The Walls of Orion

by T. D. Fox

  W waited. The rain drummed against the pavement around them, the only sound in the alley. It ran in small rivulets across his coat. He watched the drops fall down onto the tangled mess of copper-blonde hair now spread over his hands. The Changer moved. She huddled more tightly into a ball, releasing a whimper that was very small, and very human.

  W stared at the form under his coat. For several moments, he didn’t move, letting the rain soak him to the bone. He slipped his hand down to the outside coat pocket and pulled out his phone. He hit redial.

  Des answered on the first ring. “Almost there, Boss.”

  “Hold the van. I’ve got this one.”

  Something scuffled on the other end of the phone. “You sure? We can be there in two.”

  “I’m sure.”

  He slid the phone back into his pocket. Returning his eyes to Courtney, he sighed. He tucked the edges of his coat more securely around her. Then, rising to his feet, he scooped her up.

  She moaned at the movement, eyes flickering under her closed lids. One hand reached out and clutched in the front of his shirt. Her head rolled back and forth.

  “Dad,” she croaked.

  W blinked. That was her trigger? Her father?

  “Dad,” she whimpered, chest heaving. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry...”

  Frowning, W gathered her closer to his chest. She fell silent, head dropping to his shoulder.

  The distant sirens grew in pitch as he carried her toward the street. He headed in the opposite direction.

  PART II:

  THE CHANGE

  17. THE RUBBLE

  THE SOUND OF a car horn, somewhere far away, pulled her out of the darkness.

  Courtney opened her eyes. Or at least, tried to. Her eyelids wouldn’t cooperate. Several seconds passed before her muscles responded. When she sat up, her head spun. Such ferocious pain slammed into her skull she doubled over, trying not to retch.

  The swirl of lights and color drifted to a stop. Dreading what might come next, Courtney crept back to a sitting position. Her head pounded. Every inch of her insides felt turned wrong-side out. It felt like she’d come back from a botched chiropractor appointment: her spine felt bruised, ribs out of place, and each bone in her neck gave a sickening pop when she moved.

  Where had she gone last night? This had to be the worst hangover of her life. Turning to her bedside clock, she looked to see what time it was. But there was no clock. There wasn’t even a bedside table. Instead of her soft gray walls and blue-curtained window, this room was covered in peeling white paint, scraped bare in some places. A single window with metal grating lit the room from the wrong side. Cold hardwood floor instead of carpet. The door was closed, paint ripped off in tattered stripes like claw marks, right down to the wooden boards underneath.

  Courtney straightened with a jolt. The blankets slid off her shoulders. A blast of cold air hit her like a slap, and she looked down in surprise.

  She was naked. Where the hell were her clothes? Where was she?

  The last thing she remembered was Dina calling last night. About what? She looked to the window. Thin gray light poured in. Okay, so it was daytime. Had they gone out? Had she drunk herself into a stupor? Had she gone home with someone? Panic crawled up her throat, but she forced it down. No. Dina wouldn’t have let her do that. So why was she naked in a stranger’s bed? Had she been drugged?

  She stood—and fought the urge to heave again. The panic spiked a little higher. Okay. Drugs were starting to seem more likely. Standing bent with her arms on her knees, she spotted the blanket that had slipped off her a moment ago. Not a blanket. A large gray coat three sizes too big for her lay crumpled at her feet. It looked familiar, but her panicked brain couldn’t place it. She snatched it up and wrapped it around herself. Then she stood in the middle of the empty bedroom, staring at the closed door.

  Should she go out? What if someone was waiting on the other side? What if there were multiple someones?

  Her heart started to pound. Taking a deep breath, she sat down on the edge of the bed again. Right. Well, whoever was out there didn’t know she was awake. She’d rather face them after she’d had time to prepare and think up a plan. She stood, coat held close around her shoulders, and headed for the window.

  Thick metal bars blocked any escape there. A hazy cityscape rose behind the glass. She didn’t recognize this view of the skyline. The tallest building in Orion City, her mother’s old law office, was nowhere in sight. She strained her eyes for any other landmark. None of these buildings looked familiar. Was she even still in Westside?

