The Walls of Orion

by T. D. Fox

  “Actually, yes. Would you mind?”

  “Not at all.” Sliding his hands into his coat pockets, W nodded toward the street. “Lead on.”

  “Thanks.” Courtney fell into step beside him, grateful he walked slow enough this time for her shorter legs to keep up.

  The alley wasn’t far. And her apartment wasn’t far from there. If she’d taken any other route, with the way the city blocks lined up, it would have added another twenty minutes to her commute.

  As they crossed the street, she glanced up at W. He seemed content with the companionable silence. Absently, she wondered if he ever really carried a conversation with anybody. Did W have friends? He had to; everybody had friends. But come to think of it, she’d only ever seen him in the café alone. Did he have a girl? Courtney tried to picture him walking side by side with someone else down this dark street, talking and laughing, doing whatever normal people did when they walked together. Her imagination came up blank, followed by an odd sharp feeling.

  “Do you still think about it?” W asked.

  “What?”

  “That day in the café.”

  He didn’t need to say anything else. Courtney felt a funny kind of excitement run through her at the mention of that afternoon, weeks ago, when she’d stared death in the face. Her reaction disturbed her.

  “Some,” she admitted. Half a lie; it bombarded her dreams, even when she avoided it in her day-to-day thoughts. She’d always wake with a racing heart. It scared her. Not the dreams—but the way the life-or-death rush didn’t feel unpleasant.

  “Nightmares or daydreams?”

  “What?”

  “That day. Does it show up in nightmares or daydreams?”

  “In what universe would that not be a nightmare?”

  “I don’t know. Sometimes you get a thrill, staring down the barrel of a semi-automatic. It’s almost addicting.”

  She understood that. On a deep, gut-wrenching level. But she kept her voice light. “You say that like it’s a thing that happens to you every other Tuesday.”

  “Maybe it is.”

  Courtney shook her head. “I... don’t even know how to answer that question, W.”

  He glanced down at her. They’d passed out of the light of the main street when they entered the alley, so his face had fallen into shadow. But she could still see the curve of a smile on his cheek when he turned away again.

  “I think you do.”

  It was a secret she’d never tell anyone. Her strange and uncomfortable desire to be close to danger, to escape her survival routine by brushing against death. Numbness replaced by live wires, where every move made felt more real than anything she’d done in her life, created an active permanent shift in an environment she’d only ever felt powerless to change.

  She pressed her lips together.

  The soft scuff of her shoes echoed off the brick wall beside them, the only sound in the alley. She realized W made no noise as he walked. He didn’t look like he made any extra effort to silence his footsteps, but his boots were soundless on the pavement. Now that he’d fallen quiet again, she had to glance sideways to remind herself he was there.

  Up ahead, something scraped. Courtney looked up. Reflex made her reach for her purse, fingers closing around the pepper spray. But she remembered she was with W. She let go of the little weapon, still keeping an alert watch on the shadows ahead.

  She heard them before she saw them. Low voices, murmuring, growing louder. Two figures eased into view. Both walked with a distinctive swagger, shoulders back and arms swinging. Courtney felt her stomach clench when she recognized them.

  “Well, would ya look at that, Ed.” One elbowed the other. “It’s Frigid Bitch again!”

  “She wasn’t very nice this morning.”

  “Think maybe we should teach her some manners?”

  Courtney slowed, ducking behind W. He kept walking.

  “That’s cute, she’s got a bodyguard this time.”

  “Aw, she’s skeered, ain’t she?”

  “The cop was a better idea, sweetheart. What’s this guy gonna do? Give us a paper cut?”

  “Only if we walk straight at him.”

  The distance between them thinned.

  “W...” Courtney whispered.

  W stuck his hands in his pockets, without slowing his pace. He began to whistle. The high, clear note cut through the alleyway, rising steadily to a simple four-note melody.

  High. High, low, high.

  The men’s demeanor changed. Even from this distance, Courtney saw the taller one’s face turn sheet white.

