Darkness Calls

by Marjorie M. Liu

  “Hello, Frank,” replied Jack mildly. “Small world.”

  My head was going to explode. “You two know each other? How is that remotely possible?”

  Father Lawrence’s stare was disconcerting; the uneven color of his eyes lent him a slightly deranged appearance. “Jack Meddle was my professor at Princeton, before I decided to . . . devote my life to God. We stayed in touch.” He paused, staring from me to the old man. “How do you know each other?”

  I had no idea how to respond. Grant leaned into me, shaking his head, and Jack said, very quietly, “Frank, I made a mistake. A rather egregious one.”

  I heard footsteps outside the stateroom, and the door slammed open. I expected Mary, for some reason—but it was Killy who stared inside, breathless, her gaze floating over Grant, Jack, and me—before settling like a lead weight on Father Lawrence.

  She said nothing. She did nothing. Simply looked at him, her eyes dark with terrible heat. Father Lawrence lay in his bonds, frozen beneath her scrutiny. As though she was a sight as unexpected as Jack; and terrifying. I wondered if he remembered attacking her. If Grant had left him any memories at all.

  Killy finally looked away, dragging in a deep breath. “Better. You did good by him, song-man.”

  “It wasn’t an easy fix,” Grant replied hoarsely, one hand still clutching his chest. I wrapped my arm around him, placing my hand over his. Willing him my strength; anything, everything.

  Killy’s cheeks flushed, and she nodded silently, staring at her feet. “We’ve got more trouble. I was coming to tell you. Someone’s here.”

  AN hour until sunset. Byron and Mary stood inside the bridge, staring out the windows. I saw nothing but cold waters and a cargo ship, too far away to resemble anything but a floating brick. The coast curled behind us in the distance. Overcast skies, but no rain. Not yet.

  Cribari waited on the deck. He was alone. Back turned to us, facing the ocean. No mistaking that tall, lean frame, or the angle of his shoulders. He wore simple black: a thick coat that covered most of his body. Zee and the others raged in his presence, tugging so hard it felt like duct tape was being continuously pulled off my body, from scalp to soles.

  No one went out to greet him. We remained inside. I stayed close to Grant. He could barely walk. Mary stood near him, as well. She had flinched as though slapped when we walked free of the yacht’s belly—and now rubbed her scalp, her cheeks—held her own throat with two hands—never once taking her gaze from Grant as quiet dismay rolled through her face.

  “Didn’t feel,” she whispered. “Didn’t hear. Didn’t know.”

  Didn’t know you were dead, I finished for her. I had been around Zee and his riddles long enough to understand some of the old woman’s vague half sentences. And the fear in her eyes was enough like mine that words were unnecessary.

  Grant leaned hard on his cane, a thin sheen of sweat on his brow. The tissue clutched in his left hand was spotted with blood. He watched Cribari as anyone might a loose live cobra: calculating ways to kill. I turned in a circle, staring out the windows. Searching for any other company that Cribari might have brought. All I saw was an old fishing vessel covered in nets and blue tarps; men moving quickly across the deck.

  “How did he get here?” I asked, noting how Byron never once took his gaze off the priest.

  “Don’t know,” Killy said, fingers pressed against her temple as she glanced briefly at Mary. “I turned around, and there he was on the deck. Watching the sea. He’s ignored us since he arrived.”

  “And can you . . .” I hesitated, tapping my forehead.

  She shook her head, ever so slightly. “He’s not open.”

  “He was in a coma the last time I saw him,” said Father Lawrence. His red eye was cold and calculating as he watched Cribari—even as his brown eye remained warm, uncertain. It was like looking at two different men—men still unaware of what had been done to them. I hadn’t managed to tell Father Lawrence yet. Nor did I know how far Grant’s attempt to heal him had gone.

  Too far. Too far when it kills the healer.

  “Antony has been altered,” Grant said, “but not significantly. If he was in a coma, then what I’m seeing could have been the result of his healing process and nothing else.”

  “Mr. King turned everyone else into a doll. Why not him?”

  “Some men you don’t give power,” Jack said. “No matter how crazy you might seem.” The old man stood beside me, staring out the window at the priest. “I was a fool,” he whispered, almost to himself.