  Courtney closed her eyes and filled her lungs with air. Turning from the window, she surveyed the rest of the room. A small wooden dresser sat against the wall near the door. She made her way toward it. She had to let go of the coat to get the drawer open, and her skin crawled at the cool air moving past her chest. Had they stolen her clothes? What else had they stolen from her?

  Inside the top drawer, she discovered folded shirts. In the second, an odd combination of batteries, tools and socks. In the third and last drawer, she hoped against hope to find some other articles of clothing. But it was filled with more mismatched objects. A coil of rope, scissors, a case full of needles and syringes, duct tape, a broken coat hanger. For three long seconds, she stared at the contents, fingers frozen on the drawer’s chipped wooden siding.

  Clothes. You need clothes first, panic later.

  Every limb stiff, Courtney grabbed one of the shirts from the top drawer. She slipped it on. The hem fell almost to her knees, the sleeves past her fingers, but she didn’t care. She buttoned it up to the collar, then threw the coat on again for good measure.

  She fixed her eyes on the door once again. The whole time, there’d been no sound from the other side. Maybe no one was out there. Maybe it was locked. There was one way to find out. Courtney reached into the bottom drawer and pulled out the scissors. Not much in the way of a weapon, but they made her feel better. She stuck them into her coat pocket. Then she reached for the door handle.

  It turned. But it opened inward. Reluctantly, Courtney stepped back and pulled the door open, well aware that anyone on the other side now had a heads-up to her entrance.

  She stepped out into a kitchen. A quick scan told her the kitchen made up almost the entire apartment. There was no living space, no couch, just a small table in the middle of the hardwood floor where someone sat, reading a newspaper.

  Courtney froze in the doorway.

  “Good morning,” said W without looking up.

  She didn’t move.

  “Actually, I should probably say good evening, since it is almost five o’clock.”

  Mouth too dry to fish for words, she looked past him to the door on the other side of the kitchen. It had three deadbolts.

  The newspaper flickered, and she snapped her eyes back to him. His lips twitched in amusement when he glanced down to the oversized shirt she wore—which she realized, to her mortification, was probably his.

  “Try the bag at the foot of the bed.” He returned his gaze to the newspaper. “You should find something that fits.”

  Courtney glared at the top of his head, just visible over the newspaper. A thousand demands burned on her tongue, but the cool air stirring around her knees made her scuttle back into the bedroom.

  A large paper bag sat at the foot of the bed. How had she not noticed it before? Kneeling, Courtney peeked inside. A jumble of clothes stared back at her. She reached in and pulled out a T-shirt. It looked a little big, but it was half the size of the button-down she was wearing. Beneath that, she found a haphazard assortment of jeans, shirts, and women’s underclothes.

  A cold, uncomfortable feeling settled in her gut. A part of her wanted to leap up and kick the bag under the bed. But survival instinct took over. She stood, crossed the room and shut the door. She dressed with a speed she didn’t know she had. The jeans were a little tight, the shirt a little loose, but they worked worlds better than walking around in a killer�
�s shirt. She wadded up W’s shirt into a ball and threw it into the dresser. Her hands were shaking by the time she went to open the door again.

  He sat where she’d left him. Courtney dug her fingers into her pockets to hide the tremble.

  “Where did you get all the clothes?” She braced herself. She didn’t want to know.

  He flipped the paper without looking up. “I sent one of my people thrifting.”

  Oh. That answer was surprisingly... innocent. Non-criminal. So these weren’t the articles of dead victims. Her shoulders unknotted a fraction. Half a fraction.

  She didn’t move from the doorway. Her hands were buried deep in her pockets, but the shaking hadn’t stopped. In fact, it had moved up to her arms. Her shoulders began to quiver.

  W pushed a mug across the table. Steam curled from the rim. “Drink up.”

  “W-what?” Courtney bit her tongue—her teeth had started to chatter.

  “Hurry up, unless you want to pass out.”

