by Cole Gibsen
What? Hurt Weasel? That didn’t make any sense. But then again, it was a voice in my head that said it, so why should it make sense? I rubbed two fingers against my temple.
“Um, guys … ”
I looked up, surprised to find it was the younger brother who had spoken.
“I think we should go. Somebody might show up and … I think there’s something wrong with her.” He whispered the last part, as if worried it might upset me.
“Nah.” Weasel pushed the younger brother back. “We’re not going anywhere.”
His smile made my skin crawl. I couldn’t decide which I wanted to do more—pass out or throw up.
Weasel cocked his head to the side. “Don’t you worry, baby doll. You just might like it.”
This couldn’t be happening. Surely there was a security guard patrolling the lot nearby who could put a stop to this. I took a deep breath, ready for the scream I’d been waiting for to finally come out.
But instead, I opened my mouth and said, “You’re right. I am going to like this.” My eyes flew wide and I took a step back. I hadn’t meant to say anything. I sucked in another breath and tried screaming again; only, like before, words replaced my cry. “It’s been a long time, and I’ve been itching for a good fight.” Wide-eyed, I clamped both hands over my mouth before I could say more.
Weasel’s mouth dropped open.
“See,” the younger brother whispered. “I told you something’s wrong with her.”
“She’s screwing with us,” the older brother said, but his eyes danced nervously between me and Weasel. “She thinks she’s a badass.”
Me? Badass? That word and I didn’t even exist on the same planet. Skateboarding aside, I was obsessed with strawberry lip gloss and adding to my stuffed animal collection, and my idea of manual labor was washing the dishes by hand when the dishwasher was broken. Badass … I would have found it funny if I wasn’t so terrified.
Weasel snorted. “You think you’re a badass?”
I wanted to shake my head, but my neck refused to cooperate. I could only stare back.
“Sure she does,” the older brother said with a frown. “Look at her just staring at us like that.”
Weasel spit on the ground next to my shoe, which I’m sure had been his target. “So Little-Miss-Barbie-Badass, you’re itching for a fight, and I’m itching for something else. Let’s see if we can help each other out.” He moved toward me.
My stomach lurched and I felt sure that throwing up had won the battle over passing out. He was almost upon me, mere inches separating his cigarette-stained fingers from my bare arm, when it happened.
A tight pressure squeezed the inside of my chest, like firm hands holding a struggling rabbit. It enveloped my heart and forced it to return to its regular beat. Next, like silk sliding beneath my skin, I felt myself being tried on like a suit. I stretched my arms, flexed my fingers, and rocked back on my heels, only it wasn’t me doing those things.
I braced myself for the wave of terror that was sure to wash over me, but it never came. Instead, a smile that didn’t belong to me pulled at my lips.
“Rich!” the younger brother warned, but it was too late.
I dodged to the side, just beyond the reach of Rich’s grasping hand. As he moved past me, I hooked my right arm around his outstretched limb, pulling it behind his back and bending him over. Before I could stop myself I struck his extended elbow with my left hand, shattering the bone.
He screamed and dropped to the ground, landing on the toaster. He rolled off the crumpled box, cursing me as he cradled his forearm that dangled in unnatural angles.
Oh, gross. From far away, I felt the stirrings of nausea, but just as quickly a warm pressure wrapped around my stomach and the feeling left. I couldn’t be certain, but I was pretty sure I was still smiling.
The older brother, his face drained of color, jumped back from the groaning man. He looked up at me with red veins webbed across his protruding eyes. “You’re gonna die!” he screamed. Flecks of spit foamed at the corners of his mouth. He reached in his back pocket and pulled out a large switchblade, releasing the blade from the hilt with a click. From deep within the cotton comfort of my brain, I thought I should be concerned about this latest development, but my possessed body didn’t flinch.
I saw one of my eyes—large, blue, and serene—reflected in the blade as it fell toward my face. I wondered if everyone felt so at peace right before they died. I closed my eyes and waited for … I wasn’t sure exactly. I hoped it wouldn’t hurt.
