“Wait,” I pleaded. But I couldn’t even run interference; I’d left my cane by Knox.
The officers’ hands and arms quivered, sweat dribbled down his face. Beside him, Ash gazed up into the officer’s peepers, set his hand up on the officers’ shuddering right bicep, and emitted the words: “Kill that man, or I will make you shoot your foot.”
“Ash,” I gasped. “The hell you doing?”
Out of the corner of his mouth Faustus whispered “In the movies, this is where the baddie always shows his true colors.”
Ash ignored both of us.
The officer swallowed, and closed his eyes. Ash stepped to the side a smidge and, just as the officer pulled the trigger, alarms blared. We all jumped, covered our ears against the echoes of the crack and the sudden electronic cries. I didn’t want to look. I didn’t want it to end. I’d never even had a chance to speak to my father.
“Damn I’m good!” Faustus cheered. His exclamation was as startling as the alarms.
My peepers opened. I braved a look over at the gingersnap. He was whipping his hand through the air like one trying to swat an annoying mosquito. With the alarms still droning on, he lifted his switchblade from my father’s body on the gurney, where it had apparently fallen. Not fallen—as I realized when Faustus pointed out a dimple in its handle, a smoking ping that looked the size and shape of a bullet tip.
“Give it up. Lady Luck’s on our side today,” Faustus taunted Ash, brimming with so much pride that his freckles seemed to sparkle.
Ash inhaled slowly, and then turned to the officer. “Again.”
You could barely hear him over the alarms, but his stance and airs were dead giveaways. I pitied the officer, who was trembling and looked on the verge of tears, but who raised his gun again anyway. Sanson, just behind the officer, was digging in his backpack while watching Ash.
Even Faustus lost his gumption as the gun was retrained on my father. Across from him Kana readjusted her feet, as if preparing to leap into the path of the bullet.
As the alarms died, our breathing took up the silence.
“They should’ve killed you when they killed your mother!” I screamed at Ash. “You’re filth, you know that? Rip out his tongue, Kana!”
Ash was seething now, a refreshing though holy-moly sight. “Shoot them,” he ordered the trembling officer. “Shoot them all! I’m—”
He never got the chance to finish.
Purple lightning scythed across the room and struck the officer. The old cop jerked backwards, landed on his back. The impact did not conk him out; he writhed and moaned as Ash stood gawking. The Morai shifted his gaze from the officer to the other side of the room, to the source of the slam-bang energy.
I too followed his gaze, as did the Mythicons and spooks.
My father was sitting up on his elbows, his old cane-sword in his right hand, finger hovering over the no-no button. He was shaking; sitting up was obviously a struggle, but it didn’t prevent him from procuring a grin and aiming it at Ash. The thawed eyebrows over his dark sunken eyes lifted to indicate something behind the littlest Morai.
Ash swiveled. Behind him stood the officer, recovered—and wearing a pair of chem-shades.
Chapter 39
“What are you doing?” Ash demanded of the officer. “I told you to shoot them.”
The officer marched right up to Ash, not even slowing as the Morai performed his Mesmer. Their bodies two feet apart now, the officer leaned forward: “No,” and he slammed his gun across Ash’s face. Blood did not spurt out like it does in the movies, but it did begin to trickle out of the corner of Ash’s mouth.
He crumpled under the assault. On his knees he held his face, blood dribbling through clenched fingers. He looked up at the officer towering over him, and quivered. But Ash was a quick study. His gaze swept past Sanson—who’d procured the chem-shades from his bag—and landed on Kana. “Take that sword and—”
“Don’t let him speak!” I warned. It wasn’t necessary. Kana had already zipped over to the Morai. Her hands clamped over his mouth and peepers. I exhaled as if I’d been holding my breath for ages. “Faustus, the door.”
The gingersnap waded through the filth over to the door, scooting past the officer. Once Faustus had slammed the door shut, he locked it and nestled a chair underneath the chrome handle. No more uninvited guests. The med-lab went quiet as we took in the set changes. Ash struggled, but with his peepers and tongue out of commission thanks to Kana’s quick reflexes and awesome strength, he was apparently helpless.
