The Gateway Trilogy: Complete Series: (Books 1-3)

by Christina Garner

  “To suicide,” Taren finished quietly.

  “Oh,” was the only reply I could manage.

  I thought of that night, seemingly so long ago. The way I'd felt, the Voice urging me on.

  “What about the Voice in my head?” I asked. “You said Callie hears one, too. Is it the same one?”

  The idea that a demon had access to my deepest thoughts was utterly bone-chilling.

  Taren shook his head. “I don’t think so. And she hears several voices, not just one. That's another anomaly.”

  I exhaled with relief, but Taren's expression grew troubled.

  “What does your voice tell you to do?” he asked.

  I hesitated. I'd been hiding Its presence in my life for so long, it seemed wrong to share it, even with what I'd been told.

  “It's all right, you don't have to tell us,” Taren said. “We have counselors; you can talk about it with them.”

  I groaned. More shrinks?

  “For now, it's just important that you believe me when I tell you that the voice you're hearing is dangerous, and it will do whatever it takes to deceive you.”

  Was he right? If my Voice was different, then how could he be so sure? It had facilitated my suicide attempt, true, but It had also told me to trust Taren. And It had never urged me to harm anyone…

  My mind reeled. Each answer led to more questions. If Kat was one of the good guys, why couldn't she know about my tattoo? I wanted to ask about the man with the red eyes that had attacked us, but that might have led to a conversation about my artwork at Buzz. Was the work really even mine? I didn’t know how much longer I was willing to comply with Taren's request to keep it secret.

  He must have sensed my restlessness, because he stood and stretched. I remembered that he’d spent the night in that chair, and the thought comforted me.

  “I don't know about the rest of you, but I'm starving,” he said.

  Desperate as I was for more answers, I couldn't ignore the painful emptiness in my belly. “I could eat.”

  Kat excused herself to check on Callie while Taren led me to a spacious kitchen filled with stainless steel appliances that looked as though they'd never been used. I took advantage of the moment alone with him.

  “Why do you want Kat to think I have some mystical birthmark? And why can't she know about my tattoo?” I said in a hushed tone.

  “Because you are in serious danger,” he said, his tone equally hushed, but urgent. “I'm trying to protect you. Not from Kat, but from things you don't understand and that are worse than you can imagine. Please, just trust me for a little while longer. When Callie wakes up, I'm taking you both to the Institute, and then I promise you will get the answers you need.”

  We had a brief standoff before I nodded in acquiescence.

  “Thanks, I owe you,” he said. “And while I'm racking up debts, I have another request. Callie's state of mind is still very fragile, and she doesn't remember much of last night. She's younger and not as strong as you. It's important we don't talk about any of this in front of her.”

  I agreed, pleased with the knowledge that he found me strong. Then Kat entered the room and I instantly felt invisible again.

  “Look who was up,” Kat said, smiling.

  Callie yawned. “You woke—”

  “Well, the important thing is that you're awake,” Kat said quickly, “which means we can leave sooner than we expected and don't have to eat here.”

  Kat turned a dubious eye to the meal Taren was putting together for us. He’d placed a box of dried cereal and a tin of sugar cookies next to a half-eaten jar of applesauce.

  “Not much for cooking?” I asked, the corners of my mouth twitching into a smirk.

  “It's not like I've been home in the past few weeks,” he said defensively. “And my folks…travel.”

  I wondered whether Taren's parents knew he was some sort of demon fighter, or if they really thought he was a pyro. I added it to my growing list of questions.

  He surveyed the spread and sighed. “All right, let's go.”

  Kat brightened. “Great! Come on, girls, I'll loan you some clothes.”

  She grabbed both Callie and me by the hand and led us down a short flight of stairs. The lower level contrasted sharply with the upper. Where the upstairs decór was sleek, with clean lines and a place for everything, the downstairs bedroom was chaotic and painted in bright colors. The walls were covered in pop art, the shelves adorned with kitsch. Kat went to a large closet and flung open the door to reveal rows and rows of stylish clothes.