  “About my grandmother?” I asked him, thinking of Mr. King’s words; his mysterious condemnation.

  Jack gave me a sharp look. “About everything but that.”

  He began to push past me to the bridge door, but I blocked him. Frustration filled his face. I glimpsed Father Lawrence watching us much too thoughtfully.

  “He can’t hurt me,” I said. “Stay here.”

  “There are things you don’t understand,” Jack said, but I had already turned away to grab Byron’s collar. He grunted in surprise as I yanked him toward the stairs leading down to the staterooms.

  “Go,” I told him. “Find a place to hide, and don’t come out, no matter what you hear.”

  “No,” he said, fighting me. “It won’t do any good.”

  “Byron—”

  “They always find me when I hide,” he whispered, and the shadows that battered his dark eyes made me nauseous. I remembered him, months ago, living in a box—and I remembered, too, his bruises, his fear of men. The things he still could not tell me. His voice in my head, speaking of Mr. King.

  Sometimes a fight is what turns them on.

  This was not his fight. He was just a kid, forced from one dangerous life into another. He could not possibly know what was coming to hurt us, but it was all the same to him. Just one more thing to survive.

  I pulled Byron close, staring into his eyes. He did not flinch or blink. Grant touched my shoulder. “We can’t keep running,” he said.

  Just one more time, I thought, as my finger armor began to burn through my tattoos. One more jump, and then we’ll see.

  But Grant’s fingers tightened, ever so slightly, and I closed my hand into a fist, willing the armor to quiet. Its hum faded, but only a little: those tendrils of quicksilver that were molded to my skin felt deeper than bone; as though, if the metal were ever peeled back, one would find my muscle had turned to silver, and the rest of my hand to iron bars: parts of me, becoming the thing.

  I went outside to speak to Cribari, my right hand still in a fist.

  He did not turn to look at me, not even when I stood at his side, and we faced the darkening sky and the gray sea. The boat rocked, as it had since the beginning, but I noticed it more on deck, slammed by the wind, and swayed with my legs spread and knees slightly bent.

  “So,” I said. “How are we going to do this?”

  Cribari smiled faintly. “I expected you to kill me by now.”

  “He would just send another in your place.”

  “True.” His smile turned colder. “He has many soldiers at his disposal.”

  I shook my head, aware of Jack standing in the doorway behind me. “You’re an idiot. He’s no angel. He’s no messenger from God. He’s as petty as you and I, and as flawed. You’re being used.”

  His cheeks reddened, and muscles twitched around his eye, but he showed no other sign of agitation. Just that cold, fake smile that I wanted to beat off his face with my fists and cut with my knives. “You are made of lies. We should have seen that from the beginning, at our creation, but we were too dazzled by illusions. When the Wardens died, and you were the last—”

  Cribari stopped, and finally turned his head just enough to look me in the eye. “We succeeded in killing your kind before, you know. A woman of your bloodline. She trusted our order, and so it was easy to make the kill. She had a child, unfortunately.”

  Zee yanked so hard against my chest I had to take a step forward. I covered my awk
wardness by pretending I wanted to see over the rail, but all the boys were wild on my skin, heaving like little tsunamis.

  “I suppose your order was given a divine decree then, too,” I said to him, remembering the woman in the grave, and her wailing daughter. “Does murder taste sweeter when you can put all the blame on a higher power?”

  His eyes narrowed. “Take care how you speak to me.”

  “I think not,” Jack said, walking gracefully from the enclosed bridge. Father Lawrence was behind him, and Grant. I wanted to tell them to go back, but the men had looks on their faces that were determined and cold. Mary watched from the door, the wind whipping the hem of her loose dress around her knobby knees.

  “She is your Lady and Queen,” added the old man, and there was a tone in his voice that made me think of lone figures standing on the borders of darkness guarded by flames, firelight, the heat of bodies gathered to hear a sto ryteller sing of heroes and monsters. “She is the one who will save you.”

  Cribari turned fully around to face Jack, fury ticking through his gaze. “You are no one. How dare you.”

