I came up on them as the drunk fumbled with his car keys and I slammed him into the side of the car, shattering the passenger window. The woman shrieked. The drunk spun, more confused and hurt than angry, and I hit him with a hard left hook.
He dropped like a sack of old clothes. I snatched up his keys and rolled him away from the tires. Then I gave a hard look at the woman, just in case she was tempted to do something I wouldn't like. "Friends don't let friends, lady."
She staggered back, nearly falling over. She was so drunk she couldn't even look directly at me. I doubted she'd be able to identify me.
The vehicle I'd just won myself was an ancient Cutlass Ciera. I got in and started it up. Some angry idiot's voice blared out of the radio but I switched him off. Instead, I got to listen to the rattle and click of the struggling engine. After I adjusted the seat and the mirrors, I pulled out of the parking lot and made a full stop at the corner. "Hello prison," I said to the car, fully aware that this was a pretty shitty car to risk jail time for. "Hello, old life."
I should have grabbed the drunk's wallet; I was hungry again. On the plus side, the car had just over half a tank. That ought to be plenty for what I needed. Food was overrated, anyway.
There was only one place left to go: I drove to Jon's house.
The news vans were still parked on Jon's block, but the only driver I could see snored behind the steering wheel. An empty police car sat at the end of the street. Directly in front of Jon's house was a limo. Three beefy men in black suits loitered on the lawn, looking like disreputable secret service agents. The house itself was dark.
This was the same house I'd visited many times as a kid. Jon's family had always owned lots of things, and I'd grown up thinking they were rich. It was only later that I understood they were very much in the respectable upper middle class; the main difference between their family and mine was that they were sober and sane. Jon's house no longer looked as large and ornate as it had. Still, most of the happiest memories of my life were tied to that house, and to the kindness of the people inside it. Kindness I'd paid back in the worst possible way.
It had all gone away so suddenly. After the accident, Jon's family--the people who'd invited me into their safe, clean home, who'd fed me and helped me with my homework--had nothing but raw hatred for me. That same night Mr. Burrows had come into the police station in a blind rage: his face red, spit flying from his mouth as he cursed at me. He'd still had Jon's blood on his clothes, and he even threw a punch at me. I'd had too much practice dodging blows from adults for him to connect, and the cops had dragged him away after that, but just like with Annalise I knew no apology I could make would be good enough. I'd been exiled. I went back to my own family, and I would never feel safe again.
I circled the block and parked one street over, taking time to use the sleeve of my shirt to wipe down the steering wheel, rear view mirror, and door handles. The keys I left down by the brake pedal. I doubted I'd need the car again, but it was nearby just in case.
I hurried down the darkened street and ducked into the alley behind Jon's house. The one thing I really wanted to know was this: How long would it take them to recreate the summoning spell? If I was lucky, I'd have a chance to deface the spell when Echo wasn't around, turning her into a scorch mark like the ones on the floor at the physical therapy center.
But there wouldn't be bodyguards all over the lawn unless they were inside the house getting ready to cast that spell again.
Jon's yard was surrounded by blackberry vines, but of course there was no fruit this late in the year. Another shady secret-service type stood alone in the back yard.
I hopped the fence and ran at him. He barely had time to pivot and throw a quick right at me. It was a good punch, too, hard and fast. It was the kind of punch that could put a guy in the hospital. Unfortunately for him, it landed on my stomach, and I didn't even feel it.
I grabbed the wire hanging from his ear and ripped it out of his clothes. I wasn't afraid of this one guy, but if we added the three from the front as well, I was going to be in trouble.
He countered with a quick left that I barely managed to deflect with my forearm. The impact knocked me back, and we had a little distance between us.
The guard squared his shoulders to make himself look bigger, even though he was already the size of an NFL fullback. "One warning," the guard said, and I could see he had several long knife scars on his lips. "Turn around and get lost."
I stepped toward him, holding my hands high so he'd go for my tattooed gut. He did. I took advantage and threw an overhand right at the spot where his jaw met his ear.