  She inched out of the doorway. The table was only a few steps away, but exhaustion ripped through her before she even reached the chair. Her stomach rolled. She shot out an arm for balance, gripping the table, and whatever was inside the mug sloshed. The walls drifted. She shut her eyes tight, thinking she might be sick.

  “Drink,” W ordered, a hard edge to his voice. Courtney sank down into the chair. She stared at the mug. The rich smell of hot chocolate filled her senses.

  Now she really might be sick. But she looked up and saw W watching her. With shaking fingers, she reached for the cup and brought it to her lips. Whether from the threat of passing out on his floor, or a nonsensical trust, she drank.

  The first sip was awful. Hot chocolate was supposed to be sweet, but this was like drinking chocolate syrup. Courtney clamped her lips and fought the urge to spit it out. She started to lower the mug, but W’s sharp gaze pinned her. Gritting her teeth, she took a second sip. Pure sugar. Disgusting. But an odd feeling rippled through her. The hand that held the mug, rattling a moment before, began to still. The lightheadedness faded.

  The sugar tasted less terrible with each gulp. Before she knew it, she’d drained the entire mug. She set it down in surprise.

  “Better?” W asked.

  Courtney frowned and licked her lips. Her stomach settled. “Sugar actually helps?”

  W made a noncommittal noise. He took a sip from his own mug.

  “And here I thought you were just weird,” she said.

  She blinked at her own boldness. Slowly, W set down his newspaper and folded his hands on top of it. She shrank back under his gaze.

  “And what do you think now?” he asked, his voice a low simmer.

  Courtney glanced past him to the door. She couldn’t help it. When her eyes caught his again, he chuckled.

  That pissed her off. Of all the emotions she should feel right then, she latched onto that one: the feeling of betrayal, anger, indignation. It staved off the fear for at least the moment.

  “I think you’re a liar and a murderer,” she said. “And I want to know why you haven’t killed me yet.”

  He made a noise of disapproval. “Ouch. I would think you’d have a little more confidence in our friendship than that, C.”

  “Don’t call me that. This is not friendship. This weird, twisted... whatever-it-is between us: it’s not friendship.”

  “Really?” One eyebrow arced. “What would you call it, then?”

  Was he actually teasing her right now? Scowling, Courtney pushed her chair back from the table. His eyes followed her as she stood. He didn’t move.

  He wasn’t going to kill her. At least, it didn’t look like it at the moment. Nothing was predictable about this man. But he was seated, and she was standing. Temporarily out of his reach.

  “If... it really is almost five o’clock, like you said...” Forcing her steps to look casual, she turned and pretended to explore the kitchen. Inching toward the door. “I should get going. People are going to be wondering where I am.”

  “Hm.” W picked up the newspaper again. “S’pose it is Friday night. Got big plans?”

  She bumped against the door. Keeping her eyes on him, she reached back, gave each deadbolt a silent turn, and gripped the handle.

  It stuck.

  “Um.” She kept the panic from her voice as she struggled with the handle. “Yeah, I was supposed to meet someone.”

  “Really.”

  Courtney peeked over her shoulder at the door. The handle didn’t budge. Of the three deadbolts surrounding it, one had a keyhole that needed to be opened from the inside.

  “I think you may have to postpone,” W said.

  Courtney let go of the door. Crossing the kitchen with slow steps, she stopped in front of the window.

  “Why’s that?” she asked lightly.

  “Because you’re unstable.”

  “I’m unstable?” She choked on a laugh. “Then... I can’t leave here until I’m stable, is that it?”

  “Look at you, catching on.”

  At this angle, W’s back was to her. She reached for the window. These locks gave. Stretching forward over the stove, she pressed the glass open on its hinges and leaned out into the cold air. Wind tugged at her tangled hair. She looked down.

  The ground lay at least a hundred feet below. The sky had darkened, and across the narrow alley a few lights winked on in the building opposite. Courtney pushed herself onto her tiptoes. Below, about ten feet down, stood a fire escape. If she could wriggle herself out, she could drop onto it. Maybe. It was narrow. There was a large chance she’d miss and end up splatted on the pavement.

