Spirits White as Lightning

by Mercedes Lackey

  She just wished she knew why.

  She must have slept, because she was startled out of confused dreams by Elkanah hauling her unceremoniously to her feet. It was dark outside, and the room was lit by one bare 40-watt bulb.

  "What time is it?" she asked groggily.

  "Time to go," Elkanah said, turning her around to unlock the cuffs. He gave her a push toward the bathroom. "You go wash up. We've got miles to go."

  "Miles to go before I sleep." A scrap of an old poem she'd had to learn in high school surfaced in her mind. Mr. Johnson had said it was about death. She wished she hadn't remembered it now.

  The bathroom was small and grimy, its tiny window painted shut. She ran water in the sink until it ran clear, then scooped up several tepid handfuls, gulping thirstily and rubbing it over her face and hair. There was a mirror over the sink. Her face looked blotched and puffy, her eyes big and scared. The dyed black hair looked unconvincing and dull—he'd been right, it looked awful, and with her hellbound for death or slavery, why should she care?

  I don't care, she told herself. I don't care what anyone thinks of me, or how I look. I don't. She wished she could stay in there forever, but he'd only come in after her. She slicked her hair down as best she could and washed the beer out of her T-shirt and opened the door. Elkanah was waiting for her. He handed her a warm can of Coke and a granola bar.

  "Breakfast."

  She didn't argue.

  The next day followed the pattern of the first. Elkanah drove, almost aimlessly, and Jeanette sat, chained to the door, and tried to make sense out of what was happening to her. She supposed she ought to be putting her soul in order and repenting her misspent life, but it didn't seem to her that any of this was her fault. She'd never told Robert to kill all those people. When she'd been an outlaw chemist, she'd never forced her drugs on anyone who didn't want to buy.

  But they couldn't have done it without you, a remorseless inner voice said. She tried to shut it out, but there was nothing to do but listen to it, and finally she gave in. Okay. If the Sinner Saints hadn't had me, they'd've found someone else to cook for them, but that's no excuse. If Robert hadn't found me, he'd have found someone else, but that's no excuse either. I didn't have to do those things. I'm responsible for what I did.

  But how could I have not done them? Once I got started all the way back in high school, how could I have done anything different than what I did?

  "Pretty good, you tracking me down like that," she finally said. It was crazy of her to bait him that way, but the only other choice was to listen to that accusing voice inside her head. Anything to shut up her inner Jiminy Cricket.

  Her only answer was a grunt.

  "I thought I'd gotten away clean. It was more than six months. I read about Threshold in the papers. I thought they'd got everyone else."

  Another grunt.

  "I guess you must've given them the slip."

  Now he glanced toward her. "I'm here," was all he said.

  "Pretty good going," Jeanette offered, but Elkanah said nothing more. But now that she'd started, she didn't seem to be able to stop talking.

  "You must have high-level backing. Robert did. All I do is make the stuff."

  Now he looked directly at her. "That's enough. That's what he wants."

  "Who? Robert?" But Robert was dead, wasn't he? Elkanah had said so, back in the cabin.

  For a moment she thought she'd pushed him too far. Elkanah cut the van sharply over to the side of the road, stopped, and got out. But he wasn't coming for her. He opened the door into the back. She heard the rattle of the aspirin bottle, and craned over the back of the seat to see. He was standing in the doorway—no, hanging in the doorway, looking like Death on roller skates, slugging back dry aspirins as if they were jelly beans. He looked up as she moved, and for a moment she saw a silvery flash, like the reflection of light in a mirror, but it passed too soon for her to be sure of what she saw.

  "You talk too much," Elkanah said.

  "I want to know what's going to happen."

  He laughed. The sound came as if forced, ending in a wracking cough. "No you don't. You don't want to know what's going to happen."

  "What?" she asked, fear breaking through her forced calm. "What's going to happen? What are you going to do with me? Where are we going? Who are you working for? What does he want?"

  "Who said I was working for someone?" He glared at her in sullen anger.

