As soon as the last few words flew from her mouth, Charlotte stopped and evaluated what she had just said. It wasn’t like her to rant like this. She had given too much of herself away, and now she felt vulnerable, more alone than before, more isolated.
“I’m sorry,” Arielle said, her voice clipped. A wall was building behind her eyes; Charlotte could almost see it. In a way, she was proud. “But this isn’t my problem. Michael loves me, not you, regardless of all the times you tried putting your tits in his face.”
Charlotte slapped her. Arielle took it with no sign of pain.
“Feel better, Charlotte? Is that what you needed to do all this time?”
Charlotte looked down at the bits of grass on Arielle’s sandals; grass that had accumulated during her nighttime stroll to meet Michael beneath the stars. It wasn’t fair. So much of it just wasn’t fair.
“Get out of my room,” Arielle said.
The room darkened behind her blonde head. Was it an illusion, or was there a wind Charlotte couldn’t feel stirring the candle flames? Her heart began to beat more quickly as tendrils of that darkness appeared to collect in Arielle’s eyes.
“I saw what pure rage felt like the day Michael let me into his mind,” Arielle said, her voice resonant, commanding. “I took some of it with me. Don’t make me use it.”
A force flung Charlotte back against the wall. Her mouth gaped open as she watched the whites of her sister’s eyes turn pitch black.
It’s just an illusion. She’s messing with your mind.
Charlotte stepped back as a shiver ran down her spine. Where was William when she needed him? Where was her shield?
“Get out,” Arielle said.
This time, Charlotte obeyed.
Chapter 30
Warren tossed his hand-rolled cigarette away and entered the tavern. The cigarette smoke had done nothing to mask the smell of cows and hay he always had on him these days, but that wouldn’t matter. Everyone who came to this tavern smelled like shit. He was just another regular.
For the past few weeks, he’d been working on a farm on the outskirts of Easterville, a town whose citizens made a living mostly by raising their own livestock and selling milk and eggs. Easterville was a real backward sort of town, even compared to Gulch, and getting in wasn’t easy. Warren had faked a religious conversion, had acted like he’d been possessed by the Holy Spirit at church one day while several of the townsfolk lay their hands upon him to drive out evil spirits and allow the great, glowing Holy One to seep into him and free his soul—or something like that.
What a bunch of bullshit.
The tavern was quiet this afternoon. It was a small, dimly lit place meant for regulars who didn’t mind the stink the farmers brought with them. The occasional drifter or caravan guard came in sometimes; you could tell who they were by the way they’d always sit up at the counter and look around. They didn’t bury their faces in their arms or ask for their own bottle the way the regulars did.
“Oh, great,” Warren said, having heard running footsteps outside, growing louder by the second. “Just what I need right now.”
Toomy Bunkers crashed through the door in his usual clumsy way, allowing in a bright wash of sunlight that made Warren and the other regulars wince. The windows in this place had long since been boarded up. For some reason, Toomy liked to throw the door all the way open instead of slipping in like the others. Warren shook his head, thankful he wasn’t a retard like Toomy.
Toomy walked slightly hunched over, like he was waiting for a whip to fall across his shoulders and take a bite out of him. Because he lacked any wits whatsoever, all he was really good for was emptying the trash, the slop buckets, and the spittoons. His hands were always brown with tobacco-spit afterward. It was disgusting.
“Hi, Warren,” Toomy said in his dull, rounded voice. It always sounded like he had marbles in his mouth. The bartender set down a beer mug for Toomy to take into the back, where the owner kept an office.
Warren watched him try to cross the room without bumping into every chair along the way, his eyes on the overflowing mug. Long-faced and ugly as a baby horse, the boy pissed Warren off something awful—and he didn’t even know why. With a sudden burst of movement, not sure what possessed him, Warren extended his right leg and sent the boy falling face-first into the floorboards, his beer spilling everywhere.
A couple of regulars laughed at this, though Warren had expected a more enthusiastic response. Didn’t Toomy piss everyone off around here? Was it just him?
Look at him. The ugly little bastard was trying to push himself up with one hand while still holding the beer mug with the other. The liquid had flown out of the mug, leaving it empty, and still the retard held it like it was full to the brim and he couldn’t spill a drop.
“Get up,” Warren said.
“I-I-I—”
Warren sometimes wondered if all retards had stutters. Charlotte’s boy never had one, but the boy barely spoke, so who knew for sure?
Warren would find out eventually. If he succeeded and got Charlotte out of there, he’d be seeing a lot more of the little bastard than he wanted.
The thought made him angry. He kicked the beer mug out of Toomy’s hand.
“Noooo…” The boy moaned. “That was for Mister Alecker.”
He looked to be on the verge of tears.
“To hell with Mr. Alecker,” Warren said.
“Noooo…”
The bartender, a broad-shouldered woman in her forties named Mary, came over and picked Toomy up by the armpits. The boy was sobbing now, sucking his lower lip into his mouth and blowing it back out again like a fish.
“You son of a bitch,” she told Warren. “He warn’t doing nothin’ to you.”
“He wasn’t getting me a beer,” Warren said.
