves another bag out of the van and lines it up next to the first one. The two Mortiferi treat the bags almost reverently as they move one after another onto the ground. James’s hands falter over one and it tumbles onto the ground by his feet. The other man shoots him a look.

  “What is that?”

  The voice makes me jump.

  “Sorry,” Casey says from her post right above my head. “But what do you suppose is in those bags?”

  “No idea,” I say.

  And then one of the bags moves. A sickening suspicion punches me in the gut. I count them quickly. Twelve. They’re being unloaded near the metal doors that lead to the Mortiferi arena. When another one twitches, I know I’m right.

  “People,” I say, my voice a strained whisper. “My brother is in one of those bags.”

  My stomach turns as I imagine Paul, drugged and helpless, being shoved into a duffel bag and thrown into the back of a van. Albert moves away from me to join Isaac and Dan, who are crouched next to the Fiat. They talk in hushed tones.

 
; Casey positions herself between the bins and peeks through the gap. “They’re going to fight. You and I will stay here and provide backup. Try not to worry, yeah?” She looks over her shoulder at me. “It’s three against two. I predict you’ll have your brother back in fifteen minutes.”

  “Casey, you know it won’t be that easy.”

  Her eyes flicker away from mine, then back. “Okay. So it might not be quite that simple. And there might be a hundred Mortiferi inside that pub. Who knows? We’ve never been here at this time before. Speaking of which, how far back did you Pull? Thirty minutes?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “Maybe Papa helped me go back farther than I would have otherwise.”

  “Maybe,” she says, eyeing me. “If he didn’t, though…”

  She shrugs and leaves the sentence hanging.

  Squatting at the edge of the left garbage bin, I press my hands against the grimy metal and peer around the side. The two Mortiferi work with their backs to us. Sweat shines along their arms as they transfer bags of people to the ground.

  A figure moves in my peripheral vision and I jump, expecting another Mortifer, but it’s Albert. His broad shoulders are tense with energy. He clenches his fists, then spreads his fingers wide. I can’t see his face, but I know what it looks like. Tight, determined, ready.

  The Mortiferi lay the last bag on the ground and gesture at the pub, arguing loudly. There aren’t any windows on the back of the building, so there’s no way to know if anyone’s inside. It’s too small to hold all the Mortiferi we saw underground, but that doesn’t make me feel much better.

  Dan appears behind Albert. It seems strange that Isaac isn’t with them. When I turn around to look for him, he’s on the ground next to the Fiat with a gun in his hand.

  “Protecting you,” he whispers in response to the question on my face.

  “Don’t they need you?” I ask.

  “If they do, I’ll leave you with the gun.” He smirks. “You Yanks know how to use these things, right?”

  “Us Yanks?” I cross my arms. “Say what you want about Americans, but not all of us are trigger-happy gun junkies. The last thing I want is to be responsible for a firearm.”

  A loud scuffling noise comes from the other side of the garbage bins, followed by several grunts. I whirl around to see what’s happening.

  Dan has knocked the unknown Mortifer to the ground. He straddles the man’s back, twisting his arm behind him and pressing his face into the dirt. The Mortifer struggles and tries to get up, but Dan’s fist slams into the back of his skull. The blow dazes him but doesn’t knock him out. He flips Dan off his back and punches him square in the face. Dan howls as his nose erupts with blood. Cupping a hand over his face, he shakes his head quickly and then lands a hard kick to the man’s jaw.

  Albert and James are tangled up a few feet away. Every time Albert gets him in a headlock, James tosses him onto the scrubby grass. James gets in a few punches to the ribs before Albert knees him in the groin and he crumples to the ground.

  “This might be easier than we thought,” Casey says, grinning at me. She squints through the gap again. “See? Look.”

  She’s right; Albert has wrestled James into an inescapable pretzel-type hold. Dan knocks the other Mortifer out and ties his wrists behind his back. The tension in my chest eases, and I glance behind us at Isaac. He’s peering into the shadows to our right.

  “See anything?” I ask in a low voice.

  He shakes his head and tucks the gun into his waistband. “I’m going to help them load people back in the van.”

  He walks past the garbage bins, and I relax a little. Casey, who’s balancing on her toes, sinks all the way to the ground and rolls onto her back. She covers her face and laughs.

  “Wow, I really thought it would be worse than that,” she says.

  “I know. I can’t believe—”

  A chorus of enraged shrieks brings both of us to our feet. We dart out from behind the garbage bins and stop in our tracks.

  At least twenty Mortiferi stumble out the back door of the pub, eyes on fire.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  HALF OF THEM CLUTCH LIQUOR BOTTLES AT THEIR sides—but instead of whiskey or vodka, they’re filled with that same glowing green liquid. Their fiery pupils burn in the night, and the sight of all those luminescent eyes makes me stumble back a few steps, reaching for something—anything—to protect me.

  “Oh,” Casey breathes. “We were wrong.”