  “Shit,” he swore. “Shit, shit.”

  They wheeled, sneakers squealing on the wet pavement. One tripped over the other.

  “We didn’t mean nothin’!” The first man screamed over his shoulder. “We didn’t mean nothin’!”

  They bolted into the darkness. Within seconds, their pounding footsteps faded, and W’s lonesome tune was the only sound in the alley.

  Courtney stood frozen. Her heart beat so fiercely in her ears she didn’t know she’d stopped until W paused, a good five paces ahead, and turned to look at her.

  “Coming?”

  Him. Him. Her mouth was too dry to speak. W looked back evenly, an odd glint in his eyes.

  “Is there a problem?”

  “You’re—” Her voice came out hoarse. “You’re him.”

  “I’m ‘him’?”

  “You’re the Whistler.”

  He stood unmoved. Something had started to burn in her blood: something ice cold and scorching at the same time. Courtney took a slow step back.

  Oliver’s voice ricocheted in her ears. The Whistler isn’t multiple people. Multiple people are all the Whistler.

  Suddenly her brain was a mess of images. A screen filled with the face of a dead man. That silver tooth flashing in the killer’s smile. Jasper’s fists, clenching as he spoke of the impossible case of the disappearing man in the phone booth. One man walked in, another man walked out.

  What if they weren’t different men at all?

  She took another step back.

  “I—uh,” she managed. “Forgot something. I just realized I was supposed to see Jasper back at the station. Thanks for offering to walk with me, but actually...”

  She took another step back.

  W’s gaze shifted from her eyes to her feet. A faint twist of amusement appeared on his lips. “You going to walk back to the station by yourself?”

  “It’s not that far.” Her voice cracked. Dammit. “I’ll be okay.”

  W released a long, slow sigh. He chuckled.

  “Well, I’m going to go,” Courtney said, still backtracking. “Thank you again for—”

  “You said something, a moment ago. What was it?”

  He stepped toward her. Courtney took two steps back. He took two steps forward.

  “Um.” She slipped an arm behind her back, fumbling for her purse. “I don’t remember.”

  “Oh, I think you do. Run that by me again.”

  Courtney swallowed. Every step she took he mirrored, his longer strides carrying him closer to her faster than she could retreat. She fought the urge to burst into a run.

  “Come on, C,” W said. “We know each other better than that. Say what’s on your mind.”

  “I don’t know you at all,” she whispered.

  “No? That hurts. You’re one of the rare people to see this face more than once. That’s something really special.”

  “Is that even your real face?” The words jerked out in spite of herself.

  W grinned at her. His silver tooth glinted. “All my faces are real.”

  The shadows across his face shifted. He grew broader, firmer, shorter. The angles of his face disappeared, and another man’s smile flashed in the darkness. The shooter from the café stood in front of her, wearing W’s long gray coat. He spread his hands. “You remember this face, right?”

  “You,” Courtney choked. “It was you.”

  He
morphed again. This time a tall man with bleached blond hair dipped in an exaggerated bow. When he straightened, his features rippled. The W she knew stood before her again, hands tucked casually in his pockets, familiar crooked grin in place. “I’ve got loads more. But you probably wouldn’t recognize them.”

  He continued his approach. She retreated faster. Her back hit a barrier, and she gasped. She’d backed herself right into a dumpster, trying to increase the distance. He’d almost closed that distance now.

  In that moment, her searching fingers closed around her pepper spray.

  “Don’t take another step,” she warned.

  He did.

  Courtney yanked out the little weapon and pulled the trigger. The stream hit him square in the face. Courtney flinched back, jamming the nozzle down until the can emptied. She looked up.

  W hadn’t moved. His arms rested at his sides, not even raised to ward off the spray. He’d stepped into the light of the only street lamp in the alley, a pale bar of gold dropping across his face. His eyes had closed, momentarily, and he slowly opened them. His pale gray irises stood out like ice chips against the redness.

