by Potter, Ryan
“Nothing,” I lie. “It was wonderful.” Not a lie. I wipe my brow, surprised to feel a light coating of sweat. “It’s just that I’m afraid of what might happen if we keep this up.”
He stares at me. I can sense his disappointment. I’m disappointed too, but I have to figure out what the fire visions are all about. I focus hard on Lewis, thinking back to how he suddenly appeared out of nowhere in the middle of the street yesterday, and then how he pulled his disappearing act when I drove off. I again wonder how Lewis knew the detail about the police finding Mr. Watkins’s body near Oval City. I’m still not certain how he knew where my bedroom was either, and the more I think about it, it’s surprising how unconcerned he is about the damage to his grandfather’s truck.
And then something else occurs to me.
“The homeless man,” I say.
“What about him?” Lewis says.
“He seemed certain that he saw you yesterday in Oval City.”
“Don’t tell me you believe a nut like that.”
“He said he knew your voice.”
“Alix,” he says. “He’s an insane old man. He’s probably senile and confusing his memories. If he remembers me, it’s from years ago. I promise.” He closes his eyes and groans as he purposely but lightly knocks the back of his head against the padded seat. “You’re killing a beautiful moment.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “Sometimes I’m too paranoid, I guess. But you need to answer something for me.”
“Like I said, you can ask me anything.”
“You know where I live,” I say, reaching for his hand and hoping the fire doesn’t return. It doesn’t. “You even know where my bedroom is.” I smile at the wink he flashes me. “Seriously, though, I have no idea where you live. I know you’re from Eastland and living with your grandparents somewhere around here. But what’s their address?”
“Alix,” he says, rolling his eyes, “they live at 3116 Bloomfield, okay? Do you want to go over there right now and meet them? They’re probably sleeping, but I’ll take you if you’re doubting what I’m saying.”
“No,” I say, relieved and committing those four numbers to memory—3-1-1-6. They total eleven, so that’s how I’ll remember them. “It’s fine,” I add. “I believe you. I just needed to know. And yes, I’d like to meet them, but not tonight. My dad can come home at any time.” I open my door. The dome light illuminates the truck’s interior. “Thank you for tonight, Lewis. I mean it. Thank you.”
“My pleasure.” He caresses my palm with his fingertips. “Can I interest you in one more kiss?”
“It’s tempting, but you’re too dangerous.”
I step out, close the door, and walk in front of the truck toward the sidewalk.
“Hey, Alix?”
I reach the sidewalk and turn.
Lewis says, “Don’t forget.”
“About what?”
He smiles. “You have a knife in your back pocket.”
“You’re right,” I say, patting my pocket, relieved the weapon is still there. “Thanks for the reminder.” I remove the silver knife from its sheath and show it to him before quickly tucking it back where it belongs. “Hey, Lewis?”
“What’s up?”
I smile. “Good luck explaining the truck to your grandpa.”
He nods and gives me a wave. Then he turns the headlights on and drives slowly away, leaving me with the feeling he’s one of those people who the more you think you know them, the less you really know about them.
If William is my Dream Guy Lewis is my Mystery Man.
I stand there on the sidewalk, rubbing my warm lips and watching the back of Lewis’s truck until the taillights fade to tiny red smudges in the dark street.
I can’t imagine being with a better kisser than Lewis Wilde, and as much it scares me to think about it, I really can’t wait to be alone with him again.
Chapter 17
I step into my house just before ten and sense danger as soon as I close the door behind me. Once again I place my hand on my back pocket to double-check that I still have Aruna’s knife. Satisfied, I flick on the living-room light and breathe a sigh of relief at the sight of an empty room. The relief doesn’t last long, however, because I suddenly have that same feeling I experienced behind Zeppelin in the moments before Aruna made her appearance.
Somebody is inside this house, and it isn’t my dad.
I step cautiously into the room, hand on my back pocket, fear overwhelming me.
“Aruna?” I say, now frustrated at the lack of a clear vision and suddenly hoping my abilities return full force. “Is that you, Aruna?”
