Nephilim

by Barrowman, John; Barrowman, Carole;

  He held his harmonica to his lips with some difficulty. What did you conjure to stop such horror? His mind was blank.

  Em closed her eyes. The snakes began to calm down, settling, no longer snapping at one another. Rémy realized that Em was inspiriting herself, quieting her body and mind.

  ‘Good,’ said Rémy, tightening his embrace as the snakes became more lethargic. ‘That’s good. Keep doing what you’re doing…’

  Holding Em there in the darkness, Rémy’s anguish played in his mind like a lone cello. The longer he sat with her, the louder and fuller the music became. No longer a lone lament, but a requiem. He just had to make sure it wasn’t for his friends. They had all sacrificed so much for him.

  Leaning close, he whispered, ‘I need you to do something important for me.’

  Em nodded almost imperceptibly.

  ‘Send a message to Matt. With your mind. Tell him and Sotto to meet us at the Art Institute. Tell him not to come back up here.’

  An angry wound erupted through Em’s skin, her heart beating like a hummingbird against Rémy’s chest.

  ‘Please,’ said Rémy. ‘I know it’s hard.’

  In his head, Rémy heard the echoes of Em’s voice. All her pain, her horror, and her hold on this reality sounded like a million fingernails on a chalkboard. And then he heard nothing and she went limp in his arms.

  He kissed her cheek and set her down gently, making sure that she was comfortable. Using the flashlight, he found her sketchpad and charcoal crayon. When he’d finished writing, he tore out the page, folded it and stuck it under the collar of her T-shirt.

  Making sure the aluminium tube with the canvas was safely inside the sleeve of Em’s coat, he climbed up on the scaffold and jumped through the skylight. He sprinted to the edge and jumped, landing hard on the new balcony outside his mom’s old bedroom. Ignoring the pain in his knee, he ran through his apartment to his Tía Rosa’s bedroom, where he lifted the only piece of art she’d ever had on her wall and unceremoniously tore it out of its frame. Then he sprinted downstairs.

  Halfway down the stairwell, he stopped. He could hear voices: a man and a woman, arguing. He put his harmonica to his lips and, with as little sound as possible, began conjuring.

  At first he thought his exhaustion and anxiety were blocking his imagination, but after a second chord progression a spiral of sound swirled above his head. An aluminium tube twice as big as the one he’d just tucked inside Em’s sleeve bounced from the mist, hitting Rémy’s shoulder. He lunged and caught it before it clattered on the stairs. Then he rolled the canvas from Tía Rosa’s bedroom, dropped it inside the container and closed it. Just one more thing to conjure.

  When his conjuring was complete, he slid his harmonica into his jacket pocket. With the new container tucked under his arm, he crept out of the stairwell.

  Sotto’s front door looked as if it had been opened with a can opener. The voices were louder here. Rémy flattened his back against the wall next to the door and exhaled slowly. Then, holding the heavy tube in front of his chest, he walked into Sotto’s apartment.

  48.

  THE MAN IN THE CAMEL COAT

  The first thing Rémy saw was Two on the ground, red bulges for eyes, his hands and his feet bound with plastic cuffs. He was unconscious, but breathing. That was some relief anyway. Under the guise of feeling for a pulse, Rémy slipped the second note he’d written inside his friend’s shirt.

  He faced the man in the camel coat, who was reclining in the centre of Sotto’s massive U-shaped sectional couch. They locked eyes, before the man nodded at something behind Rémy’s shoulder.

  Rémy pivoted and ducked a second too late. A baton smashed against the side of his head, splitting his earlobe and sending shudders of pain along his jaw. The blow was enough to knock him down, but not enough to knock him out. As he collapsed, he dropped the aluminium tube, which rolled across the floor to the feet of the man on the couch.

  Blood trickled from Rémy’s ear towards the Conjuror’s mark. A rush of adrenaline fuelled his senses, making him aware of every sound in the building. The creaking of the neighbours on the other side of the hallway, the traffic on the street outside, the tick of a clock in the kitchen, the deep but anxious breathing of the man in the camel coat.

  In any other circumstances, this surge of energy would have fuelled his powers. He would have slipped his harmonica from his pocket and conjured the man face-first through the shattered window on to the pavement outside. But conjuring to save himself would defeat the purpose of why he’d strolled into the apartment in the first place.

