by Dawn Metcalf
“Is this the right place?” she asked aloud.
“It’s the right place,” V said as he pointed up. The line of blood still burned.
“The ward’s still alive even when . . . ?” Consuela couldn’t finish.
// The Yad is not. // V’s heart spoke the seraphim echo that he, himself, couldn’t hear. She knew for a fact that he was hurting. V knew the Yad. They had been friends.
Consuela didn’t know the Yad well. She hadn’t had the chance.
“He’s not here,” she said, thankful that there wasn’t a body or chopped-up bits in the hall. She’d been half afraid of what they’d find, but the place was empty of everything but dust. “No one’s here.”
// But I can smell him. He was here. //
She heard V, but said nothing; the baby-powder scent was all but gone in the empty room. Cardboard boxes labeled with fat black letters littered the floor: WINTER CLOTHES, TOYS, SAFETY STUFF, LINENS/DRAPES. The walls were bare and the drawers were empty. Everything except the boxes, a roll of packing tape, and the large furniture was gone. The hardwood crib in the corner of the room still burned with flickering, dark fire. Neither of the Yad’s wards had been broken, but the baby and his family were gone.
V walked around the room on the empty carpet. “So? Anything?” he asked.
She didn’t feel anything, but she was piecing together what she could see.
“They’re moving,” Consuela said. “And it was unexpected.”
V frowned. “How can you tell?”
“Ever had to move a whole house?” She pointed at the boxes, half of which had yet to be taped shut. “It takes forever. This is happening quickly and missing important bits.” She pointed at the crib. “Where does Killian sleep?”
“In another crib, somewhere else,” V concluded.
“Somewhere unprotected.” Consuela said, examining the boxes. “This looks like it’s a second load of stuff. The first went out already; clothes, diapers . . .” She glanced at the open box labeled TOYS and a thought slid into place. “It’s not his mom.”
V peered into the box full of bright-colored junk. “What?”
Consuela felt the chill like a sudden drop in temperature. “Killian’s mom didn’t pack this,” she said. “The stuffed animals and blankets are all tossed in. A mom . . .” She remembered when her family moved to Illinois how her mother had packed every one of her toys with blankets so they wouldn’t break, how each of her glass figurines had to be excavated carefully from bubble wrap and towels. Her room had taken the longest to pack because her mom kept telling her stories about every little thing. Consuela’s fingers stroked the satiny edge of a yellow blanket.
“Moms like to linger over sentimental stuff,” she said softly. “They pack those things with extra care. Baby things, especially.”
“You sound as if you know something about it,” V observed.
She shrugged and said, “I’ve got a mom.” Her voice cracked.
V coughed uncomfortably. “So the O’Sheas are moving, Mom isn’t doing the packing, and the Yad is dead.” He waved an open palm at the undone room. “If there’s something else here, I don’t see it.”
“Me either,” Consuela admitted. She had no other ideas. She felt for the stale traces of any of them being here, but it wasn’t something she could sense. The black lines of blood shone like a command: Protect them.
She was an Angel of God, after all.
“Maybe we should ask Sissy where the O’Sheas are going,” Consuela said. “It might be good to give her something to do.”
“Good idea,” V said quietly as he stared at the crib.
// His body’s somewhere. // Yad. // It’s not fair! // I should have been there/done something . . . //
Consuela self-consciously waved a cardboard flap closed. She could feel the pain spilling off V in waves, rippling through the air. V trembled with a sadness he couldn’t express. Not with her here.
“Okay,” she said, and walked quickly past him, her passage brushing the black curls from his eyes like a blown kiss.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
V nodded and rubbed a hand over his face, massaging the deep shine in his eyes.
He turned away. She turned away. She thought that maybe this was why guys needed someone like Nikki, someone to cry for them when they could not.
Consuela left to find her next grieving friend.
chapter eleven
“Modern man likes to pretend that his thinking is wide-awake. But this wide-awake thinking has led us into the mazes of a nightmare in which the torture chambers are endlessly repeated in the mirrors of reason.”