  So she lived here. It was a mark in the “they're dating” column. But they didn't share a room, which was a mark in the “what the hell is up with them?” column.

  She reached all the way into the back and pulled out a bag, tossing it to Callie.

  “Here, take what you like. All that stuff is from when I was your age—I could barely squeeze a toe into it now. Lucky for you, I'm terrible at throwing things away.”

  She looked me up and down. “I'm kinda guessing you've got an alternative vibe going, right? Nothing too girly, nothing to make you fit in except with all the other people who don't want to fit in?”

  I was flustered by the accuracy of her assessment, especially given that I was wearing a bathrobe. “Um, yeah.”

  She pulled a t-shirt from its hanger. “Here, my older cousin gave this to me as some kind of joke. You probably know who it is.”

  She tossed me the shirt. It bore the logo of an indie trip-hop band I'd seen more than once. A camisole flew my way and I snagged it, grateful. I didn't want to wear the bra I'd discarded last night; it was filthy and reeked of perspiration. Not that I was pleased that my breasts could be kept under control by such a thin sheath of fabric, but it did have its advantages. A pair of jeans sailed my way. I was surprised that they fit even reasonably well, though they were tight in the waist and loose in the hips, reflecting how much more of an hourglass shape her figure was. I rolled up the bottom hem a good three inches to make up for our difference in height.

  “Not bad,” Kat said, appraising Callie and me. Then she eyed my rolled-up hem and shook her head. “Except for that.”

  She reached into a drawer and pulled out a pair of scissors, cutting off the excess fabric and fraying the ends. I protested—didn't we have more important things to worry about? But I looked in the mirror and had to admit, if only to myself, that it was an improvement. I used one of the brushes laid out on the dresser to work out the tangles caused by sleeping with damp hair.

  Taren was waiting for us upstairs, keys in hand. Instead of leading us to the car we'd all but wrecked the night before, we piled into an SUV parked in the garage.

  We rode mostly in silence. Anything I wanted to talk about was off-limits for now. Occasionally I would glance at Callie out of the corner of my eye, noticing her right wrist—or, more to the point, the markings on it. To most people they would seem inconsequential. But I thought of my tattoo, and how if you shrunk the dimensions just enough, the pinkish brown birthmark would overlay it perfectly—a complete match of one section.

  Partway through the drive I remembered my mother, and immediately felt guilty for having forgotten her for so long. I knew my disappearance would send her into a spiral. I imagined her insisting on being brought to the police station, and then staying all night to make sure everything was being done to find me and bring me home safely. I pictured her exhausted by her histrionics, but refusing to go home.

  Taren indulged my request to call her, but with precautions. We pulled over to stop at a convenience store, where he bought three disposable cell phones, each loaded with only small amounts of money. He ripped open the packaging on one of them and handed it to me.

  “Send a text first. Tell her you're fine and are going to call her in three minutes, but she has to make sure she’s alone. If your suspicions are right, she’s probably surrounded by cops right now, and that’s the last thing we need.”

  I struggled with texting on the archaic ke
ypad—who wasn’t using QWERTY by now?—but eventually pulled it off. I waited the three minutes and dialed, Taren sitting on the curb next to me. I knew he was afraid I’d say something to lead the police right to us, but doing so was the furthest thing from my mind. I wanted answers more than I wanted safety, and I wasn’t so sure that even the LAPD could protect me if I’d been marked for death by some alternate demon universe. The absurdity of that thought was not lost on me even then.

  “Baby? Is that you?” My mother’s voice was frantic.

  “Yeah, Mom, it’s me. I’m fine.” I answered. “Please don’t worry.”

  “Where are you?” she said. “Why haven’t you come home?”

  “Because there’s something going on right now and I just…can’t yet.” I thought about the demon I’d seen, thought about its gaping mouth and shuddered. I knew that even if I didn’t need answers, going home would only put my mother in danger.

  “But you will? Soon?” The pleading in her voice almost broke me.