  Groaning, Rémy rolled on to his back and looked up at his attacker, a middle-aged black dude with a boxer’s nose and a flat chin. The man was grinning and slapping the baton against his palm, ready for another blow.

  The man in the camel coat signalled for him to back off.

  ‘That was too easy, boss,’ said the attacker in a Chicago accent, jabbing at Rémy’s throat with the baton, exposing the black ink of the Camarilla tattooed on his wrist.

  ‘You have me and you have the canvas,’ croaked Rémy, pulling himself to his knees. ‘But I’m willing to offer you more.’

  Up close, the boss was younger than Rémy had first thought. Twenty something, maybe. He was white, but he’d been in the sun recently and a spray of freckles covered the bridge of his nose. His hair was slick with product and swept off his lean, chiselled face. He wore an earring, a black stone about the size of a tiny pebble with something etched on it that Rémy couldn’t make out. He was built like an athlete, and easily as tall as Rémy. His boots were black, with silver pointed tips, his eyes cold and calculating. Rémy wondered, with a twist in his gut, if this guy was already two moves ahead of him.

  He slid his hand inside his jacket pocket.

  ‘I’ll trade you my conjuring powers to use as you want,’ he said as evenly as he could, ‘but only if you leave my friends alone. Forever. If I hear that they are in danger, or worse, I will destroy you all with one note, the way I destroyed the last guy you sent to find me. You know a Conjuror is the only one who can stop your plans. But you also know I’m the only one who can make the Second Kingdom a reality. I am the Camarilla’s worst nightmare and its greatest hope.’

  He held out his harmonica. The man in the camel coat took it. Then he opened the top of the aluminium tube and glanced inside.

  ‘It’s the one you’re looking for,’ said Rémy, his pulse quickening. ‘The one with the Devil’s Interval.’

  Rémy thought he saw a flash of compassion flit across the man’s face, but it was short-lived. He flicked his hand and his henchman was on Rémy again, his rough hands on his neck, squeezing the air from his lungs.

  Rémy’s anger surged. He kicked backwards, the heel of his boot nailing the attacker’s shin. Rémy heard the bone snap. He bent his arm, punched his elbow into the man’s windpipe, and watched with satisfaction when he face-planted on the hardwood floor. That was for Two, Rémy thought, and Sotto and Em and my mom and Tía Rosa.

  Rémy regained his balance and his breath, but not fast enough. The man in the camel coat was gently pressing a stiletto blade against Two’s neck, blood oozing around its tip, and regarding him curiously.

  ‘Don’t kill him,’ said Rémy, raising his hands in surrender. ‘Who are you?’

  Ignoring the question, the man removed a silver clip of dollar bills from the front of his jeans. He dropped half the money on his unconscious henchman and handed the rest to a second man, who had remained standing at the kitchen archway without intervening in the fight. For a second Rémy wondered if everything that had happened so far had all been an elaborate ruse.

  Had he been played?

  Before he had time to formulate an answer, a syringe stabbed his thigh. Rémy heaved a sigh and slid to the ground.

  49.

  IN HER WAKE

  Em was in the swimming pool at the Abbey, propelling herself towards the blue tiled edge. She tucked, flipped, and launched o
ff the wall at least one full stroke before Zach hit his turn in the lane next to her. Without thinking, she grinned, swallowed water, chopped her stroke, and gave Zach the extra seconds he needed to pull up beside her.

  She glanced at his eyes, which were smiling beneath his goggles, and kicked harder, pulling long and deep. One stroke, two, three. Zach was right there, tight on her lane marker, using her wake. Almost at the wall, she speeded up her rotation, shoulders burning, legs like jelly. Zach was dropping back again. At the wall, she turned, kicking three times before stroking the surface.

  When she rose to breathe, she was no longer in the Abbey’s pool. The walls in this place were mosaic tiles in broken and cracked reds, yellows and burnished blues. The ceiling was a barrel-vaulted arch. The water was no longer cold. Instead it was bubbling. Steaming.

  Burning.

  Em tried to make her limbs move, but they wouldn’t obey. Her body spasmed, her skin blistering, peeling into the pool. Then she wasn’t in water any more. She was wading neck-deep in snakes writhing and squirming over her body, wrapping around her neck, choking her.

