by Joss Ware
“From the looks of things, she got more than her arrow back,” Fence pressed, obviously living vicariously through Quent.
“She also gave me this,” Quent said, pulling a wrinkled paper from his pocket. “Don’t know why she thought it was important. She said she found it in the kids’ van, with crystal dust all over it. Whatever that is.”
Elliott reached for the paper, glad to have something else to think about. He should have just gone upstairs instead of coming back down here. He was ridiculously unfit for company.
As he glanced at the sheet, which was a precise drawing of a location—a map—Lou approached the group.
The older man sat down in a chair Fence snagged and pulled over, and Elliott noticed he was holding the small book he and Jade had found in the Stranger’s pack today.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said without preamble, as if he’d been sitting in on their conversation for the last twenty minutes. His voice was loud enough for them to hear if they leaned forward, but thanks to blasting Nickelback, anything he said would be indistinguishable to anyone else. “I have a theory about what happened to you when you were in Sedona. I suspect that you must have been in a cave that was at the juncture of many ley lines—powerful linear centers of energy—that put you into the . . . coma . . . I guess I’d call it. And that imbued you with the powers you’ve awakened with.”
“Only Quent and Elliott have special capabilities,” Wyatt commented. “Simon and Fence and I seem not to have changed at all.”
“Except that we don’t have to shave,” Simon added blandly.
Lou smiled. “I don’t know that that’s something to complain about,” he said, deliberately stroking his own stubbled cheek.
Elliott nodded, drawn into the conversation in spite of his foul mood. “Well, it appears that Fence is starting to sprout stubble up top, so maybe Lou’s right. Maybe our bodies were . . . well, the only term I can think of is cryogenically frozen . . . for fifty years, and now that we’re conscious, it’s taking some time for them to learn to work properly again.”
Fence began to chuckle. “That fucking figures. Why do I get the stubble while Quent gets to take his junk for a test drive?”
A rumble of laughter rippled around the table, giving Elliott another tease of normalcy. Guys laughing at a shared joke in the bar.
Elliott explained, “Once we figured out what had happened—and your theory, Lou, makes sense, and is similar to the one that we’ve all come to accept, although I don’t think the term ley line crossed anyone’s lips. Even Fence’s.”
“Would have if I’d thought of it, mo-fo,” retorted Fence. “Now I have this image of some crazy-hot girls laying down in a long line, just waiting to be—”
“Laid, yeah, we get it,” Wyatt said with a short roll of the eyes. “Anyway, once we figured out what happened, and we realized we weren’t growing beards or hair or nails, we started thinking we might have gained some sort of immortality.”
He had to stop speaking when Trixie sauntered over. She rested her hand on Elliott’s shoulder when she leaned forward to take their orders . . . and to flirt briefly with Fence, who was still chuckling about the ley lines. Or, in his mind, lay lines.
Elliott glanced up at her and their eyes met.
And that’s when it hit home that he really, truly wasn’t interested in Trixie—or anyone else. Not in the way he was interested in Jade. Yeah, he could take Trixie upstairs, make sure all his parts still worked, and probably have a damn good time doing it. But that was it. And if they did, he wouldn’t care if she came down and made cow eyes at Fence or any of the other guys the next night.
And that was also, unfuckingfortunately, why Andrea of the large blue eyes hadn’t gotten any rise out of him in Greenside. Or his parts.
He was completely fucked. Or not. As the case might be. Jade was his.
Couldn’t she see it? Feel it? Christ, the minute he touched her—even looked at her—he felt as if they were sewn together.
“Right, Dred?”
He looked up and realized that Trixie had gone, and the others were looking at him.
“Man, brother’s already on that test drive,” Fence said, lifting his beer mug and brushing a hand over a not-so-smooth head anymore. “Damn, I’ve got to get me shaved.”
“When Lenny died, that pretty much put the lid on any possibility that we were immortal,” Wyatt said, answering the question for Elliott. “And Dred, our resident physician, confirmed that there was nothing unusual about him or his body.”