No answer—just the sound of my heavy breathing.
I decide to take Dad’s advice on this one. Since there’s a gun in Dad’s office and the intruder might already have it (or one of his or her own), it’s too dangerous for me to stay here, so I decide to quietly and quickly leave the house to call the police.
And I’m taking my first step backwards toward the front door when it happens.
A dark figure is directly behind me, waiting. I see it in my mind, just like I saw Aruna hiding behind the Dumpster before she made her appearance. Problem is I’m too late this time. This person is too good. This person has abilities that dwarf my own. At the same time, something weird happens with Aruna’s silver knife. I feel it vibrating in my back pocket like some trapped animal trying to break free. Then I remember London’s comment about the knife possibly coming in handy.
It’s some sort of warning, I realize. The knife is warning me.
But it all happens too fast. The next thing I know, a muscular arm wraps around my neck and I’m in a choke hold that could easily kill me in my own living room.
I drop to my knees, unable to breathe as the pressure of the person’s arm threatens to crush my trachea. A shiny, black, spandex-like material covers the arm, but there’s disgusting slimy moisture on it that I feel against my throat. The knife responds too, now vibrating with more intensity. It’s as if the knife is struggling along with me and pleading for me to reach back and grab it. Problem is I can’t take my hands off of this person’s arm. I’m using every ounce of strength I have to get this anaconda off of me, but it’s no use.
I’m on the verge of blacking out when I hear a male voice in my ear that goes against everything good in this world. It’s a low, dirty, guttural voice—the voice of evil. The sound of it sends the most intense wall of fire through my mind yet.
Slowly and calmly, he whispers the following: “I want the knife, Alix. It doesn’t belong to you.”
He releases his death grip and shoves me forward onto the wood floor.
I land face-first, roll onto my back, and grab my aching throat, coughing and crying as I struggle to get my wind back. A tall, muscular figure stands above me, intense black eyes glaring at me with hatred. The strange black material covers the man’s entire face and body, feet included. He wears no shoes. He reminds me of a ninja who just emerged from a swimming pool.
“Who are you?” I say, dreading the thought of another choke hold. “What are you?”
The knife continues to go bonkers in my pocket.
What happens next confirms that London’s world of violent battles against demonic beasts exists.
With inhuman speed, the “man” hunches forward onto all fours. His back arches like that of a cat. I hear a series of disgusting popping sounds that remind me of tree branches snapping in half. He’s getting larger, I realize, and his arms have become his front legs. Wide-eyed, I watch in horror as his black eyes turn into yellow slits. At the same time, long silver claws protrude from the four “feet” that now resemble gigantic black paws.
It finally occurs to me that the spandex-like material isn’t fabric at all. It’s the creature’s skin.
His slimy, eel-like face is now twice as large as its original form. The beast reminds me of a steroid-bloated hairless cat without ears or a tail.
The monster launches itself toward me, stopping inche
s from my face, its head moving slowly from side to side. The yellow eyes seem to stare right through me. Terror paralyzes me. I’m unable to respond to the knife’s continuing protests in my pocket.
The voice again: “Give me the knife, Alix, or you won’t like what I do to you.”
The creature has no mouth, I realize, just those awful eyes and hideous face. The words simply emerge from it somehow.
This is impossible. It can’t be happening. But it is. This thing is all too real and from someplace I want nothing to do with.
“Will you go away and leave me alone if I give it you?” I ask, finally managing to muster some words.
The beast’s mouth suddenly appears like a new fault in the earth’s surface. A dark, horizontal crack forms across the lower middle part of its face. Black ooze seeps from the crack as the creature opens its mouth, revealing a set of sharp yellow teeth that look as if they could slice me in half with ease. Each dagger-like tooth is nearly the size of my head.
What happens next nearly makes me vomit.
A thick, slimy, blood-red tongue uncoils from the back of the beast’s mouth and protrudes several inches beyond its teeth. The creature then runs the tip of its grotesque tongue down the side of my face and neck, leaving behind a trail of yellow ooze that smells like rotten garbage. All I can do is close my eyes and try not to go insane from the terror.