  You did. Just now. You said he wants me. "All I want to know is—"

  "Shut up."

  She did.

  They stopped again soon after that at a convenience store. Elkanah bought sandwiches and coffee for both of them, a pair of dark glasses, and all the aspirin the store had. She watched him chase another half bottle of pills with scalding coffee.

  He didn't have headaches like that when he was working at Threshold. If there'd been anything wrong with him then, that Healer we killed would have spotted it. She didn't like Elkanah, didn't care about him, but suddenly it seemed terribly important to her that he be well and whole.

  "Caffeine helps," she said hesitantly. "You should get some No-Doz. It's got more caffeine than coffee does."

  For a moment she almost thought he'd hit her, but instead he got out of the van again and went back into the store. She could see him talking to the clerk.

  I should get out of here. I could scream. Make a fuss. Jump out of the van.

  But if she did, she was still chained to the door. And the man she was with was entirely capable of taking off and dragging her. Her jacket would protect her from the road, but not for long. She sipped her coffee, hating herself for her cowardice. It wouldn't be an easy death, but it might be better than what Elkanah was taking her to. She shivered, suddenly cold. "You don't want to know what's going to happen."

  He came back with a handful of bottles, tossing them onto the dash. Something called "Truckers' Pick Me Up." Watching him carefully for signs of displeasure, she reached for one of the bottles. Caffeine pills. He'd taken her advice. That was something.

  They drove through the night without stopping except for gas. Near dawn he began to talk—to keep himself awake, she suspected—but it was information, all the same.

  "Never did think about all the people you hurt, did you? Never thought about everybody you left. Little blonde bitch, left us all there. Didn't think I'd be back, did you? Didn't think I'd find you. Too smart for you. Miss Ria Llewellyn. Blonde bitch. Thought you could throw me off with a haircut. Too smart. Gonna take you back. Make you run. Fix everything. Teach you to leave us there."

  Did he think she was Ria Llewellyn? He couldn't. He'd known who she was when he'd come for her. He'd talked about a partnership, made sure to take her stock.

  "I didn't leave you," she said softly, not knowing what else to say.

  Her voice seemed to rouse him. He glanced at her.

  "I ran out on you—on Threshold, on Robert—but you were free to do the same."

  "I guess you think we ought to stop," he said, as if they'd been having some other—more normal—conversation.

  "That'd be good. I guess we still have a long way to go?"

  He didn't answer, but a few hours later, as the sun was coming up, they stopped again.

  She'd been too tired to really notice when it happened, but at some point during the night they'd gone from winding local roads to the main state roads. They were heading east. Toward New York. She was sure of it now.

  Main roads meant a better class of hotel, too. This time the room had two double beds. They were bolted to the floor, so this time Elkanah took the pillows and blankets and made himself a bed in front of the door. He unplugged the phone and took it with him, falling asleep at once and leaving her to her own devices. This time he didn't even bother to cuff her hands. Confidence that she couldn't escape—or was he getting sloppy?

  It didn't really matter. The windows didn't open, and they were on the second floor. She could throw a chair through the window or set fire to
the curtains with the lighter in her jacket pocket, but that was about all. She didn't think he'd sleep through either activity. She wouldn't escape, and she'd be in a worse situation than she was in now.

  She could break one of the bathroom glasses and cut her throat, but aside from that, her options were limited.

  She honestly considered doing that, staring into the mirror, but she couldn't quite bring herself to do it. Down deep in her heart, Jeanette was afraid that death wasn't a final end, and she was afraid of what lay on the other side—balance and payment exacted for the crimes and weaknesses of a lifetime. Her hands shook, and tears prickled at the back of her eyes, but she couldn't even cry. Something horrible was going to happen to her, and she knew she deserved it, but she couldn't help shrieking inside that it wasn't fair, that she hadn't known what would happen back when she could still change things, back while it would have done any good. And now, nothing she could do could ever make up for what she'd done. She didn't think she could do good if she tried.

  So life isn't fair. You always knew that. But I just wish . . .