  “Yes, Mom, I promise. Please just trust me.” I didn’t have to see Taren’s face to know he was growing impatient. “I’m really sorry, but I have to go now.”

  “All right,” she said, resigned, “wait, wait—one more question. When you come home, will you bring some tartar sauce? I’ll make fish sticks, your favorite.”

  What the…? It took a moment before I recovered, finally remembering the obscure reference. “No, Mom, I hate fish sticks. Will you make something else?”

  “Oh, yes,” she said, overjoyed. “Yes, I’ll make anything you want. Be safe and come home as soon as you can.”

  “I will,” I promised, not sure I would make good on either.

  I flipped the phone shut and handed it to Taren. He tossed it in the trash.

  “Hey, there was still money left on that. What if I want to call her again?”

  “That’s what these are for,” he answered, holding up the two extras. “Disposables are hard to trace, but no sense taking chances. Use a new phone for each call.”

  I was comforted by the extra phones, but less so by the fact that he held onto them, a clear indication that wherever we were going, my communication with the outside world would not be up to me.

  “What was that bit about fish sticks?” he asked, climbing back into the SUV.

  “Oh, pretty clever of her, actually, though I thought it was ridiculous when she came up with it. Sometimes Mom gets paranoid, thinks people might be out to get her, out to get me.” I laughed nervously at how close that now hit home. “Anyway, one night she was really freaked out and came up with a code. If I was ever kidnapped or something, she would say something about me liking fish sticks. If I said I wanted fish sticks, that meant I was in danger and needed help, no matter what else I’d said to her that I was fine.”

  “So by saying you hate fish sticks…”

  “She knows I’m OK and doesn’t need the police. Who says bipolar disorder can’t be useful?”

  If anyone in the car was uncomfortable with the admission that my mother was mentally ill, they didn’t let on. Although I guess Callie battled mental problems of her own and was therefore unlikely to throw stones, and if Taren and Kat’s jobs entailed bringing people back from the brink of crazy, they probably weren’t easily shocked.

  We had passed through the heart of Hollywood and were making our way toward the Sunset Strip when Taren made a right, heading up the mountain that served as a boundary between the rest of Los Angeles and the dreaded Valley, where aging movie stars who had run out of residual checks went to die. Where club-going poseurs who worked as production assistants lived because they were spending all of their money to lease a BMW Z-4. Where I lived. Even my city didn’t fit in.

  This border town, known as Laurel Canyon, was an elite colony nestled between the two worlds. One of the few places in Los Angeles where trees hadn’t been torn down to accommodate housing needs. The roads were narrow, houses perched precariously on hillsides, and deer were not an uncommon sight. As with most places, the higher you went, the more expensive it got. Having seen Taren’s place in the Hollywood Hills, I was unsurprised that we kept winding up and up, until my stomach lurched and it was all I could do to not give in to car sickness.

  We came to a stop in front of a gated driveway. A guard stepped out of the small shack and gave Taren a polite wave. The gate slid open and we eased through. The narrow driveway curved its way through a canopy of trees that filtered out all but the softest rays of sunshine, then opened to reveal a sprawling estate. Fruit trees dotted the landscape, as did the occasional marble bench. The beautiful scenery did nothing to calm me, however. Instead, my pulse quickened and bile rose in my throat.

  “Thank God we're here,” I said. “I don't usually get motion sickness but I'll be very glad to get out of this car.”

  Taren and Kat exchanged glances.

  “No, not again…” Callie moaned softly.

  “Hold on, Callie. We're almost to the safe place I told you about,” Taren said, easing to a stop.

  “What’s bringing this on?” I was concerned for my safety as well as hers. If she was hearing voices, they might be telling her to attack me again.

  “It’s being this close to the Gateway. The voices will be louder and more controlling,” Taren answered. “It's also why you feel sick. Aren't you hearing anything?”

  “Not a thing.” I was glad for yet another distinction between the Voice in my head and the ones in Callie’s. “So you both feel nauseous, too?”

  “No,” Kat said. “Only Marked Ones are connected to the Gateway like that.”