The woman gave him a sour look and helped Toomy toward the back of the bar, out of harm’s way. The boy was still whimpering and sobbing. Warren imagined it was Michael crying like that—crying because he had just watched Warren slice open his little blonde girlfriend right in front of him.
The door opened all the way and a man walked in. Sunlight poured in around him, making him little more than a silhouette. Another tourist. They always had to swing the door open all the way as if the room was some sort of stage, and they were making a grand entrance. As the door closed and the man stepped into the tavern’s thin light, Warren saw that this guy was even dressed for the part, too.
He wore cargo pants that looked brand new, with pockets lining the thighs and calves, and—could it be?—a real leather belt holding them up. His shirt was made of some kind of durable material and buttoned down the front, and none of the buttons seemed to be missing. It didn’t look faded from constant exposure to the sun. His boots were covered in dust, but you could still see the shine underneath. They were almost new.
Warren would look fine in those pants and boots, with a shirt like that one tucked in and ready to go. And that leather belt—damn! He had to get himself some of that finery.
“A whiskey, please,” the stranger said, leaning an elbow on the bar.
His hair was parted along one side and combed all the way over to the other, straight for the most part but ending in curly tufts at the ends. Otherwise, there wasn’t much that would’ve made him stand out from a crowd. He was of average height with a soft-looking chin that lacked any sort of masculine shape. He looked well fed, but he wasn’t fat or even husky. His limbs were pretty thin. The only part of him that stood out, aside from his new clothes, were his eyes. Close together and piercing, they darted about to take in their new surroundings.
Warren had seen eyes like that before.
“What are you looking for?” Warren said, making sure he was sitting back in his chair with his arms spread over the table and his long, denim-clad legs extending outward like he owned the place. He sat in the center of a mass of empty tables, guarded on all sides from anyone trying to approach. If he wanted, he could spring to his feet and take down th
is asshole with no problem.
“Why, you got something I might want?” the man said.
He had a hint of an accent he was obviously trying to cover up. Warren picked it out only because Louis Blake and John Meacham and all those other former soldiers of the People’s Republic had the same one. This man was a spy, for sure.
“I got information I’m willing to sell,” Warren said. “You seem like the right type to buy it, too.”
The bartender, having returned to her post behind the bar, served the man his whiskey. He sipped it while peering into the back of the room, probably to make sure he wasn’t going to be ambushed. He kept his body turned toward Warren the whole time.
“How do you know what type I am?”
Warren smiled. “Whyn’t you have a seat and we’ll talk about it?”
“I have a seat in front of you, and you pull a gun on me, I got tables everywhere I turn. Can’t do much but sit there and hope.”
“Nah,” Warren said. “If I wanted to shoot you, I’d have done it, soldier.”
The man stared into Warren’s eyes without blinking, even tipped his head forward a little like his thoughts had suddenly taken on weight.
“You’re lying,” he said. “You don’t have a gun.”
Warren’s voice was abruptly loud. “And you’re a god damn ment.”
He leaped toward the man, tipping over the only table between them. In response, the man ducked and twisted and was able to grab hold of Warren’s collar and the length of twine holding up his pants and whip him down toward the bar so his head clipped the side. Warren rolled away, arms up. He blinked and tried to clear his mind.
The man had moved so fast. Or had simply appeared to. He was another one like Dominic, who could slow men’s minds and move around their confusion like a hummingbird flitting around a bumblebee.
“Noooo…” Toomy said from the back of the bar. “No fighting. No fighting.”
Toomy gripped his head and rocked back and forth. One of the regulars, an old man with missing teeth, cackled. The others just watched, faces mere shadows in the darkened area in back.
“You won’t get up,” the telepath said. “And you won’t give me any more problems.”
Warren rubbed the back of his head. He was still disoriented, but he wasn’t angry. He knew exactly what a man like this was after. It was the kind of leverage only Warren could give, knowing what he knew. For the right price, of course.
“Your name,” Warren said.
“Dietrich Werner. Pleased to meet you. And yours?”
“Just call me War.”
Dietrich nodded. “I can do that.”
Warren pushed himself up, trying to keep his body from wobbling. He had hit his head hard, but his mind had never been clearer in his life.
Dietrich stared at him with those serious, ment eyes. “You take it easy now, War. Despite your scary name, this wouldn’t be a fair fight. I know a hundred ways to hurt you.”
“Ain’t necessary,” Warren said. “We’re gonna be partners. I want enough money to build myself a small army, and then we’re going to raid a town in the mountains, you and me.”
Dietrich frowned, but only the slightest bit. He was obviously trying to hide his curiosity.
“You said you had information. Now you’re demanding an army. What are you playing at?”
Warren smiled at the man. “I have something you want. Something your boss has been looking for, going on nineteen years now, I think.”
Dietrich’s eyes widened.
“Maybe I will sit down,” he said, and then he looked over his shoulder at the bartender. “Bring this man as much whiskey as he wants, and put it on my tab.”
Chapter 31
The knock came at his door a half-hour after he’d left Arielle at her front door. Michael was surprised to see her slip into his darkened bedroom.