  She shook her head. Might as well wish she'd never been born. Where had her life gone twisted? When she'd started selling drugs? In high school, when she'd dreamed of revenge on her tormentors and vowed she'd pay any price to get it? In kindergarten, when everyone had laughed at her for some reason she'd never understood and she'd hated them for it? How far back did you look for reasons, for the first failure of nerve or spirit that led to all the rest? Should she blame her parents, and their unspoken agreement that she deserved whatever happened to her, no matter what it was? If they'd been one of those happy loving TV families that stuck up for each other, would she have turned out quite the same?

  Who knows?

  Wearily, going through the motions of living that almost—but not quite—didn't matter any more, she stripped and showered. At least she could be clean when she died, even if she had nothing to wear but the clothes she'd been living in for days. Afterward she sat in a chair, watching the sun rise, watching Elkanah sleep, waiting for him to wake up and deliver her to her fate.

  He woke in the late afternoon and took her back to the van. This time he didn't chain her to the door. He headed for Interstate 80, confirming her guess that they were heading for New York.

  "Maybe it's time for you to fill me in," she said, trying again for information because it was the only thing she could do. They were on a high-speed road now, one filled with big trucks and drivers who all thought they were James Bond. He'd have to pay more attention to the road. Maybe he'd get careless. Maybe they'd crash and the Smokeys would come and arrest them both. Somehow a lifetime spent in prison didn't seem so bad any more.

  "Back in Morton's Fork, you asked if I could make more T-Stroke. You said we could do business."

  "What?" Elkanah glanced quickly toward her, his face blank with surprise, then quickly back to the road.

  "What do you want me for?"

  "I don't," he said flatly. Then: "It's dark." And it was, but there were headlights all around them, and somehow she didn't think that was the kind of darkness he was talking about.

  "Just you wait until we get to New York, Ria Llewellyn . . ." His voice trailed off. And though she repeated her questions over and over again at prudent intervals, she never got any clearer answer. It was almost as if he didn't know she was in the van any more.

  She'd made up her mind to run for it and damn the consequences when they stopped at the toll gate on the George Washington Bridge, but to her dismay they didn't head for the bridge. Elkanah went around the city, switching from the New Jersey Turnpike to the Garden State Parkway, and then to Route 17, a two-lane road that twisted through dark countryside.

  "Where are we going?" she asked desperately.

  "To New York," he said, in a terrifyingly reasonable voice. "We'll be there soon."

  But they'd passed New York an hour before.

  He was crazy. She knew it with a sick certainty. She'd counted on his sanity more than she'd known until the last hope of it was gone. He'd never been looking for her. He must have found her by accident—it was possible—and all the rest: about business, an employer, his accusations of something Ria Llewellyn had done, were all a smoke screen over his madness. Maybe he'd killed Robert Lintel. Maybe he'd killed all of them. And now he was going to kill her. Fear of capture had paralyzed her thinking until it was too late.

  "We're going to need to stop for gas," she said, glancing at the fuel gauge. Anything, anything, to make him take her where lights and people were! She wasn't chained up now, and now, knowing what she knew, she'd do anything to keep him from chaining her up again.

  "No need. We're almost there," he said, turning off the road onto a one-lane track. A sign flashed by almost before she could read it: Sterling Forest Park.

  "Look. Could we stop and get something to drink? I'm really thirsty," she said.

  "There's stuff in the back," he said, his eyes on the road. Though it was bumpy and narrow, he hadn't slowed at all. She would have jumped from the van if he had. But this was a chance, at least. She climbed around the seat, into the back of the van, and turned on the light.

  Her saddlebags were still there, next to Elkanah's duffle. She scrabbled through her bags, hoping he'd brought her gun, but there was nothing in them but clothes, the jar of T-Stroke powder, and the two bottles full of filled capsules. She reached for Elkanah's duffle.

  Aspirin. Caffeine pills. Bundles of cash. Half a six-pack of Coke, and one of those big plastic cups with a straw built into the lid that you got at highway rest stops, the kind that held 64 ounces. No weapon.