“Donnie, don’t!” the younger brother cried.
I braced myself for the bite of metal, but it never came. Instead, a small wind brushed along my cheek, and I opened my eyes in time to see Donnie’s blade miss my face by inches. “You’re going to have to be faster than that,” I heard my voice taunt.
Donnie cried out, his pulse pounding in his temples. His second strike was a wide-open arc that I ducked with time to spare. “Faster still,” my voice teased. I felt my smile grow wider.
Donnie screamed again and charged at me with three rapid stabs.
I ducked to the left. “You missed.” And again to the right. “Missed again.” The third swing went wide and I spun behind his outreached arm, turned back, and kicked.
I heard a sound like a twig being snapped in two and saw Donnie’s blade fly through the air. He was too busy holding his hand to his chest and screaming to notice. More broken bones, and still I felt nothing. For someone who couldn’t watch a scary movie without throwing a pillow over her face, I thought I should feel something—horror, fear, disgust—anything. My smile twitched.
Careful, the voice whispered inside my head, the battlefield is no place to lose focus.
Since when is the mall parking lot a battlefield?
The battlefield is the ground under your enemy’s feet, the voice answered.
“Donnie, let’s just go,” the younger brother pleaded. “She’s not worth it.”
Donnie snorted in agreement, but his eyes never left my face. The fingers of his good hand slowly curled into a fist.
“Don’t.” The younger brother’s voice cracked.
Donnie nodded his head dismissively at his brother and lunged forward.
The silk that enveloped my body lengthened until it brushed from my fingers to my toes. Time seemed to move in slow motion as I spun to the side of Donnie’s fist. I turned to face the back of his body.
Donnie stumbled back around. I dropped to the ground and swept my leg around and through his. He looked confused in the instant when his feet were off the ground, right before his head made a sickening crack against the pavement.
I turned back to face the younger brother, casually flipping my hair over my shoulder as I did. The smile was still in place, but I could taste the beginnings of bile on the back of my tongue.
The younger brother pulled out his own knife, but he didn’t handle it nearly as well as his brother. His hand trembled, making the weapon look more like a flopping fish than an instrument of death. “Please,” he whispered.
My body stepped forward.
The blood drained from his face, leaving his skin the color of ash. He stepped back. “I don’t want to fight you.”
“And I didn’t want to fight you three,” I replied, and this time the words were my own. “I wanted to go to a party tonight and finally hook up with this boy I like. It was the end-of-the-school-year party; the entire junior class was invited. It was pretty much my last chance to see this guy until fall.” I balled my hands into fists. “Guess we’re both out of luck tonight.” My nails dug into my palm, sending twinges of pain up my arm. It was wonderful to feel again.
The little brother took another step back. “But it wasn’t my idea,” he said. “Rich was mad because you messed up his snatch-and-grab. He said he wanted to scare you.”
The smile fell from my face. “How would you like me to scare you?” I took another step closer.
He took two steps back. “You alread
y do,” he whispered.
“Good.” I stomped at the ground in front of me, and the younger brother dropped his knife and jumped so high I thought for a moment he might pop out of his skin. He twisted in midair and started running in the opposite direction the moment his feet hit the ground.
I turned to check on Quentin, but the voice in my head stopped me. We must not let our enemy escape, the voice whispered. He can’t be allowed to harm again.
I sighed. What was I supposed to do? I was a little over five feet and he had a head start. There was no way I could catch up.
We don’t have to, the voice answered. I felt the silk stretch out and brush the inside of my fingertips. Before I knew it, I was bent over and picking up the younger brother’s discarded knife. My thumb closed the blade into the metal hilt. My right leg stepped back and my arm rose over my head. I shut my eyes, threw, and didn’t open them until after I heard the thud. When I did, the younger brother lay unconscious four parking rows over.