He didn't go down--he was tough--but he did stagger. It took three more shots to put him out.
I opened the guard's jacket. He didn't have a holster but he did have handcuffs. Luckily, I couldn't find a badge on him. I cuffed him, gagged him with his tie and dragged him off to the blackberry bushes.
The upstairs deck Jon and I used to play on was dark. The kitchen windows below it were dark. The only difference I could see was that the tool shed at the edge of the yard had been replaced with something larger and newer.
I slowly made my way around the side of the house, keeping low beneath the downstairs windows. None of the front yard bodyguards were visible from this angle, and the police car and news van were out of sight, too.
"How long will they be?" A woman asked. I crouched lower and stepped back into the bushes, but quickly realized the voices were coming from the front porch. It was an old woman's voice, trembling with the outrage that comes from a life of misfortune.
"He said not long, Mother," a woman answered loudly.
"Well, you see to it that no one else jumps ahead of us. I've waited long enough!"
Damn. They'd already begun.
A light switched on, shining over my feet. I knelt and peered into the basement window. I didn't know the basement of this house. It had been Mr. Burrows's workshop, and none of the kids had been allowed inside.
Three workbenches had been pushed against the wall to clear space for the sigil on the floor. It had been painted in red like the other one, and all of the outer circles were connected to the center by curving lines. This was the slow version of the spell that would summon four cousins at a time, not just one.
Jon stepped into my line of sight, carrying a scrawny little girl in a white lace dress. The girl's legs were twisted and as thin as sticks. An old man with white hair brushed back from his skull-like face followed. He wore a trim black suit with a white silk tie.
Jon gently placed the little girl in the six o'clock position of the sigil, the same place where I'd sat. After doting over the little girl, the old man was ushered into the three o'clock position beside her.
Each of the participants was going to be "cured," whether they realized it or not.
Then, Uncle Karl walked into view with Aunt Theresa on his elbow, going straight toward the center spot.
"Oh, shit," I said, in a soft whisper.
Jon spun around as though he could hear me. I jumped away from the window, rushed into the back yard, and crouched on the far side of the tool shed.
Why in the hell would Jon and Echo recruit my aunt and uncle for their cure? As far as I could tell, neither had shown any interest at all in what Jon was doing... Unless they thought I'd be less likely to go after my own family, and that cousins living inside of them would be protected from me.
And Skullface was obviously rich. Those guards outside--and the little girl in the circle--must have been his. Once they had cousins inside them, they'd be very hard to take out. Not only that, they had the resources to go anywhere in the world. The cousins could start spreading over the planet.
I had to stop them here. Tonight.
The back door opened and Jon stepped onto the porch. I crouched low and put my back against the tool shed. Jon couldn't see very well anymore, he'd claimed, but he could smell like a bloodhound.
A breeze blew on the back of my neck, which meant I
was downwind of him. I quietly drew in a breath and held it, in case he could recognize my bad breath. I wasn't ready for a straight-up fight with Jon. First I had to try to save his life.
The back door banged shut. It was eerie how familiar that sound was. I dared a peek around the edge of the shed and saw that Jon was gone. The kitchen light shut off as he moved deeper into the house.
I started toward the house, still without any real plan, and my foot struck something. It was an empty bottle of ammonia, discarded at the foot of the tool shed door.
It gave me an idea. Maybe, just maybe I could get the upper hand with Jon. It would only be for a moment or two, but that should be enough. And maybe it would shock him hard enough that, like Macy, he'd come back to himself again.
I sliced the tool shed padlock off with my ghost knife and opened the door. The stink of rotting meat washed over me and I saw three corpses inside, all hanging like sides of beef. The nearest was a woman, small with dark hair. Despite the blood on her face, I recognized her immediately.
"Bingo." The two bodies behind her had wisps of gray hair above badly-mangled faces, but I knew they were Jon's parents anyway.