  But she had a weapon, if she wasn't afraid to use it.

  With shaking hands, praying he wouldn't turn and look, she unscrewed the lid of the brown plastic jar and dumped several ounces of powdered T-Stroke into the cup. A low dose kills, a higher dose delays death. She held it between her knees and ripped back the tab on a can of Coke, pouring it in over the powder. It foamed up the sides and she swirled it around. The powder melted away, leaving a murky brown liquid. She added a second can of Coke and clamped the lid on. Her hands were freezing. New York in August, and she was cold.

  Cold as death.

  Revenge is always an option. She used to think the phrase was cool, glamorous, a creed to live by. Now all she felt was despair.

  The van was starting to slow down. Stopping. She stuffed the jar into her pocket and grabbed for the two bottles of capsules. A low dose kills. A higher dose might let you live.

  He turned off the engine but left the headlights on as he climbed out of the van. A moment later he pulled open the sliding door of the van. In the wan light his skin was stretched tight, gray and shiny. Oily beads of sweat stood out on his face like sequins, gleaming in the light. He looked like a dying man.

  "What's that you got there, Ms. Campbell?"

  "Coke." Her voice was hoarse but steady, a tiny triumph to set against the sins of a lifetime. "Want some?"

  "You first," he said, unsmiling.

  She put the straw to her lips and sucked hard, tasting brackish warm sweetness, a faint tang of carbonation, and nothing more. She gulped hard, forcing herself to swallow the contents of the cup. Forcing herself not to know she was drinking poison.

  "Here," she said, holding out what was left.

  He took it and drank deeply, and as he did, his expression changed. Realization. Terror.

  But not of her. Not of what was in the cup.

  Bright pale spots appeared on his forehead. She watched in horror as something glittery burst through his skin, shooting out, branching, shining bright as chrome.

  Horns. Antlers. Silver antlers.

  He screamed, dropping the empty cup.

  Then he reached for her, fast as a striking snake, yanking her out of the van and onto her knees on the summer-damp ground.

  "Run, girl! As you love Jesus—run!"

  She scrabbled away from him, moaning low in her throat with pure terror. Elkanah was
clutching at the antlers, trying to tear them from his head, oblivious to her now. She managed to make it to her feet, staggering into the glare of the van's headlights, unable to make sense of what she was seeing. He swung his head from side to side, striking the antlers against the side of the van in his frenzy to remove them. The sound they made was a chiming like struck crystal, a high sweet ringing that grew louder instead of softer, growing and changing until the air was filled with deafening music.

  Hearing it, Elkanah turned and ran, crashing off into the night. The horns he wore glowed as if they were made of starlight.

  The music stopped. The grass crackled as it froze, turning from green to silver.

  Oh, please, no.

  Jeanette clutched at the hood of the van for support, then turned, clumsy with terror, to put her back against it.

  An armored figure on horseback stood silhouetted in the glare. His black horse gleamed like polished stone. His armor was like something out of a medieval fever dream, fantastically ornate, the gleam of pure silver sparkling beneath a coat of night-black enamel. Long black hair flowed down over his shoulders, framing a face of inhuman beauty, such beauty that she wanted to run to him, throw herself beneath his horse's hooves, weeping, and beg his forgiveness for her ugliness. Behind him the night rippled, as if it had been shattered into a thousand pieces and re-formed once again. He was death and ruin, despair and pain, the end of all hope, all light.

  She knew him.

  "Aerune," she whimpered, sliding to her knees. Her heart hammered, flushing the T-Stroke through her system, promising her death or transformation, but neither soon enough to save her.

  Aerune mac Audelaine, Dark Lord of the Sidhe, Prince of Air and Darkness.

  Lord of Death and Pain.

  Nothing could save her.

  She closed her eyes, hearing the soft chiming as Lord Aerune walked his horse slowly forward.

  "They said my hunt had failed." His voice was like ruined music, making her ache with sorrow. "But my hound has brought me the quarry I sought. Look at me, human girl."