I slid off my chair. With hands shaking, legs wobbling, and gut rumbling, I made my way over to my father, who’d resumed his motionless flat-on-his-back position. “He’s not—” I asked Izzy, who was fussing over him.
“No,” she said, slipping one of the heating blankets back over his chest. “He’s not dead. He’s just out. The strain was too much. He’ll be fine though, I think.” She too had a case of the shakes, but milder than mine. She gazed into my peepers. I returned the look, as if to say, ‘Yup that all really did just happen.’
“We need to leave,” she said. “Nimrod and the other Morai may be busy right now, but once they realize Ash isn’t coming back, they’re going to come looking for us.”
“She’s right,” said the officer. “And Ash found you guys awful quick.”
“Good point,” Faustus agreed. So, the gingersnap found a roll of white medical tape, wound it around Ash’s mouth and hands and peepers, and then led us to a door leading out of the lab and into a smaller room—an office with a view of the plaza in front of Mythcorp.
It was a struggle, but I was managing not to filch that B-drop as we marched into the somewhat safer office. Ahead of me Kana carried Knox. It looked ridiculous; his legs and upper body spilling out of her arms. But she wasn’t struggling.
“Who pulled the fire alarm do you think?” I asked her.
She grinned. “Malthus, I’d bet.”
* * *
It’s been an hour since I and my gloomy band of misfits fled the med-lab for the sanctuary of this freezing office. Sanson has filled in all the gaps in our knowledge of Ash’s endeavors. It’s been enlightening and depressing.
Thanks in part to Izzy’s ministering, my father is now awake. He is shivering with a blanket around his shoulders as he sits in front of the large bullet-proof window, staring out at the police cars and fire trucks gathering around Mythcorp out there in the dark. Izzy is keeping him upright, and as I limp closer, I can hear her whispering things to him. Kana, who was my fathers’ girlfriend back during the War, is sitting off to the side. It looks as if she’s nursing a grudge.
I don’t want to interrupt. That’s what I tell myself, anyway. If I were being brutally honest, I would say that I am afraid to meet my father, especially in the state I am in.
“How’re we doing?” Knox asks Faustus in a post-laryngitis hoarse voice.
The gingersnap shrugs. “About the same as always.”
“That bad, huh?” Knox responds.
Chuckling at their little Star Wars cribbing scene, Faustus heads back to the side office to keep an eye on Ash.
Izzy hands my father yet another Twinkie from the box Faustus had procured. My father gobbles it down, this his fourth or fifth cake. He looks back at Kana, and then sighs.
The old officer walks up to them and clears his throat. He is still wearing his chem-shades. I suspect, considering what he’s been through, that he might never take them off. He clears his throat again, this time loud enough to make me look around in fear that he might have just accidentally tipped off our enemies to our location.
My father turns around. Besides Izzy, he has his old cane for support. It’s his, after all; I was only borrowing it. His mouth cracks into a giant grin as he takes in the sight of the old officer.
“Detective Graham?” he laughs, a rough sandpapery sound. “Holy crap. You’re an old fart. What happened?” He knows that he’s been ice for the last fifteen years, but perhaps the ramific
ations of this knowledge haven’t yet sunk in. This I believe, because he has yet to acknowledge me as his son.
“Well,” Officer Graham says, “unlike some slackers I know, I haven’t been lying down on the job for the last decade and a half.”
They start blathering on about old times. A few minutes pass. I’m getting nauseous again, so I head to the small pine-paneled room set off to the right of this office, where Faustus is keeping our prisoner company. I’m hoping the sight of a bound and helpless Ash will buoy my spirits.
I place my hand on the brass doorknob and turn it. A chill runs through me. The door swings open, and I see Faustus sitting at the secretary’s desk, his back to me.
“What are you doing?” I ask him. Looking around the small office, I do not see Ash.