God, seeing them there like that was like a knife in my guts. These people had done so much for me, and it had never even occurred to me that they were in danger. ... when they start out they hunt people they think deserve it. It soothes their consciences while they're still human enough to have them. God help me, I thought I had time.
Had Jon done this? I couldn't believe it. It was an impossible idea. This was a family that took camping trips together. They'd taught their kids to sing Beatles songs. Jon wouldn't turn on them. If there was any motherfucker who was going to murder his family and hang them on hooks, it was me.
Echo must have done this--not that it was really Echo, of course. The cousin inside her had decided Jon's family weren't going to be hosts, so it turned them into meat, then stashed them outside to cure or something. Maybe Jon didn't even know they were dead.
That seemed like a helluva stretch, but it was possible--stranger things had happened. And it was too late for them anyway. They were dead, and so was any chance I'd ever have to make them understand how grateful I was for everything they'd done, and how sorry I was, too.
Uncle Karl and Aunt Theresa were still alive, and Jon, maybe, could still be saved. I took a bottle of ammonia off the floor, glad that it was full. I didn't want to venture farther into the shed to look for another one. I shut the door, smearing Barbara's blood on the outside. I had no memory of touching her body and had no idea how it got on me.
I ran to the kitchen and peeked in the darkened window. I couldn't see anything, but I knew the basement stairs led straight into the kitchen. If I tried to break in here, Jon or Echo would be on me before I got the door all the way open.
I hooked my index finger into the handle of the ammonia bottle and climbed the post to the back deck above me. Jon and I did it many times when we'd been kids, and I was surprised by how easy it was now that I'd grown up. Irena's gloves didn't hurt, either.
At the lip of the deck, I pulled myself up and swung my foot onto it. There was a moment when I almost dropped the ammonia, but the spell on Irena's glove kept it in place. The deck didn't even squeak as I stepped across it.
I cut the lock on the door to Jon's room and slid open the french door. Like the kitchen, this room was dark, but my eyes were pretty well adjusted by now. I wiped my bloody hand clean on one of Jon's shirts and looked around.
The room was filled with the paraphernalia of a baseball fanatic: Pennants, caps, balls, photos--every shelf, every spare spot on a dresser or desk was devoted to some aspect of baseball.
I glanced into the trash can and saw a picture frame. It was the photo of Jon and me on the baseball field when we were 12, the one he'd shown me in my aunt's backyard. The glass has been shattered and the frame cracked. I left it there.
I spun off the cap of the ammonia bottle and splashed it over everything. I poured it onto the carpet, the shelves, the desk, the folded wheelchair against the wall, the tee ball equipment that must have been twenty years old. Everything. I had to blink tears from my eyes as the fumes built in the room.
When the bottle was empty, I took out my ghost knife and crouched by the door. Then I hurled the empty bottle against a shelf. A rack of baseball cards and a row of signed balls clattered to the floor.
I heard a sudden staccato drumming that had to be a rush of footsteps.
Jon was on his way.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The door burst open and Jon charged in, stopping just inside the doorway. He cried out, slapping his hands over his mouth and nose, then wrenched his whole body around.
I drove my shoulder into his low back and knocked him to the floor. His face smashed into the ammonia-soaked carpet and I landed on top of him.
I slapped the heel of my gloved left hand on the top of Jon's shoulder so that my fingers touched the wet carpet. The sigil came alive and took hold of both at once, pinning Jon to the floor. He screamed again, louder this time, and writhing branches appeared around his head.
And my god, there were so many of them. "I'm here to help, buddy," I told him, as much to convince myself I could as to reassure him. I slid the ghost knife through the waving branches and they fell away like cut stalks.
Jon went wild. He kicked against the floor, flipping his whole body into the air, and I flipped over with him.
In a panic, I tried to brace for the fall and lost my hold on him. He bolted away from me, bounding against the wall, then the bed, then the desk, the shelves, the floor--moving too fast for me to keep track of, racing around in a blind animal frenzy to escape.