  “Nice shot.” He reached up to wipe at one eye. “I’m curious, though. What were you planning to do next, if that didn’t work?”

  Courtney’s mouth was so dry she lost all words. The can slipped from her fingers and clattered on the asphalt. She backed up—and hit the dumpster.

  “Please,” she whispered, as W took a step forward. They stood a mere foot apart now, close enough for him to close the distance with an arm. The tips of his shoes met hers. He raised an eyebrow.

  “Please what?”

  Her heart pounded so violently she wondered if he could hear it. Pain didn’t faze him. The pepper spray worked, there was no doubt; his eyes were rimmed red, streaming from the corners. But his face was calm. The light hit the sharp edge of his cheekbone, throwing the rest of his face into shadow.

  He was a killer. A murderer; he’d shot a man in front of her, wearing someone else’s face. She pressed herself back against the cold metal of the dumpster. He could kill her. Right now. He could change his face and walk away, and no one would ever catch him.

  “Is that your freelance job?” she burst out.

  He laughed. He was so close, she felt the little puff of air skate above her head. “What?”

  “Going around the city, killing people, masterminding crimes, whistling your little song to freak people out and take credit for everything without ever showing your face.”

  “You’ve got me all figured out.”

  She flinched back when he reached into his coat. Metal glinted in the light, too close to her face to see. She heard the soft click of a switchblade. Nausea lurched in her stomach. Her eyes snapped shut.

  A jolt exploded through her when something touched her chin. But it was a hand. W tipped her chin up, the edge of his knuckle warm on her skin. She opened her eyes. His pale ones gleamed above hers. They were still red around the edges, but they seemed clearer. That mocking glint had left, along with his smile. He looked more serious than she’d ever seen him.

  “Are you going to kill me?” she whispered.

  His thumb ran lightly along the length of her jaw. Beneath the adrenaline, a certain thrill raced through her. What the hell was wrong with her, she wondered absently, while the knife lifted in his other hand.

  She wouldn’t look away. She wouldn’t scream. Turning the knife, W reached down and picked up her hand. He pressed the grip into her palm. Her fingers closed around it.

  Leaning forward, he tipped his face past hers until his lips brushed her ear. “Next time, if you want to walk alone, take something a little sharper.”

  He stepped back. An instant rush of cold filled the space in front of her. As he’d done on that very first night, W tipped an imaginary hat to her.

  “Goodnight, C.”

  He turned and walked away.

  Courtney stood rigid against the side of the dumpster, staring at the opposite wall, watching the dark silhouette of him grow smaller in her peripheral vision.

  She looked down at the knife in her hand. It was open, clean silver blade gleaming in the dim light. Fingers shaking, she reached over and traced the handle with her free hand. She found a tiny lever on the side, near the opening of the blade, and pressed it. The blade unlocked with a soft click. She folded it shut.

  For a moment, she stood there watching it in her hand. Her thumb found the lever again. Swift and sharp this time, she snapped it open. The blade glowed in the street lamp. She clicked it closed again. Flip open, flip shut. Open, shut.

  The little click it made was almost soothing in the empty alley.

  15. THE FUSE

  “I CAN’T BELIEVE you put yourself in that situation. Again.”

  Courtney pressed the cool rim of the beer to her lips, biding her time before she answered. She sat in Jasper’s small high-rise apartment. He paced in front of the couch.

  Answering his call had been a mistake. She’d been numb, unthinking, when she jumped at the buzz of her phone in the silent alleyway and picked it up. Detective that he was, he'd gleaned too many details from her shaky voice before she thought to shut her mouth.

  “You’re sure you didn’t get a good look at him?”

  “Like I said,” Courtney said. “It was dark. And I didn’t get too close. All I heard was the whistling so I crossed the street and didn’t look back.”

  “This was across from the café, right?” Jasper paused in front of her. “Was he tall? How was he built? Anything particular he was wearing?”

  Courtney took another sip of the beer. “Short, I think. Couldn’t make out much; I think maybe he was fat.”