—OCTAVIO PAZ
It was like stepping into an old movie or a bad museum trick. Animatronics, Tender thought, with hidden wiring and lights. He didn’t like things that tried to look alive when they weren’t.
Joseph Crow looked like the Ken doll of the Indians. No way he really looks like that, Tender figured. Then again, none of them did. Except Wish. Abe’s too stupid to take anything for himself.
The large man stood bared to the waist, hairless and tan, wearing body piercings and well-worn Levi’s jeans. The jeans looked like they’d gone through the desert, been run over by a pickup truck, and dried while worn after the rain. They were the jeans every other male trouser wanted to be. Those were Joseph Crow’s only clothes.
It was hot. How can he have a fire going in here? Tender wiped sweat from his eyes and stared at the small hole around the rough, center post. Air. Fresh air. Hot. I can’t breathe! The bastard did this on purpose, dammit.
“I came to talk,” Tender said to Joseph Crow, watching the smoke curl up and out, thinking, If anyone’s escaping, it’s going to be me.
Joseph Crow didn’t turn around, which irked him. The giant Native American stared into a corner at a six-pack of cheap beer. The cans had the untouched look of having always been there. Joseph Crow kept staring. Tender thought if this was a contest, the beer might be winning.
“Going to offer me a drink?” he asked.
The big man finally said something: “No.”
Tender shrugged and took a step closer. “I have something to ask you.”
“No one’s keeping you from asking.” Joseph said it like a challenge. The silver barbell pierced above his Adam’s apple bobbed as he talked. Joseph Crow threw a bundle of gray twigs into the fire and the place grew smoky-sweet.
“Someone’s killing in the Flow,” Tender said. “Folks are dying.”
Joseph said, “I’ve heard,” not making it clear whether he had heard about it secondhand or that he’d overheard it done. The ambiguity made Tender nervous, despite his cocksure grin.
“Do you care?” Tender asked.
Joseph glared at him. “Do you?” From under the wink of two hoops through his left eyebrow, Joseph’s eyes were darker than brown.
Tender, annoyed and surprised, said, “Of course I care.” He wiped his limp bangs angrily from his face. “I wouldn’t be here in your goddamn wigwam if I didn’t. How about you?” he accused. “You give a damn?”
Joseph cocked his head sideways as he scratched absently at his chest. There were rough patches of discolored scarring, an inch above each pierced nipple, which Tender thought was pretty homo if he stared at them too long. He kept his eyes up.
“I do,” Joseph said finally. “I give exactly one damn.” He glared again, rubbing the stud in his ear and fingering its smooth green stone. “Care to guess whose?”
Tender frowned and slipped a hand through hidden ooze and over the hilt.
“Are you threatening me, Red Man?”
He said only, “I am Joseph Crow.”
It was not a correction, or another veiled threat; it was as if the bare-chested man were summoning courage or something bigger. More. Tender drew out his pitted sword and held it between him and the flames. Black sludge ran, secreting out the blade’s pores to hiss, bubbling, onto the hot coals. The smell in the tent changed from white sage to sick.
Joseph held up two shriveled things on strings: shrunken claws—eagle talons—that he waved above the smoke. Raising his head, he tipped back his chin, nostrils flaring with a deep inhale. He pierced the black points through the scars on both breasts.
He screamed without surprise, a rictus of the familiar, a groan of endurance. Tender stepped back. The sharp nails fished around, jutting points of tented flesh. Meat hooks beneath the skin. They burst like bloodworms out of Joseph Crow’s chest.
The wounds poured, bleeding freely. Joseph’s eyes rolled back in his head as he swayed in pain, or ecstasy, or both.
As he leaned back, the thongs attaching pole to claws to skin pulled taut. Belt hooks of chest flesh yawned, but held him upright. Tender could see Joseph’s black gums against his gnashing white teeth.
“I am Joseph Crow.”
Each word pushed a fresh cough of blood onto his chest, streaming to slide under his belt and soak into his jeans. He spread his arms back as if he might fall; a spectral image superimposed itself, flaring out of the smoke. The slicked-back hair smoothed into a crest of feathers, his bear chest blending into stag legs. Hawk eyes blinked, cat-reflective, and huge black wings flapped for balance, whipping through the wan image of arms.