“You taste good, Alix,” the monster hisses, running its tongue over my nose and glasses. “Now, give me the knife and I’ll be on my way.”
I manage a deep breath and, eyes still closed, think back to my reading on London. As those awful battle images danced through my mind, London told me to take it all in. She said it was real. She said I was becoming part of it.
As I again recall her tip about the knife coming in handy, I realize that right now it’s official. I’m part of London’s world, and as awful, violent, and unreal as her world is, this is happening, and I need to summon the courage to deal with it.
Courage.
Again, London’s words come to mind. There’s nothing wrong with being scared. I’m scared every day. Vagabond says courage is being scared to death of something but confronting it anyway. Trust your abilities, but don’t trust anything or anybody else.
My mind somehow clears, and although I’m still lying on my back and experiencing intense pain from the choke hold and fall, I know exactly what I have to do. As the creature’s wet tongue explores my forehead and hair, I keep my eyes closed and carefully slide my right arm behind my waist, where I manage to grasp the handle of the silver knife. The knife continues its odd behavior and settles into my grip as if my hand is a high-powered magnet. I lie there a few moments, fear building again as the beast raises a front leg and brings one of those nasty silver claws dangerously close to my throat.
“Here’s your knife!” I yell.
My words surprise the beast. It lowers its leg and begins to withdraw its tongue, but not before I grab that disgusting tongue with my outstretched left hand. I get an excellent hold on it too, the tongue feeling like warm raw meat as I use it as leverage to pull myself up to a seated position. The beast squeals like a wounded pig, fighting me hard as I raise the knife high over my right shoulder with blinding speed I never knew I had. I close my eyes and scream as I plunge the knife through the thick center of the monster’s tongue. The blade cuts through the skin as if it’s warm butter and embeds itself into the wood floor. A warm, putrid liquid sprays my face. When I open my eyes, I see a geyser of yellow ooze erupting from a fist-sized hole in the trapped creature’s pinned tongue. The monster shrieks like mad and begins shaking violently. I grab the knife and pull it out of the floor and through the mangled tongue.
“Go to hell!” I yell, wiping hot, stinky yellow ooze from my glasses and raising the knife for another strike.
But I don’t have to strike again. Instead, I feel an intense heat emanating from the wounded creature. I see the explosion in my mind just before it happens. Knowing what’s coming, I grip the knife tightly and roll backwards as far as I can, watching from the entrance to the kitchen with a morbid sense of fascination as the crawling, skinless, demonic cat-beast explodes into a brilliant blue, yellow, and orange fireball the size of a large boulder and vanishes before my eyes.
I sit up, heart pounding as I look around the now-silent room. It’s as if the whole thing never happened. The knife has stopped moving, and I somehow know this means the danger has passed. I pocket my valuable weapon and sit there on the wood floor in a daze, reaching up to wipe leftover monster ooze from my face only to discover there’s no ooze to wipe. Weird. I’m not even sweating. I touch my throat. It’s not the least bit sore from the choke hold. All evidence of what just happened has disappeared. I’m bewildered, confused, and convinced I’m going mad.
“Go away,” I whisper, breaking into tears and burying my face in my hands. “Please, God. Just make it all go away.”
For the next few minutes, I cry harder than I have since the day Mom died. One moment I think I have everything figured out and I’m confident I’ll bust Face for William’s murder and destroy Oval City. The next moment I remember I just destroyed a shape-shifting monster with a magical knife I have no business carrying. In between I think about my overwhelming feelings for Lewis but face the fact I still have serious questions about his sudden presence in my life.
“I need help,” I say through the tears. I’m sitting on the living-room floor, face still in my hands. “I’m alone and I need help.”