“He died from a tetanus infection,” Elliott said. Which was true. He just wasn’t ready to give all the details of why yet. He hadn’t told anyone about the double-edged sword of his new-found power, except for Jade. “Just like any of us would have.”
Just then, a rise of voices near the bar caught their attention. “Oh no,” said someone, in shock or horror. Everyone turned to look and the buzz grew louder. “My God,” someone else exclaimed.
Elliott got to his feet, and the others as well. “What is it?” he asked Trixie as she approached. Her eyes were round and filled with horror.
“It’s the mayor. He’s hurt real bad . . .” She seemed hardly able to form the words. “He’s. . . .” She shook her head. “They think he’s going to die.”
Elliott didn’t need to hear anymore. “Where is he?”
“I’ll take you,” said Lou.
Elliott never got the full story, but he didn’t need to scan Vaughn Rogan to know the guy was going to die.
The mayor had been found just outside the walls of Envy, a lion’s corpse next to him. It had been shot by an arrow, through the skull.
Elliott looked at Lou, who’d receded into the background after their entrance into what passed for a hospital in Envy. It was more of an infirmary, but Elliott wasn’t here to critique the medical facilities. He was here to do what he could.
Which was everything.
And he had little time to waste. Rogan was going fast.
“I can help him,” he said, speaking to a wiry man named Ben who appeared to be as close to a physician as they came nowadays. “But I want everyone to leave.”
He swept the room with his hand, encompassing the dozen people who’d crowded into the small place. The mayor was well loved, it appeared. Well loved, respected. Important to these people.
If there was a life to be saved, at such a risk, it was this one.
At first it looked as if Ben would argue. Elliott would have—after all, they didn’t know him from Adam. And Lou, who was considered the town’s crackpot, wouldn’t be much help when it came to vouching for him.
But perhaps Ben realized he was out of his league, and that stitches and bandages would be futile when the man—the leader of this city, the closest thing they had to a president or king—needed so much more. And aside from that, a matronly woman named Flo seemed to be on Elliott’s side, and the others listened to her when she ordered them to leave, explaining that she knew he was a healer.
“I need a dog. Or a cat. Something,” he ordered as he sent the man from the room. “Bring it here.”
But the man was shaking his head. “I don’t know—”
“Find one, dammit,” Elliott ordered, suddenly feeling desperation crawling over him. “A mouse, a rat. Something.”
Lou was the only one who remained in the room as Elliott scanned the man, first ascertaining the extent of his injuries. Fuck. Punctured liver. Smashed ribs. Blood pressure in the toilet. Breath rattling ominously.
He was a bloody mess.
Elliott stared down at the man. His rival. But that didn’t matter, of course.
The mayor of Envy—equivalent, in this hellacious place, to the leader of the free world.
Elliott could heal him. But then what would happen to him?
How did one determine whose life was more important? He stared down at Rogan, watching as the life literally eased from his body.
Was this the reason he was here? Was this why he’d bee
n spared, been given this ability? To save this man’s life? At the risk of his own?
Elliott drew in a deep breath. He thought of Jade, he watched the way the blood pumped out of the man before him. A good man, by all accounts.
And he rested his hands on him. Felt the sizzle of power as he concentrated, letting it flow into him as he moved his palms over Vaughn Rogan’s battered body. Taking on his pain and injury.
When he finished, he looked at Lou. “You’ll stay with him?” The older man nodded, and Elliott continued, “No one is to come in here until morning, at least, while we wait to see if this works. Lock the door if you have to.” Elliott stood. “No one. Even Jade.”
“You’re leaving?” Lou said in surprise.
Elliott nodded. “I can do nothing else. Now we wait to see if it worked.”
But the pain radiating through his body told him everything he needed to know.
Chapter 16
Elliott felt the blood seeping from his side, warm, sticky, onto the sheets beneath him.
The moon had begun to wane, and shone through the window not nearly as brightly as it had only three nights ago, when he watched Jade tear into an army of gangas on her horse.