  Jack stared at the priest with disdain. He rolled back his sleeve—each movement slow and deliberate—until he revealed a tattoo. A tattoo that covered the underside of his upper forearm. A mirror image of the scar below my ear.

  Only, the lines of his tattoo were made of a white bone that crested the old man’s flesh in slivers and curves. Bone, that was part of his skeleton. Bone, natural grown.

  “I dare because I am the Wolf,” Jack said quietly. “And you will do as I say.”

  Father Lawrence swayed so badly, Grant had to catch his arm. I felt similarly shocked. Cribari’s face turned pale as death, and his knees gave out. He sank to the deck, staring at Jack like he was a monster. “Not you.”

  “Me,” said the old man grimly. “I made you.”

  If Cribari had been holding a gun, he would have put it in his mouth and pulled the trigger. For a moment, I thought he would throw himself into the ocean and try to drown himself. His despair was so profound I could taste it like poison.

  “Is she the one?” Cribari whispered. “Does she bear the mark?”

  There was only one mark he could be talking about. Jack began to shake his head in denial, but something came over me. I pulled aside my hair, feeling Dek’s tattooed body recede from my skin. My finger brushed over the exposed scar. I turned my face to the priest.

  Cribari stared, shuddering violently, holding his chest with hands that strained against his black jacket like white claws. Pale, slick with sweat; staring at me with undisguised, speechless loathing. I felt like the boogey-girl, or Jackie the Ripper; or maybe just a rabid dog.

  “How much time do we have?” whispered Cribari, his voice harsh and sibilant, and dripping with hate. “How much time until the end?”

  I showed nothing. Just looked the priest in the eye, and said, “I have no idea what you mean.”

  Grant limped to my side, impossibly grim. “No more, Antony. You can’t win this. Not in the way you think.”

  “You’re no better,” whispered the priest. “Oh, God.”

  “Enough,” Jack said. “You have my decree now.”

  “No.” Cribari gave him a hateful look that he transferred immediately to me. “You and I. We are not done, no matter what the Wolf says. We will never be done. Even if you kill me, there are others. There will always be others.”

  Behind us, in the cabin, Killy screamed.

  I flinched, turning, and Cribari made a stabbing motion at Grant. Grant swung around on his good leg, dodging the flash of metal. A syringe. He opened his mouth to sing, but that one deep breath made him cough, blood instantly dot-ting his lips. Cribari lunged again.

  I moved in front of Grant at the last moment, and the needle snapped against my breast. The priest snarled in frustration, reaching for my throat. His eyes were wild, crazed. I drew back my fist.

  Cribari disappeared. Vanished into thin air.

  I spun around, searching for him—found Grant doing the same, his hand snaring my wrist. I heard cries from the cabin, snarls. Father Lawrence was gone, and Jack stood perfectly still, his face turned up to the sky, as though listening.

  “Jack,” I snapped.

  “Behind you,” he whispered.

  I whipped around just as Cribari popped into sight, staggering drunkenly, eyes bloodshot. He grabbed Grant’s arm. Grant reared backward, letting go of me as he slammed his cane into Cribari’s gut—

  —and both of them vanished.

  I stared, stricken—the world dropping out from under me in a moment of pure, surreal insanity, in which I felt as though my guts and heart and blood floated in a well of antigravity—and then everything came crashing down and it hurt to breathe, and my body felt leaden and cold and dead. It was agony trying to think past the boys howling against me.

  I raised my right hand, finger armor glinting with unearthly light. Ready to kill the motherfucker.

  Jack grabbed my wrist. “No.”

  I snarled, and he yanked me hard against him. “Look,” he snapped, and pointed.

  That old decrepit fishing vessel I had seen earlier was closer now. Jet Skis were in the ocean, roaring toward us. I saw weapons.

  “Cribari was not supposed to take Grant away like that,” Jack murmured. “Even modified humans die after a handful of times, manipulating space. He won’t be able to control where they end up, not with the burden of an extra person.”

  I pulled away, and this time he let me. “You killing yourself when you jump places?”

  “No,” said the old man, eyes glinting. “I make adjustments.”