  “Fat? That’s a first.”

  Courtney shrugged. “I don’t know. You said it’s a group of people, so maybe this guy isn’t one of the those running-from-the-cops types.”

  Jasper gave her a look. “Actually, I’m starting to agree with Oliver’s theory. This might all be the same person.”

  “That’s a bit of a stretch, don’t you think?” Her own words surprised her. An unknown, powerful desire to conceal and defend rose, reacting to Jasper’s bloodhound hunt for her friend.

  Friend. Are you crazy?

  Was she?

  “Not really,” Jasper replied, oblivious to her silent wrestling. “Not when people shape-shifting all over the city isn’t a stretch.”

  “Isn’t it possible someone else picked up the whistle? Like a copycat?” What was she doing? Why couldn’t she stop?

  “This guy doesn’t have copycats. Everyone’s too scared of him. There are rumors that he’s everywhere. He could be any person, any place, wearing any face. We’re not even sure it’s a he.”

  “That sounds a little paranoid.”

  “I know. I thought the idea was crazy at first, too, but the more insanity I see in this city, the more it’s the only explanation that makes sense. Look at these vigilantes on the streets. They’re Changers, obviously. But they’ve got special abilities, at least more so than most. That one guy—the Bird-Man, or whatever the Orion Times nicknamed him—he only half-transforms. He’s got actual wings, but he’s still a human man who seems to have full control over his mind. Then there’s that other guy, the Orion Giant, who can turn himself into a super-sized MMA fighter. I don’t know how he does it, but he Changes differently than the other Changers. Somehow he can control his body, his every muscle and bone. He warps his body into something he controls rather than succumbing to whatever involuntary Change these other mutants go through. There are even rumors he can heal himself. I’ve seen him escape the cops in some of the closest scrapes imaginable, and he’s shaken off blows—gunshots, even—like it’s nothing.” He turned in his pacing, and shook his head with a little laugh. “So... yeah. I guess I can buy the idea that if we’ve got superhero vigilantes, we’ve got supervillain criminals that can do equally freaky things.”

  “But the Whistler—”

  �
��—is a Changer who can turn himself into different physical people at will! That part doesn’t sound crazy at all anymore. It’s what else he can do that I’m scared to find out.”

  Courtney watched the plush carpet rise back into place, filling the imprints of Jasper’s feet in his pacing. He stopped. Without looking up, she felt his eyes on her.

  “Are we going to talk about this?” His tone changed.

  “We are talking about it.”

  “No, not the Whistler. About why you were in an alley after dark in the first place, after what happened this morning.”

  Courtney finally looked up at him. “I’m twenty-one, Jasper. I don’t have a curfew. And you’re my boyfriend, not my dad.”

  “It’s because I’m your boyfriend that I don’t want you putting yourself in stupid situations like that! I can’t always be there for you, Courtney.”

  She stood so she was no longer positioned beneath his leveling stare. “Look. I appreciate that you stepped in this morning. But I don’t need an escort. I’ve been walking these streets since I was eleven, and I know how to take care of myself. I emptied a whole damn can of mace on a guy’s face, I’m not afraid to—”

  “You maced someone?”

  Courtney’s words caught in her throat.

  “You didn’t just see him across the street,” he hissed.

  “What makes you th—”

  “You had a full can of mace this morning. I saw you about to empty it on those lowlifes.” When she avoided his eyes, he raked a hand through his hair and let out a hoarse laugh. “I don’t believe it. You maced the Whistler, then came back and told me you don’t know a thing about what he looked like!”

  “It was dark!”

  “Why would you lie about something like that? To me?”

  “I didn’t...” Courtney faltered at the look in his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

  Jasper pinched the bridge of his nose. “How did you get out of there alive?”

  “I don’t know. I just ran, and I think the mace slowed him down enough that he lost me.”

  “Courtney...” Jasper lowered his hand. His eyes were rimmed red around the edges. “If we’re going to be together, I need to be able to trust you.”