  Taren locked eyes with me in the rearview mirror.

  We piled out of the car and Taren brought us not to the mansion set atop the gently sloping hill, but to a path that led to a dormitory-style building. My stomach continued to churn, while Callie clutched her temples and muttered nonsensically.

  The moment my foot touched the packed earth of the trail, I felt better. Still queasy, but noticeably improved. I looked at Taren, who gave me a comforting smile. With each step, my stomach calmed even more. Callie looked around with wide eyes. I'd never seen her smile before, but now she wore a wide grin.

  “They're quiet. I can tell they're still here, but they're not talking anymore.” Her voice was filled with awe. “Is this the place you told me about? The Sanctuary?”

  “That’s right,” Taren said, pleased. “This part of the property holds a special protection against the demons. You’re safe here.”

  “I'm never leaving,” Callie said reverently.

  She was transforming before my eyes. It was like a switch had been flipped. Her eyes were bright with excitement, her skin already losing its gray cast.

  As for me, I was just happy to back from the verge of vomiting. Other than that, I didn't feel particularly different.

  We reached the front door of the building and stepped inside.

  The entryway led to a large common area. It was like the upscale version of the rec room at Windsor. A half dozen comfortable chairs faced a flat screen television. The walls were lined floor to ceiling with bookshelves. I marveled at the diverse collection.

  A plump woman in her fifties walked out of an office to greet us.

  “Young Mr. Hart, I've been expecting you,” she said.

  Taren's last name was Hart? I wasn't sure which struck me as funnier: his last name, or that I'd spent half the night running for my life with a guy whose last name I hadn't even known.

  The woman eyed the rest of us. “I knew we had one new student, but I didn't know you would be bringing one as well, Katrina.” Her tone held a hint of reproach.

  “I'm sorry, Mae, that's my fault,” Taren said, “This is Callie, whom you know about, and this is Ember. She's here to meet with Annys and Master Dogan. They should be on their way down.”

  “I see. Well, the more the merrier,” Mae said. “We certainly have the extra beds. Why don't you wait in my office? I'm sure they'll be wanting privacy. I'll take C
allie to her room.”

  Kat went with them, offering to show Callie around the rest of the grounds. I followed Taren to Mae's office.

  Once seated, I asked, “So these two people who are coming—Annys and Master Dogan—they are the ones I can trust? I can show them the tattoo and they'll explain to me what I have to do with all of this?”

  Taren nodded. “Both are members of the Elders’ Circle, which Annys leads.”

  “Sounds like they're pretty important. All of that just for me?” The thought made me squirm.

  “I told you, Ember, you're special. And more powerful than you know. Don't let Annys intimidate you. It'll be easier said than done, but show them you can stand up for yourself. Someone with your talents is going to need to be strong, and it's important you prove that you are.”

  My talents?

  Before I could ask what he meant, the door opened and in strode an imposing woman with dark blonde hair and eyes like a falcon. Behind her was a man with a closely shaved head. His face was still, a pond filled with clear water, not even a ripple to mar its surface. I couldn't put an age to him.

  After the introductions, Annys took a seat behind the desk. “Taren, you may leave us now, but wait outside. We'll have need of you when we're done with her.”

  When they were done with me? Taren spared me a regretful glance before doing as he was told. Annys turned her intense gaze to me.

  “Show us this marking of yours.”

  I stiffened at the abrupt command but complied, turning away and revealing my tattooed shoulder.

  Master Dogan gasped and I turned back to see shock on his face. Annys masked her emotions, instead saying, “And how did you come to be marked this way?

  “I brought the completed design to a tattoo artist.” I knew she wanted more, but her interrogation style put me on the defensive, afraid to say too much.

  “I see. And you claim to have come up with the design on your own? You never saw it anywhere? Were never shown a part of it by someone else?”

  The arrogance of her tone raised my hackles, and I found anger surpassing my fear. I returned her gaze, hoping mine was as harsh. “I don't claim it; it's the truth.”