Wind and sparks and stinging ash beat at Tender, who shielded his eyes with one hand.
“I am Joseph Crow”—the creature’s voice rolled like thunder—“and all that I am may oppose you here.”
Tender blinked against the rain of debris. Bits of stone and dirt pelted the sword and stuck.
“Screw this,” he muttered, and lowered his blade, sliding it back into its sheath and retreating from the totem knight.
Tender blew through the hide walls as if they were mist, wondering whether he was as afraid or if he’d just seen too many animals at once, like at the zoo.
He hated the zoo, what he remembered of it. No one ever knew how many bars there were on each cage, no one had even bothered to count. Animals behind bars, pacing, stinking . . . contained. Uncontrollable. Intolerable.
Tender knew all about cages.
He’d passed through eight other outcrops in the Flow before he realized his mistake. “Damn,” Tender muttered. Joseph Crow had seen the sword. Tender had left the job undone and he’d most likely be barred from Joseph’s part of the Flow. It was only a matter of time before the freak job squealed to Sissy. He couldn’t let that happen.
Fortunately, Joe would need time to recover. He wouldn’t be able to get a message out until then. Tender had other alternatives for just such an occasion and he’d been saving one for a rainy day.
Tender smiled to himself. He was actually looking forward to this . . .
SHE looked better. One eye swollen, the other somewhere hidden, the Watcher stared resolutely at the computer screen, fingers flying over the keys. The cold blue light outlined Sissy’s face, making her look more skeletal than Consuela usually did. After the initial fear at finding her bedroom empty, Consuela found Sissy in her dark office, working. Sissy had turned off the lights, plunging the wide basement room into mourning.
“I’m back,” Consuela whispered.
“I know,” Sissy said. “You’re safe?”
“I am.”
“Good,” she said with an ember of warmth. “Find anything?”
The question was an uncomfortable one. What could she say?
“Maybe,” Consuela admitted. “No hints as to what happened, but V and I noticed that Killian’s family had gone.”
Sissy stopped typing and spoke into her shoulder without turning around.
“Why did you go to the O’Sheas’?” she asked.
Consuela slid into her usual chair, trying to catch Sissy’s one eye. They said nothing about what had happened between them; it was as if the incident hadn’t happened at all and was verboten to speak of now. That hurt and Consuela moved around it uncomfortably.
“It was the last place I’d seen the Yad,” she said uneasily. “I thought, maybe, there’d be . . . I don’t know. Something.” All her words were suddenly awkward, fragile. “The O’Sheas are moving.”
“Correction,” said Sissy. “Killian is moving. His parents both mysteriously died in their sleep. The police suspect carbon monoxide poisoning, but that wouldn’t account for little Killian being found safe and sound the next morning. There’s going to be an insurance investigation.” She sounded quivery and tired, the afterburn of grief. “I doubt they’re going to find that there was a protective ward drawn around his crib.” She swept her flawless hair back from her cheek; it had dried in enviable, sculpted curls. “He’s going to live with his legal guardians and I’ll have to track him down again. Without the Yad’s wards . . .” A sniffle threatened to stutter her sentence, but she got it under control. “Killian’s vulnerable and Yehudah knew it.”
Consuela nodded. “I saw the note. Why one hundred twenty-six? ”
“Seven times eighteen,” Sissy said automatically. “A lot of his power was based on Hebraic numerology. It’s not unusual; Abacus works on similar principles, although Chang’s specialty is crunching numbers to calculate probability.” Consuela squirmed. Unaware, Sissy continued to find comfort in talking, her words growing rapid as her single eye burned. “He can triangulate our assignments back in the real world—mathematically predict events and outcomes—all by finding the inherent significance of numbers. Yehudah said everything has a sum since every letter in Hebrew has its own numeric value.” She paused, then recited: “Know the name, know its number, know the thing.”