  He backed away from me and pointed again, but this time at the enclosed bridge behind me. “Help them. I’ll find Grant. You find us.”

  I hesitated wanting to say more to him—and then ducked as bullets chewed through the deck around my body. I got hit multiple times, but the slugs ricocheted, and the boys swarmed over my face, protecting me as pieces of the hull broke apart and hit my cheek.

  When I looked again, Jack was gone.

  CHAPTER 18

  THE ocean roared with engines. I ran inside the bridge and dodged a man’s broken body. His throat had been shredded, and I smelled the piss and shit of voided bladder and bowels. I almost slipped in his blood. I saw another male corpse near the yacht’s controls.

  Byron shouted, belowdecks.

  I flew down the stairs into the narrow hall. Saw an unfamiliar sweatshirt-clad back in front of me and did not think. I slammed my fist into the base of the man’s spine, driving forward with all my strength, and broke the bone with a satisfying crunch that I felt all the way up my arm. The man screamed, collapsing—and vanished into thin air.

  Cutting space, I thought. Creating the element of surprise. Mr. King had waited a long time before pulling that particular trick out of his hat. I wondered why now, why not earlier.

  I heard a crash in the master stateroom and slammed open the door. Glimpsed fur and long teeth—a spectral, glowing red eye—then a stranger crashed backward into me, holding his hands over a spectacularly large hole in his throat. I grabbed the back of his collar and shoved him out into the hall, where he fell hard on his knees, gurgling. Boots pounded down the stairs. I glimpsed the muzzle of an automatic rifle

  I glanced over my shoulder. Byron and Killy were shoved tight in the bathroom. Mary stood on top of the bed, hair wild and a fierce, crazy smile on her face. Father Lawrence was crouched on the floor. Fur covered his cheeks and hands, and his nails were black and long. His features were human, if hairier—but fangs pushed over his lips, and his right eye glowed. He was covered in blood, and his chest was heaving. So much for Grant’s help—though at least Father Lawrence seemed able to determine friend from foe.

  “Hey!” shouted a man at the end of the hall, approaching swiftly, rifle aimed at my head. “Hands up. Now.”

  I balled my hands into fists. I walked into the hall and shut the door behind me. I did not stop mo
ving. More men came down the stairs, piling up—staring at me with uncertainty as the first man shouted. I did not hear a word he said. Blood roared in my ears, and shadows were fluttering in my heart. The boys were howling. All I could see were the whites of that man’s eyes.

  He shot me. He unloaded his gun into my body, and I felt nothing. Bullets ricocheted off my chest and face, briefly snapping back my head. I did not slow. Other men began shooting at me, aiming around the first man, who ducked low. Bullets rained. Zee stopped raging and began to laugh against my skin. I smiled with him, feeling death in the curve of my mouth.

  Guns tried to smash into my face. I blocked them, staggering under the force of the blows. Hands grabbed at me, tearing the remains of my clothes. I used my fists to hammer skulls and break noses. I used my knees and toes. I was relentless, and the hall was narrow. I had the advantage. Men began retreating up the stairs, eyes wild and afraid.

  Darkness uncoiled, rising up my throat, and I saw things in those moments—flashes of life—as though my mind could reach into the thoughts of the men around me. I saw wives and children, and girlfriends. I saw fast cars, and football games, and witnessed lines etched into stone. A labyrinth—the one with the limp must not be harmed—a cross—but he’ll be ready for transport when you board the boat—a statue carved from black marble—there’s a boy, an old man; take them alive if you can, but the rest don’t matter—showing a woman in robes, holding a baby—watch out for the tattooed woman, watch out, watch out—and I heard a sonorous voice blessing each man—destroy the boat; blast it—speaking of sin, and the power of righteousness to overcome fear.

  I felt their fear. I ate their fear.

  Like a demon would have.

  Bodies fell in front of me. I walked over them. I heard footsteps running above my head—away, away—but I locked gazes with one more man, and watched him pull a small round object from inside the pouch hanging from his waist.

  He pulled the pin and threw the grenade at me. Ran like hell before it hardly left his fingers. I did not follow. I caught the small bomb out of the air and fell to my knees—curling around it—holding on as tightly as I could.