Pain gouged him, growing slowly but steadily, dragging him into murkiness and confusion. He’d hurried, tottering back to his room after healing the mayor, careful not to brush against anyone, not to see or speak to anyone.
He’d barely made it before his knees trembled weakly, threatening collapse. He crumpled onto his bed.
The decision had been made—there’d been no other choice. But he’d hoped . . . well, that some solution would have presented itself. That someone would have brought a goddamned rat or something. That he wouldn’t have to die to save Vaughn Rogan.
But there was no solution. He’d made the choice, he’d offered the sacrifice, knowing there might be no one to whom he could pass it on to.
Knowing there was nothing that could be done for him—no one could care for him, touch him, comfort him—he’d retreated to solitude. He wanted to take no chances. No one would know until the morning, when they found Vaughn Rogan awake, completely healed. And Elliott Drake was found, drowned in his own blood.
There’d been one dark moment, one flash of thought when he wished, wryly and only half jokingly, that he could shake Luke of the mega-crystal’s hand. That thought had terrified him, too . . . because it was a possibility. An evil one. One he rejected as soon as he thought it . . . but it sat there. Like an ugly toad, a horrific demon, in the back of his battered mind.
This gift . . . and he used the term in his own mind loosely . . . could be a murder weapon. One he would never contemplate . . . but one that he wielded, nevertheless.
He sank into oblivion, the moonlight wavering around him. Anytime now.
He wouldn’t miss this world. And he felt no guilt, leaving it this way. It had been his gift to use as he saw fit. And he had.
Elliott thought he was hallucinating when a crack of light spilled into the room. He closed his eyes, opened them again, and the light was gone. Or maybe it was the light, pulling him into the afterlife. Where had it gone?
Something moved. A shadow. He was sure of it. He tried to focus, to pinpoint it, but he couldn’t clear his vision. He couldn’t move. His own breath caught and clogged.
It was a dream. Jade. Her long, thick hair, shining in the moonlight.
He closed his eyes, her face printed on his mind as he drifted into nothing.
Then he had the impression of a presence near him . . . my God, it wasn’t a dream . . . and he gasped a warning as the silhouette came close. As she bent to him, he tried to shake his head, to speak . . . he lifted a hand, weak, wordless, trying to warn her away . . . yet certain it was a dream . . . but she took his hand before he could stop her, and he felt the press of warm, slender fingers in his palm, the smooth caress as she slid them along his arm. . . .
He gasped again, trying to comb through the pain and fog to shout at her, to cry out. But it was too late.
“Lou forgot the Stranger’s book,” Quent said, noticing the little black tome on the table as he stood. It was late, and it didn’t seem that Elliott and Lou would be returning to The Pub. Everyone else seemed to be about finished for the night—himself included.
He wanted to return to his room, on the off chance that it wasn’t empty, that Zoë had returned, and was waiting for him. Now that she knew where to find him.
Bloody idiot. Of course the room would be empty, just as it had been when he’d awakened from the glorious afterglow of a much-needed, tear-your-clothes-off bonking. Not only had the room been bereft of Zoë, except for the faint residual of cinnamon, but her arrow was gone too.
The message had been clear. See ya later, chump. Thanks for the good times.
And Quent hadn’t really cared. It was obviously nothing but bloody fabulous sex for either of them.
Though next time . . . he wouldn’t fucking fall asleep.
Now, he reached for the Stranger’s book, then hesitated, drawing his hand back.
What secrets did the journal hold? What horrific memories would drown him if he touched it? What would he learn if he touched it?
He was curious about these Strangers, these men who wore crystals embedded in their skin. Were they humans? Or aliens that simply looked like humans?
Was it possible they really were Atlanteans?
Despite everything he knew about the Strangers and their frightening actions, Quent was fascinated. Fascinated, and yet sickened. Frightened too.
If indeed these . . . beings . . . had thrust their continent up from the bottom of the Pacific Ocean—a scientific impossibility, he knew that—but what if somehow the impossible had happened?