  Zach was standing on the edge of this strange cracked pool, his body dripping with big beads of water that shimmered in the light. He was waving. Em wanted to wave back but she couldn’t.

  A snake crawled across her face. Then another, this one with two heads. Her heart was heavy, her chest tightening. She stared again at Zach.

  He was still waving furiously.

  50.

  FIRST AID

  Two Square dribbled more water on Em’s face. The rest he held to her lips to drink. She gulped, coughing and choking as she swallowed.

  ‘Easy. Easy there.’

  ‘What happened?’ rasped Em, her head lolling against Two’s chest. ‘Where’s Rémy?’

  ‘Later,’ he said. ‘We need to get you to the Art Institute now.’

  He lifted Em over his shoulder like she was a feather and climbed the rope ladder to the top of the scaffold, before heaving her out through the skylight and on to the roof. He pulled himself up and out after her. The sun was bright. He cupped his hands around his bloodshot, stinging eyes, trying to adjust his focus. He couldn’t see anything down on the tree-lined street.

  At his feet, Em moaned. Two pulled a Cubs baseball cap from his back pocket and was about to pull it over her distinctive pink streaked hair when the raw blistering burns on her scalp stopped him. He was pretty sure burns should be left uncovered. She was shivering, he saw, mostly likely from shock. He knew the symptoms. He’d learned more than how to disable a bomb after two tours in Iraq.

  At edge of the roof, he jumped down, like a large, lithe cat on to one of Sotto’s side balconies. He pressed his hand on the glass at the handle, and waited for his palm print to glow yellow. The door slid open silently. Seconds later he climbed back up to the roof with a fur throw from his bed, set Em in the middle, and swaddled her up.

  Em moaned again. Two set her over his shoulder and climbed nimbly down the fire escape at the back of the apartment building. At the bottom, he paused for a minute. He had a decision to make. Should he get Em to the Art Institute as instructed, or take her back inside, call a doctor?

  He was a soldier. He followed orders.

  He stepped quickly to the front of the building, staying under the cover of the trees, marched to the front gate, and looked along the street.

  What did you conjure for us, eh, River City? What?

  At the end of the block, he spotted a pink mini-van he’d never seen before. It was completely out of place. Unmissable.

  Jeez. You’re killin’ me here, Rém.

  Two jogged to the van. The keys were in the ignition. He adjusted the mirror, and then noticed a wheelchair in the back. After settling Em in the bench seat, he called Sotto.

  ‘You OK?’

  Two pulled out and headed towards the loop. ‘I’m fine. The girl, not so much.’

  ‘What?’

  Two slowed to a stop at the next intersection. A Chicago cop pulled up next to him, tapped his ear and signalled to Two to put down his phone.

  Two heaved a sigh. ‘Gotta go, bro. We’ll be there in ten.’

  51.

  TIME TRANSFIXED

  Inside the small gallery at the Art Institute, Matt paced in front of the Seurat, waiting for Em and Rémy to show. He could still hear how faint Em’s voice had been in his mind.

  Art Institute. Meet us there.

  It had been hard to hear her. And he hadn’t heard her since.

  Two guards in the gallery were watching him keenly. He knew he looked like a homeless teenager. His jacket was ripped and his T-shirt ancient to begin with, and his hair was curly and wild and hanging over his face. On top of that he could not remove his shades. His eyes were flipping colour every few seconds. He was afraid that if he stood still and focused for even a second, his croc-eyes would kick in. He really didn’t need the distraction of Native American wars, factory riots or gangsters, which were the only things he knew about Chicago. Em knew more.

  Em.

  Where are you?

  His question sounded hollow in his head, echoing across a ravine to nowhere.

  Sotto beckoned him over from the bench in the middle of the gallery. ‘Two’s on his way,’ he said.

  ‘And Em?’ Matt asked, almost afraid to hear the answer.

  ‘She’s with him.’

  Relief washed through Matt. ‘What about Rémy?’

  ‘Don’t know. Two will fill us in.’

  Matt forced a smile at the hovering guards. He and Sotto wandered through two more galleries, killing time. Sotto kept texting and Matt kept looking over his shoulder for Em, or anything or anyone glowing. He was working hard to keep panic at bay.