“I thought you were going to bed,” he said, squinting at her in the dark.
“Shhhh…”
He caught sight of her blonde hair in the moonlight streaming in through the window. She had it picked up in a loose bun, shreds of it hanging over her face. Her legs were bare.
“Can I sleep next to you for a while?” she said.
“Sure,” Michael said, his voice cracking a bit. He hadn’t expected this at all.
He pulled back the covers to let her in. Her clothes looked different. She hadn’t been wearing shorts before.
“Did you change?” he asked her as she slipped in and filled the bed with her heat.
“Mm hmm. I thought these would be easier to take off.”
Arielle raised her knees above her belly and slipped off the shorts, then tossed them across the room. Michael’s fingers brushed the soft warmth of her cotton underwear.
He said nothing as his mind buzzed with half-formed questions. What was she…? Why the sudden change…?
“Arielle,” he whispered, feeling a familiar surge of anxiety. “What are you doing? You told me you weren’t ready—”
She put a finger to his lips, silencing him. “It doesn’t matter what I said. I love you, Michael. And you love me. That’s enough, isn’t it?”
She kissed him, and as they kissed, her left hand groped him beneath the covers.
Michael gave in to her advances, noticing that her lips tasted saltier than before, and her hair smelled different. She had put in some kind of fragrance, maybe so he would find her more appealing? No, that couldn’t be right. Arielle knew he preferred her natural scent.
He pushed her away and blinked, trying to get a clear look at her.
“I’m going to light a candle,” he said.
“No. Don’t. I want to do it in the dark.”
“Ary, what’s wrong? You seem different.”
“Do I?” She curled against him. “This is new to me. Please don’t make me feel like I’m doing it wrong.”
“You’re not. It’s just—”
“Lay back. I see you got a new bed.”
“What?”
“Never mind.”
Afterward, Michael would remember these words, and he would ask himself how he could have been so stupid. It was true he’d built himself another bed after the incident with Charlotte where Eli had heard the creaking of the springs before storming in on them.
However, in that moment, he was aware of only one thing: Arielle’s fumbling, girlish movements as she slid one leg over his waist and straddled him. She lifted both arms, her hands taking with them the edges of her T-shirt, lifting it to reveal a naked chest that he could barely see in the darkness.
She flung the shirt aside, took his hands, and brought them up to cup a warm pair of breasts. They were smaller but firmer than Charlotte’s. And yet, something about her dominant attitude struck him as familiar—and very unlike Arielle.
He tried to put the thought aside so he could lose himself in the moment. This was what he wanted, wasn’t it? To be with Arielle? To make love to her?
She had slipped her underwear off—first hers, then his. He focused on being good at this, because her first time should be pleasant, meaningful, passionate. He had to hide his discomfort and focus on her pleasure.
There was no longer anything separating her flesh from his, no clothing or bed sheets, no reason not to keep going. Arielle slipped over him just right, and then he was inside her.
Michael pushed himself up into a sitting position as Arielle rocked back and forth on top of him, and he held her in the dim light and moved his body along with hers so they were like the pistons of a machine moving in sync.
“Are you cold?” he asked her, running his hands along the gooseflesh on her back.
“Just be quiet.”
She took his earlobe into her mouth, bit down, and sucked on it.
“Wait,” Michael said with a gasp. “Not inside you.”
“Shut up.”
This last bit told him something was wrong. This wasn’t the Arielle he knew sitting astride him, despite the blonde hair spilling everywher
e as she arched her back and let her head tip back, breasts full and soft in the light, a smile curling her lips.
With me, she sent into his mind, along with a push.
Stop!
He released every ounce of pleasure that had built up inside of him; a delicious feeling like firing a pistol in the heat of battle when you’ve already won.
It was over in a second.
“No,” he said afterward, breathing hard as he tried to slide out from under her without success.
The blonde hair was gone, replaced by a mass of thick, brown tresses he recognized all too well. A pair of dark eyes flashed at him.
“Now you’re mine,” Charlotte said.
She rose off of him, leaving her sweat to cool rapidly on his skin, and stood by the bed. Her thighs were clenched tightly together.
“Nothing changes,” Michael said, scrambling to put his underwear back on. “Get out.”
“Oh yeah? Do you even know what they do to rapists in this town?”
A cold shudder passed through Michael. He froze. “Rape? I didn’t rape you.”
“It felt that way. And I have proof you were inside me.”
“Proof?” He threw back the blankets to sit up. “How could anyone—”
“Midas Ford. I’ll go to him tonight and tell him. He’ll run tests. He’ll know.”
Michael leaped off the bed and pushed Charlotte backward. She fell against the wall with a hollow boom, then let out the most ear-piercing shriek Michael had ever heard. The shriek was accompanied by something else—a subtle frequency he was sure everyone in town could hear.
He clutched his ears.
“Stop it, Charlotte.”
His telepathy was no use; she was scrambling it, the moment was too chaotic.
He reached for her, his fingers bent into claws, his mind harboring no rational thought as to what he should do, only that he had to make the noise stop before the entire town woke up, before someone took notice and came in here and saw him with her, naked and reaching for her like he wanted to strangle her.
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