In doing so, in reinstating their continent, they had destroyed the world, changed its entire makeup, its climate . . . and annihilated the human population. That was reason enough to despise the Strangers, to work to eradicate them without hesitation. Or mercy. Just as Lou and his brother intended to do.
And also to fear them, and their capabilities.
But . . . was it possible that they didn’t know what they’d done? They didn’t realize what the results were of their return to earth—either from the depths of the ocean or from somewhere outside of this planet?
Was it possible that they had innocently perpetuated the event? It wouldn’t make the result any less horrific, but at least it wouldn’t have been premeditated. At least it wouldn’t have been so evil.
Before he could make the decision to pick up the book, Lou walked up to the table.
“How’s the mayor?” asked Wyatt. “Where’s Elliott?”
“I was wondering the same thing myself,” Lou said. “He asked me to watch over Vaughn until the morning, but I realized I’d left the book in my haste. Didn’t want anyone else to find it, and I wasn’t sure if you were still here. It’s getting late.”
“Did Elliott work his magic?” asked Fence, finishing the last of his beer.
Lou rubbed his goatee. “He said he did what he could, and that we’d know in the morning. I left Flo there, watching over him. Anyone seen Jade? She’s close to Vaughn . . . I’m sure she’d want to know about him.”
“Haven’t seen her since she finished singing,” Wyatt replied.
“I have the book here,” Quent said. “I was just about to take a look at it myself.”
Using a napkin for protection, aware that the others were working on settling their bill with Trixie—which turned out to be covered under Mayor Rogan’s carte blanche—Quent flipped open the book.
Drawings. Numbers . . . upon closer observation, he thought they were navigational points. Longitude and latitude. Locations, that maybe went with the drawings—maps of what looked like areas surrounding Envy, and along the new West Coast.
Rows of names, listed. Ages, genders, what looked like height and weight. They were listed in groups. He tried to read the cramped writing in the dim light of The Pub, his mind puzzlin
g through the categories. What connected these people?
They were all about the same age. Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen . . . something creaked in his brain, shivered down his spine. All about the same ages as the blokes in the van. The map.
He reached for the wrinkled piece of paper Zoë had left him, his shoulders prickling like they did when he was on the trail of some fascinating antiquity. Sometimes he was right, sometimes he was wrong . . . but he felt sure he was right this time.
He yanked up the book, using the napkin to grab a corner of it so he could compare the map to the images inside. There had to be a connection . . . he felt it. The book opened, the pages fanning upside down, and some folded papers fell out, scattering on the table.
Then he remembered what Zoë had said about crystal dust. As Lou began to scuffle up the papers, Quent explained about the map. “She said there was crystal dust all over.”
“Crystal dust?” Lou looked up from his task. Even in the sketchy light of the votive on the table, Quent could see the shock in his face. “In the kids’ van? No fucking way.”
“What’s crystal dust?” asked Wyatt.
“Crystal dust, also called pixie dust or grit . . . the post-apocalyptic version of crack,” Lou explained. He removed his glasses, setting them on top of the papers that had fallen from the book and rubbed his eyes. “It’s rare, impossible to come by unless you’re getting it from the Strangers. You say it was in the van that Geoff had? This woman who told you . . . who is she?”
Quent had to shrug. He wished to hell he knew more than her first name. Even when he held her arrow and tried to take in the images and memories, things were blurred and swampy. “She shot these ingenious arrows at the gangas and helped us chase them off. She brought the map here to me in Envy, and told me about the crystal dust. It’s a drug?”
Lou nodded and scratched his gray goatee roughly. “The worst kind. They grind up certain kinds of crystals—this is according to Jade, who would know—and rub it into their skin. It sort of grinds in—they do it on their arms, for example, on the inner part of the wrist, where the skin is thin and the blood vessels are close to the surface. The dust or grit from the granules enter the bloodstream, and you get a great high—you feel no pain, get very aroused, can go on for hours. Or so they say.” The description could have been said jokingly, as if it were amusing . . . but there wasn’t a hint of anything but deathly seriousness in his face.