  Albert looks up at the sudden crowd. His grip falters just enough for James to throw him off his back. Albert tries to tackle him again, but James swings an arm into his face—and then he catches sight of me. His mouth twists into a hungry leer, and it fills me with terror.

  But surely he’s not all gone. Maybe there is something left of the guy who bought me a Just Coke on our horrible date. He’s a Forte, just like Max and Luther. He still has his mind. Maybe I can reason with him and convince him to let us go.

  “James,” I say. “It’s me. Rosie. Remember?”

  He hesitates.

  “From the Hare & Billet. We went on a date.” I laugh, hoping it will trigger something human inside of him. “Come on, you remember, don’t you?”

  He takes a few steps toward me. Recognition flickers in his eyes. “Of course I remember.”

  Well, thank God. “Listen, I need your help with something. You can help me out, right?” I give him the coyest smile I can muster.

  His mouth curls into a grin, but it’s too sharp, too angular. “That depends how much you’re willing to pay. I had big plans that night, Rosemary.” He says my name like a curse word, and I step backward like he’s slapped me. “Big plans to take you behind that pub, all the way to the end of the alley, and get my money’s worth out of that date. But then you left.” His smile becomes a sneer. “And you made a fool of me in the process.”

  He rushes at me, pupils glowing, sick ecstasy written all over his face. He’s not James anymore—not really. He’s a shell of James, an empty container housing nothing but memories and rage.

  “HELP!” I scream, but screaming is the wrong thing to do. It’s like a siren song to the Mortiferi. They all move toward me at the same time, and I back up so quickly I almost fall over. They surround me in seconds, but James is the first one to hit me. His fist cracks across my cheek and stars explode in my vision.

  The scream that tears from my lungs is so loud that it feels like my head is splitting in two. I catch a glimpse of Casey’s frantic face; a couple of Mortiferi are trying to restrain her. Even though she thrashes against their grip, she can’t get free. I don’t see any of the boys, but I hear the bang of gunshots and the thud of bodies hitting the dirt. Hands grasp at my arms and legs. Fists crash into my head. I shut my eyes and wait to feel the suctioning in my stomach. Someone will Pull. Someone will get me out of this. I would do it, but there’s no way I can get my hands out, and I doubt I’d have the strength to do it again so soon.

  James hefts me onto his shoulder and I open my eyes. Albert is on top of the van, kicking at the Mortiferi as they try to follow him. He glances at his watch, then puts his hands out in front of him and closes his eyes. I almost die with relief.

  But the suctioning in my gut never comes.

  Albert looks confused. He shuts his eyes tighter and tries again.

  It’s not working.

  Oh, sweet mercy.

  It’s. Not. Working.

  How can the Pull fail to work now, of all times? Is it because Papa helped bring us here, to a place and time we hadn’t physically been in before? It’s the only explanation, and I have no clue how to fix it.

  The Pull, apparently, isn’t an option right now.

  “NO!” I scream, but we’re already going through the door. Men and women with glowing eyes surround us. James is saying something to me, but it’s in that horrible demon language and I can’t understand him.

  Finally he drops me on the wooden floor and the breath rushes out of my lungs. I throw my h
ands out in front of me, trying desperately to focus on getting us out of here, but I can’t concentrate on any specific time. I can’t feel the mental handle. I gasp for air, calling for Papa in my head, but there’s no answer.

  Albert said the opus postremum was for a Servator to make one last save. Papa saved all of us by helping me Pull. He can’t do anything more.

  Mortiferi close in on me. Every time I try to stand, someone shoves me back down. I can’t understand why they haven’t killed me yet, but then I remember I’m supposed to become one of them. Me and the twelve people they kidnapped, including my little brother. The thought burns like venom in my blood, but it also gives me a strange kind of fearless power. I didn’t fight being put in the cage because I thought it was too late. But now?

  It’s not too late anymore.

  When Gareth’s face appears in the crowd above me, I’m not shocked. I’m not even scared.

  I’m furious.

  “Rosemary Clayton,” he says. “I never expected to catch you this easily.”

  I search his eyes for any hint that he knows we Pulled, but all I see is fresh malice. His eyes roam my features greedily. To him, this is the first time we’ve spoken. He doesn’t remember anything about the arena. He doesn’t remember that Papa’s spirit showed up to guide me through my first Pull.

  As a leering smile spreads across his face, something moves behind the crowd. The Mortiferi are so focused on me that they fail to notice Albert and Casey squeezing through the back door. Albert’s eyes are cold and hard. He aims a gun at Gareth Long’s head.

  “Get away from her.” He pulls the back door closed behind him. Every eye snaps to the two Servatores. Casey holds the other gun; her jaw is set and she looks like she’s dying to squeeze the trigger.

  Something crashes into the back of the building and the walls shudder. Car doors slam. A glance through the window shows me what’s happened—Dan and Isaac have rammed the Fiat into the back door. The Mortiferi can’t get out. A couple of them try the handle, but the door doesn’t budge.

  For about three seconds, everyone just looks at each other.