Then he slammed into me, knocking me against the folded wheelchair. I tripped over it, scattering tee ball bats onto the floor.
I looked up. Jon was gone--he'd burst through the door into the hallway--and I wasn't holding the ghost knife any more.
I rolled onto my knees and looked around. So much baseball crap had been knocked onto the floor that I couldn't see my spell in the clutter. I closed my eyes, concentrated, and reached out for it.
There it was, out in the hall. I held out my hand.
Jon stepped on it. "Hey, buddy," he said. "You looking for this?"
I started to stand. "Jon--"
I didn't know what I was going to say--even what I could say that I hadn't said before--but Jon cut me off by pointing a .22 caliber pistol at me.
Then he smiled. "Can you believe this is still in the house? Even after what happened to me--after what you did to me--Dad wouldn't get rid of his collection. Well, except for that one."
The inside of the barrel was dark. "Jesus Christ, Jon."
He took a silencer from his pocket and screwed it on, moving so fast that he'd finished before I realized what he was doing. I was still down on one knee, and I tried to imagine a way I could rush someone as fast as he was. Nothing came to mind except all the tricks I'd failed with before. "Cops outside," he said, tapping the silencer. "You know, before we attacked the hotel, I said: 'Let's go get some weapons from my house.' But Echo didn't seem to understand what guns were, and Macy--"
He charged across the seven feet separating us with startling speed and kicked me square on my chest. I fell back, spinning, and landed on my stomach. My tattoos protected me from the kick but ammonia smeared across my lips, choking me.
Jon stepped on my back, pinning me. The pressure against my ribs was intense and painful. Then he placed the barrel of the gun against my spine.
"... Macy hates guns. Considering her line of work, I can't blame her."
"Jon," I said, trying to keep my voice calm and failing, "I've been trying to help you!"
"Thank you, buddy. If only I had more people like you helping me. In return, you can have my old wheelchair. You're going to need it in a couple--Wait! I have a better idea." He jammed his foot under my ribs and flipped me onto my back. I fell against the desk, a shower of baseball card
s falling onto my hip. Jon pointed the gun at my forehead. I shielded myself with my left hand.
"Your aunt is going to be pretty hungry in a few." Jon cocked the hammer. "I should set the table."
My thoughts were all jumbled together in an incoherent mess. My ghost knife was too far away and Jon didn't understand that he needed my help to save Karl and Theresa before they were infected but why hadn't Annalise put a spell on my face and Callin's friend was going to destroy the city and I should have been terrified, but all I felt was disappointment that I couldn't set things right and it was all because I had failed to save my oldest--
Jon squeezed the trigger.
It was a tiny noise, like a robot's sneeze. My hand burst into white hot fire just as I thought it would be embarrassing to die without the big, booming gunshot I deserved.
As if in slow motion, I saw the tattooed skin on the back of my hand bulge outward, then snap back with tremendous force, tearing through my palm again.
The sigil on Irena's glove also burst apart in a jet of iron gray sparks and black steam. The jet shot toward Jon's face, and just before he was engulfed, I saw a bullet hole appear in his forehead.
The pain in my hand rushed up my arm, freezing me in place. The jet of ruined magic receded, and Jon staggered backward, bright red blood trickling down his face.
Animal rage surged through me. Jon had tried to kill me. After everything I'd put myself through for him, he'd tried to put a bullet in my brain. I snatched up a tee ball bat with my good hand and rolled to my knees. With all my strength, I slammed it across Jon's shins. He fell to the floor, his expression empty and his face slack.
Then I was on my feet. My left hand hurt so much it might as well have been on fire, but I still held the bat in my right. I smashed Jon's wrist with it, sending the gun bouncing into the hall, but it wasn't enough. My pain and fear had control of me, and the urge to fight fight fight was overwhelming. I slammed the bat down onto Jon's head and his eyes fell closed.
Twenty Palaces: A Prequel Page 22