Sissy watched her own fingers tap the keys as if they were separate, living things. “The word for ‘life’ in Hebrew is chai,” she said. “The two letters that spell it are numbers eight and ten. Eight plus ten is eighteen. Eighteen equals ‘life.’” Sissy made an effort to look Consuela squarely in the face. “I’m eighteen. Doing one hundred and twenty six separate wards would increase the protective life force by a sacred number. The Yad figured that it would make Killian’s room impenetrable from harm.” She sounded defeated.
“Even from carbon monoxide poisoning,” Consuela said. “It saved the boy’s life.”
“But not his own.” Sissy’s face grew hard again, the harsh light carving deep, ugly lines by her mouth. “Yehudah suspected something. That’s why he went to increase the wards.” She swiveled her seat back and forth. “Maybe something that was meant for Killian got his parents instead?” she mused. “Maybe it got Yehudah or maybe it’s been after us all along.”
Consuela fidgeted in her chair. Should she tell Sissy about Tender? What could she say? V was right—without proof, accusing Tender would just add paranoia. If he was trying to get rid of them, one by one, why did he try to get Consuela to leave voluntarily? Was Tender really capable of killing people? She didn’t think so. She was caught in silent dread.
Sissy picked up her phone and slammed it down. “I wish Abacus would answer already,” she said. “I’m worried . . .” She let the rest drift off, unspoken. Consuela knew what she was thinking; she herself had been thinking the same thing. What if Abacus couldn’t answer?
Sissy yawned and knuckled her empty socket. “Oh God, I’ve got to collapse,” she said. “I just don’t want to dream.”
Consuela gave her shoulder a small squeeze.
“Don’t drink,” she said. “At least, don’t drink alone.” Consuela tried to inject a little humor as she headed for the door. “I’ll be back soon and we can play angels again.”
Sissy watched her go. “You’d better.”
Consuela nodded and closed the door.
THERE was a knock on the inside of her bathroom.
“May I come in?”
It was V. Consuela looked up from the mess on her floor. “Sure.”
He walked over to Consuela, who was hunched over a pile of papers, books, pens, pins, paper clips, binders, notebooks, mugs, stray photos, bookmarks, string, and loose gadgets. She was inspecting a screwdriver.
“What are you doing?”
he asked.
Consuela put the tool down. “Trying to figure out what’s the one thing I have that can cross over,” she said. “It was one of the last things the Yad told me about, and I thought that I should at least know what mine was.” She played with the topaz cross on its chain. She’d hoped that the necklace would have been the key—somehow linking her back to her world, her parents—but so far, nothing. She let it fall against her skin. It felt like her last, desperate attempt to go back was slipping through her fingers.
“Can you take me home?” she whispered.
V sighed. “If I could, right this moment, I would. You know I would.”
She stared at the screwdriver. “I told Sissy about the O’Sheas, but she already knew. Now she thinks that something was after Killian and got the parents or the Yad instead.” Consuela shook her head sadly. “I didn’t know what to say.”
V nodded. “I understand,” he said as he settled himself onto her pink carpet, fiddling with a red paper clip. “I had an interesting conversation with Joseph Crow,” he said darkly. The metallic hum trilled, // Eerie/Ominous/ Saying nothing //, while his true voice continued, “I can’t find Wish. Sissy couldn’t find Maddy. Abacus is out somewhere,” he said, nodding to her. “The Watcher’s a wreck and Nikki . . .” V cast his eyes to the ceiling. She heard it before he said it.
// Nikki’s dead. //
“Nikki’s dead,” he said, taking the screwdriver from her hand. “But you’re safe,” he concluded, his accompaniment adding, // There’s still time. //
Consuela was too aware of his fingers on hers. Was it alarm or excitement that made her heart jump? It didn’t mean anything! She swore he could see the pulse beating in her wrist. When had she become such a vulnerable, fleshy thing?
He tugged her to stand. “Come on,” he said. “I came to show you something and I wanted to see what you think.”
“Why me?” Consuela asked.
V grimaced. “Because you seem pretty smart until you say dumb things like that,” he retorted.