The gingersnap swivels in his chair and holds up the paper he’s been working on. It is a drawing of a boy seated in an oval office.
“Do you think it captures his air of authority?”
Epilogue
It took a few minutes to calm everyone down, but Sanson managed to convince us that Ash’s escape was of little consequence in the grand scheme of things. He decided to close with revealing what Ash told him about Nimrod’s plan.
Knox seems unmoved, but now he’s shooting to his feet and throwing off the blanket. Dressed only in my blue flannel shirt and boxers, Knox punches a hole in the drywall with his frozen augmetic left hand. “Dammit!”
We’re silent for a few ticks while he sorts through his rage. Then, facing us, Knox says in his raspy voice, “That explains it. That’s why Nimrod ran—he knew that even if we killed his prince, he could come back here one day and re-forge him with that M2 drive.” He laughs hysterically. “Frigging Alexander. Always five steps ahead.”
Sanson speaks up: “That’s not what’s important right now.”
“And what is important, zombie boy?” Knox snarls.
“Well,” Sanson continues, “Ash said there’s more going on here than I know. We can assume that means with or without him, this place is going to be reopened. And since we can’t destroy the tower, how do we stop it from being reopened?”
Everyone goes quiet, even Faustus, which is a huge relief.
Knox breaks the silence. “We don’t stop him. We beat him to it.” He turns to me for the first time, but still does not look me in the eye. “You said there were more Morai at your school. Think any of them would be willing to use their gifts to convince certain people to support our opening of Mythcorp?”
This is his answer?
“Galahad would,” I manage. “He’d do anything for me; Ava and Pells too. But how do we contact them? They don’t have FAD’s or anything.”
“FAD’s?” Knox asks.
“Frequently Altered Devices,” I explain, using the nickname for Apple’s Frequencies Actuating Devices.
Knox shrugs.
“Basically they’re cells with constantly upgrading apps and access.”
Knox snorts. “I remember when they were called telephones.” He taps the cane against the floor. “If we can’t contact them electronically, I guess it’ll have to be supernaturally—Mina, or maybe a spook or demon.”
Apparently this is some kind of inside joke, as Kana and Faustus and Officer Graham all groan in unison.
“Fine,” Kana says, speaking to him for the first time. “Make the deal, but we have to be careful. Sooner or later the King will hear about what we’re trying to do. And he’ll want to be a part of it, one way or another.”
We all look at her, waiting for a better explanation.
Kana sighs. “There’s only one man in Philicity with the reach and the power to get us out of here safely.” She looks over at Faustus, who drops his head. “Arthur King.”
As the others begin arguing, I finger the B-drop Izzy had returned to me. I glance at my father, pondering our future. Finally I toss the lozenge into a wastebasket.
“I want to know everything about this King of Philicity prick,” Knox says, raising his hoarse voice over the rabble of the others. “But first things first. We don’t leave this place without making sure Nimrod can never have Alexander forged again. We didn’t risk everything—” here he stops to look longingly at Kana “—recycling that manfac just to have his number one fan bring him back.” Sporting a crooked grin, Knox adds, “So, who’s ready to go Nimrod hunting?”
Before anyone has a chance to argue, Marie zips into the room. She looks mortified.
“What is it, Marie?” Knox says. It’s weird, having someone else see my spooks.
‘It’s Nimrod,” Marie answers, fading in and out of sight. ‘He’s unfrozen him.’
“He’s woken the sorcerer already, you mean?” Knox asks.
Marie slowly shakes her head. ‘Not Crowley. Someone else. Someone much worse.’ She nearly vanishes with this startling declaration.
“Worse?” Knox hisses. “Who? Marie! Who did Nimrod wake?”
‘It’s all my fault,’ the spook says. ‘I’m so sorry.’ And then she vanishes.
After Knox swiftly repeats Marie’s words to everyone, we all stand shaken and confused and gawking at each other, until Faustus claps and bellows, “That is one hell of a cliffhanger!”
Orphan of Mythcorp Page 28