It was done. I should have felt relieved, but the ropes of anxiety twisted tighter around my chest until I thought my ribs would break from the pressure. Now that I was done with the outward threat, the battle had moved inside of me. My muscles strained against the unnatural presence, my breath locked inside my lungs until, inch by painful inch, the warm silk beneath my skin unraveled, leaving my blood cold in its wake. Despite the warm night air, I began to shiver, the trembling growing more violent with each second until I was sure I was having a seizure.
“Rileigh?”
From far away I heard Quentin talking to me, but I couldn’t respond. My throat convulsed, and as much as I gasped, I couldn’t suck enough air down. I didn’t even realize I was on the ground until I saw Quentin leaning over me.
Darkness seeped along the edge of my vision, and I gave in to the weight pulling at my consciousness. I heard the wail of emergency vehicles, but drifted away even as their red and blue lights tumbled and twirled against the black behind my eyelids. I hung there, clinging to the place that teetered between awake and unconscious, before landing somewhere with no colors and sirens, only the comfort of thick, dark silence.
3
Japan, 1493
Senshi jolted upright from her sleeping mat, her startled gasp rousing the man next to her.
Yoshido, accustomed to her premonitions, awoke in an instant and grasped beside him for his sword. “How long do we have?”
“The enemy is almost here,” she replied.
He cursed softly as he tied his long black hair into a knot on top of his head. When he finished, he asked, “Are you ready?”
She nodded, biting the insides of her cheeks so her emotions wouldn’t betray her. Yoshido had once commented on her inability to smile. He didn’t know that it was because she was always biting, trying to swallow the dangerous fear that continued to break her guarded surface.
And there was reason to fear with Japan currently at war with itself. Every land-hungry Shogun was sending his armies to take over the villages of peaceful rulers like Senshi and Yoshido’s Lord Toyotomi. As a samurai, Senshi had sworn an oath of blood that she would not let that happen, even if the cost meant her life.
Yoshido stood in the doorway and peered out into the night, the moonlight casting harsh shadows against his angled face. Despite the calm silence, the threat of violence thickened the air like fog. “We should separate. I will go find Zeami, and together we will protect Lord Toyotomi. I need you to go warn the other samurai.”
“Of course,” Senshi answered. Zeami and Yoshido had trained together since boyhood. Together they were an unstoppable force.
“Good. I urge you to locate the twins first. I worry about tonight; I feel a great evil lurking about.”
Senshi understood. The twins were the youngest and had the least battle experience. Yoshido was the leader of their samurai army, and she knew he felt great responsibility for his soldiers.
Senshi moved past him to grab her own sword, but he snatched her by the wrist and pulled her roughly against him. “Senshi, I—”
“No, Yoshido,” she interrupted him, pressing her cheek against his chest. Why must he do this before every battle? He would tell her how much he loved her, and how he always would. He would tell her his love would never die, even if this was the battle that ended his life, an outcome she could not fathom.
She placed a finger against his lips. “We have no time for talk. Tonight we fight, just like any other night. And then later, when our lord is safe and our village secure, we will return to each other and all will be well.”
Smiling, he gently tilted her chin up toward him and kissed her parted lips. “All will be well,” he repeated.
She nodded, reluctant to let him go. He gently pushed her back, giving her one last smile before turning for the door.
Senshi bit down on her cheeks. She knew she had precious minutes left to warn the other samurai, but for the first time, she hesitated. She found herself rooted in place watching Yoshido run, and when the night swallowed the last of him, her heart broke, and she could barely breathe under the weight of despair.
She knew then that she just kissed the man she loved for the last time.
4
How are we feeling, Rileigh?” A stranger’s voice cut through my dream, shattering it like the pieces of a mosaic.
“No!” I opened my eyes and reached for the fleeting image, my heart already aching with a loss I didn’t understand. Instead of seeing the black-haired Japanese warrior, I was blinded by a bright light at a very close range.
Jerking back, a man in green scrubs clicked off a pen light and stuffed it into his shirt pocket. “Sorry about that. I should have given you a chance to get adjusted.”