  “Considering you weren’t fortunate enough to get something with wings,” W said from behind her. “I’d rule out that option.”

  Courtney turned. He sat unmoved, returned to his newspaper, unbothered by her not-so-subtle search for an escape.

  “So this is a kidnapping.”

  “Kidnap implies a premeditated plan.” W didn’t look up. “I found you wandering the streets at one in the morning. You’re lucky I got to you before the White Coats did.”

  “Lucky,” she repeated. “Did you drug me?”

  “No.”

  “Why can’t I remember anything?”

  W shrugged. “It comes back in waves for most people.”

  “Who’s most people?” Courtney gripped the edge of the counter. “What happened to me?”

  W said nothing. Courtney opened her mouth to say something else, to demand, to plead—when an image flashed before her eyes. A lion in the middle of a street. A streak of skin, a man’s blurred form, running naked through a crowd. Freezing concrete underneath her feet. Rain on bare skin. Pain: ripping, searing, shifting.

  She stumbled. Something deep within her began to twist.

  A mess of shadows, sounds, and smells. Running on all fours. Terror plunged over every sense. Burying herself in a heap of trash in an alleyway. Then the sound of a soft voice, breaking through the darkness, warm arms wrapping around her, lifting her from the cold ground...

  Her bones moved with a sickening jolt. She dropped to one knee.

  “Don’t fight it.” W’s voice sounded far away. “Let it happen.”

  Courtney cried out. Her whole body was turning inside out. She tried to stand, but gravity dragged her downward. She pitched forward onto her hands. But... they weren’t hands.

  One more excruciating jerk, and her muscles settled.

  A wall of smell and sound assaulted her senses. The drip of a faucet, somewhere close by. The tinkle of water through the pipes in the walls. A rancid, metallic scent seeped up from the cracks in the linoleum, something a very foreign instinct put a name to: blood.

  Her mind clouded. She couldn’t think through the haze that had settled over her brain. Disoriented, she tried to stand. She was too low to the ground. Her legs moved strangely, carrying her forward with surprising speed and lightness. She jerked to a stop, couldn’t see straight. The walls were blurry, too far away, the floor
too close to her face.

  A spasm yanked through her again. Pain seared along her spine. Courtney dropped; her lungs crushed inward, and her joints cracked. A howl ripped past her teeth. It scared her. Raspy and wild, it felt nothing like her own voice.

  Something dropped over her shoulders. A dark cover shielded her from the light and the noise. Pain cleaved across her abdomen. Courtney curled in on herself, burying her face in her knees. Her body jerked again. Every muscle contracted, tightened with burning force, and went still.

  She lay there in a ball, sweaty hair plastered to her forehead. Her own breathing was the only sound, a sharp scraping in her ears. The world was dark. Slowly, she became aware of her own heart pounding in her chest. Her thoughts became coherent once again.

  It took her a full minute to realize the floor was cold against her bare skin. The leathery fabric covering her smelled familiar. It was the same coat from before. Courtney clutched it to herself, and rose to a sitting position.

  “Don’t barf on it,” a voice said from across the room.

  Why would I... The rush of vertigo almost knocked her over. Nausea exploded in her stomach. Lurching to her feet, Courtney barely kept her grip on the coat as she sprinted for the sink.

  She vomited. Once the awful heaving stopped, she stood slumped over the sink. Her chin dropped to rest on the cold stainless steel. The ringing in her ears and the fading smell of metal battled for her focus, shoving out everything else.

  “The first couple times will be rough. It’ll take a while for your body to adjust.” A newspaper rustled. “There should be more clothes in the bag. Most Changers rip through several pairs before they get it under control.”

  “Changers?” Courtney croaked. Her tongue scraped for words. “Did I... am I a...?”

  No answer came from across the room. Courtney pushed herself off the sink—after making sure she wasn’t about to vomit again—and pulled the coat in tight. She turned. A few feet away on the floor lay a crumpled heap of denim. She spotted her torn shirt a foot or so beyond. Panic breathed again in her ears. She shut her eyes. One thing at a time. Clothes. She needed clothes.