Knowing I’m all out of tears, I dry my face with my hands, remove the knife, and stare at it, examining it closely for the first time and noticing a series of wedge-shaped designs etched lightly into one side of the solid silver handle. But upon closer examination I realize the markings are more than beautiful designs. They’re symbols, dozens of them, a series of small triangles with vertical and horizontal lines connecting them. The history student in me feels a strong urge to go upstairs and research the markings, and I’m getting ready to stand and do that when I again experience the sensation that somebody is in the room with me.
Moments later the white light erupts inside my head and I see an image of a well-dressed man with piercing blue eyes and a freshly shaven head. His dark suit is impeccable. He’s handsome but older, more like a father figure. Grandfatherly even. I open my eyes, drop the knife onto the floor, and stare at it, unable to garner the energy needed for another fight.
“I give up,” I say, shaking my head. “Whoever you are, just do what you have to do. Take the knife. I give up.”
Nothing happens, but I know the man in the suit is close by.
“Take the knife!” I yell, pushing it across the floor as if it’s a hockey puck.
The weapon hits something five feet away and stops with a dull metallic thud. I raise my gaze slightly and see a pair of immaculate dark-leather men’s shoes.
A voice: “That’s a shame, Alix. Because overall you’ve shown great promise thus far.”
I close my eyes and refuse to look up. He speaks quickly but calmly, his accent falling somewhere between Australian and English. The aura he gives off is one of pure white light. There is no fire to this man, and there’s no need for an introduction. William warned me I would not like this man, but I know he represents good.
Right now though, I don’t care what he represents, because I’m done with this.
“Vagabond?”
“Hello, Alix.” I hear him kick the knife. The weapon slides across the floor and stops inches from my knees. “You’re allowed to feel sorry for yourself on occasion, but don’t you ever voluntarily relinquish that knife. You’re only beginning to understand how special that weapon is. Now, please stop being so submissive and rude. You look incredibly sad and weak at the moment. I despise those two qualities, so stand up and open your eyes. We have a lot to talk about.”
I do as he says, opening my eyes and standing across from him, but I make a point of leaving the knife on the floor. Vagabond looks e
xactly as he did in the vision, a walking male model for some high-end suit store catering to men aged sixty and up. He folds his hands in front of his waist and studies me with eyes so blue they’re hard to look at.
“Say it,” he says.
“Say what?”
“Exactly what you’re feeling.”
“I just did,” I say. “I quit. I’m done. I can’t handle any of this. I never asked for it. I don’t want it.” I pause. “Okay, maybe I wanted it at certain points, but not after what just happened with that … that thing I just killed.”
“Nobody asks for abilities like yours, Alix,” he says, glaring at me. “What you and certain other humans can do is incredibly rare, a combination of luck and genetics, but mostly luck.”
“Lucky is the last thing I feel right now.”
“I understand,” he says. “What you’re feeling—that roller coaster of emotions—it’s normal and expected at this stage. London Steel had to deal with it. Roman King had to deal with it. So did the others.”
“Roman King?” I say, squinting. “That name rings a bell. Who is he?”
“A recent addition to my team.” Vagabond smiles. “I’m sure you two will meet soon.” He claps his hands together once. “Right, then. Shall we get on with it?”
“Get on with what?”
“A little chat, Alix. There’s a lot you need to know.”
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “There isn’t. Maybe I wasn’t clear, but I’m done, okay? I feel bad for William, but I’m sure you already know who killed him, so why don’t you just take it from here and leave me alone?” Vagabond stands there as stone-faced as a statue. “Leave, Vagabond. Do you have any idea what my dad will do to you if he walks in and finds you here?”
“Unfortunately, you’re proving more stubborn than expected,” he says, taking a step closer and towering at least six inches above me. “Listen closely to three things, Alix. First, for reasons you don’t yet understand, I have no idea who killed William Weed. As far as I’m aware, you’re the one person on this planet who possesses the abilities to solve that mystery, so stop trying to avoid who and what you really are. You might not like it, but you’re an incredibly gifted two-way psychic who will do a lot of good in this world … and beyond.” He pauses. “Second, if your father walked into this room right now, all he would see is you talking to yourself. And how do you suppose Mr. Clint Keener would feel about that?”