I tried to grumble in agreement, but my throat was so dry I could only manage a cough. Once the annoying spots left my field of vision, I tried to figure out where I was. Dusty blinds had been slanted enough to allow thin purple strips of predawn sky to decorate the plain white walls and hospital equipment that lay asleep in the corner.
But that couldn’t be right. The last thing I remembered was leaving Macy’s with Quentin and the toaster. After that … I wasn’t sure.
“You are a very lucky young lady.”
I glared at the man leaning over me. He was in his thirties, with brown, curly hair cut short. He looked more like the lead singer in a boy band than a doctor.
“Three men,” he continued. “That’s quite a feat.”
“What are you talking about?” I asked, struggling to form words around the grit in my throat.
Before he could answer, a red-haired nurse with bangs curled so high they defied gravity skidded to a halt just inside my room. Her eyes widened and she smiled. “Dr. Wendell, I didn’t know you worked the pediatric wing.”
He cleared his throat. “Normally I don’t, but I took a special interest in this case.” When she didn’t move, he narrowed his eyes. “Will there be anything else?”
She took a step back. “No, I, uh … ” She looked at me. “I’ll check back with you later, sweetie.” She turned on her heels and strode from the room.
“Now,” Dr. Wendell raised a single eyebrow, “am I to understand you are suffering from memory loss?”
I tried to shrug, but it hurt to move my shoulders. “I remember buying a toaster.”
“Which I’m afraid didn’t fare as well as you.”
I followed his gaze to a gray vinyl chair positioned next to my bed and gasped when I took in the torn box taking up most of the seat. Through the hole I could see my own frightened eyes multiplied by the dent gouged into the chrome.
I curled my fingers around the plastic bedrail to quiet the tremors that shook my body. Images came back to me: Weasel’s twisted grin, a knife flashing under the parking lot lights, and the bodies of my attackers hitting the ground. “No. It’s impossible.” I shook my head, hoping to mute the sound of breaking bones that played on a continuous loop inside my throbbing head.
“Rileigh?” Dr.
Wendell leaned in closer and peered into my eyes. “Are you all right?”
My mind raced to make sense of it. There was no way I could have fought off three men by myself. I probed my scalp, my fingers searching for a bump or any sign that I’d hit my head. I couldn’t find anything.
“Rileigh?”
I snapped my head up and gave him a seething look. “Of course I’m not okay! Three men tried to kill me last night!” And that’s when it hit me—I wasn’t the only one attacked. The image of Quentin’s face-pirouette seemed to appear from behind a velvet curtain inside my mind. I curled my fingers into my bedsheet as I relived the moment. “Oh my God. Q!” I threw the blanket off of me, but Dr. Wendell placed a hand against my shoulder before I could swing my legs off the mattress. I tried to shake him off. “I have to find him!”
“Your friend is fine—just a little bump on the head.” He released my shoulder and patted my hand once, but I snatched it away before he could do it again. “Easy.” He took a step back and held his hands in the air. “I’m only trying to help.”
I sat back against the pillow. Whether it was intuition, or a side effect from the attack, I was suddenly very aware of the fact that I was in a strange room, alone, with a man who had a “special interest” in my case. Whatever that meant. “You can help by not touching me.”
He frowned. “Well, that’s going to make an exam difficult.” When I didn’t answer, he shrugged and reached for my chart. “Okay then. Other than being a little disorientated, how do you feel physically?”
“Are you kidding me with this? You went to med school, right? I was attacked, I’m in the hospital—can’t you draw your own conclusions?”
Dr. Wendell coughed into his hand in a failed effort to hide an amused smile. “Sure, I could draw my own conclusions, but that’s how malpractice suits are started. I like not getting sued, Rileigh.” He moved the toaster from the chair to the floor and sat down. “You don’t have to answer my questions now. I can sit here and wait until you’re feeling more communicative.” He reached for the TV remote clipped to my bed and flipped through several channels. “Look here, Springer.”