  They stopped in front of Magritte’s Time Transfixed.

  ‘I always liked this one,’ said Sotto. ‘The train coming through the fireplace, the clock on the mantel. G’ma would bring Two and me in here on her days off. Kept us off the streets.’

  ‘Didn’t really work, did it?’ said Matt unthinkingly. ‘You may live in a fancy apartment, but you still make your money illegally.’

  Sotto’s anger hit him like a punch. Came from nowhere and then it was gone.

  ‘Dude,’ Sotto said, poking Matt’s chest with his finger. ‘You don’t get to judge me or my family. You don’t get to know what I’ve had to do to survive.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Matt muttered after a moment. ‘I’m just angry. I shouldn’t have left Em and Rémy behind on the roof.’

  ‘We’re all angry, man,’ said Sotto. ‘It’s about the focus.’

  The guards had changed in the gallery, making it possible for Matt and Sotto to sit by the Seurat again and watch the entrance.

  ‘You’ll ’preciate this,’ said Sotto, looking up from his phone. ‘Two SWAT cops were found by that gas station on my block a little while back. They have no memory of what happened. Said they stopped at the 7/11 and next thing their coffees were cold and they both had massive headaches. Do you think it has somethin’ to do with that light you saw earlier? With the cops who broke into my place?’

  ‘They were inspirited,’ said Matt, resting his arms on his legs. ‘Hypnotized. The camel-coat guy must have used their uniforms for his own guys. Which makes him a Guardian, I guess. Although I still can’t figure out where he got that drill.’

  ‘A Guardian is different from you, right?’ said Sotto. ‘You’re an Aminus or something.’

  ‘Animare,’ said Matt. ‘We draw things into life and we can move in and out of art. Guardians can’t animate, but they can control minds and emotions. We’re supposed to work together: a Guardian keeping an Animare safe, an Animare keeping a Guardian on their toes.’

  ‘So you and your sister are Animare.’

  ‘It’s not as simple as that,’ said Matt. ‘We’re hybrids. The only ones in existence. Half-Animare, half-Guardian. Thanks to our parents marrying illegally and having us, we can draw and control emotions and minds. Em’s particularl
y strong in that area. No one likes Animare with mind control, or Guardians who can animate. Too much power, all in one place. We break the rules.’

  ‘Join the club,’ said Sotto. ‘Dad was Puerto Rican. Mom was black from Milwaukee.’

  ‘If the camel-coat guy is a Guardian,’ said Matt, ‘he must have had an Animare with him to draw the drill into life. I saw the sketchpad they used. Although I swear there were only three of them outside that door earlier. Him and the two inspirited SWAT guys.’

  ‘Maybe the camel-coat guy is another hybrid,’ said Sotto.

  Matt shook his head. Almost laughed. ‘We’re the only ones out there with dual powers.’

  ‘But what if you’re not?’

  Sotto’s suggestion sent an arrow to Matt’s brain, pinging an alarm.

  ‘In my world, for centuries people passed as white who were black,’ Sotto went on with a shrug. ‘Why not in yours? What if this Ferrante guy has a hybrid like you and your sister at his beck and call?’

  Matt ran his hands through his hair. It made perfect sense. He and Em were still confronting a culture of disdain and disbelief. Even Orion kept them on a probationary status, using their powers when it suited, but refusing them full access to the Councils and their knowledge. Of course, if you were a hybrid, you’d claim to be one or the other. A Guardian or an Animare. You would try to pass.

  Wouldn’t you?

  52.

  SNAKES ON THE BRAIN

  Matt left the Seurat. He walked into another gallery and stood in front of a Kandinsky that reflected much more how he was feeling. What if everything he had ever thought turned out not to be true? What if there really was another hybrid out there, another freak like him and Em, working for Luca and the Camarilla?

  He heard a squeaking behind him and turned fast. A wheelchair rammed into his legs.

  ‘Em!’ He kneeled next to her, taking her hand. ‘Are you OK?’

  Em was slouched in the wheelchair, a lopsided grin on her pale face, her matted hair plastered to her scalp. ‘No,’ she said. ‘But thanks to Rémy and Two here, I’m not dead, so there’s that.’