Skinner Luce

  “Why aren’t there any sentries?”

  “They’re all on the others,” Eric whispers, scanning his chat windows. “Two got outside.”

  Lucy cranes her eyes to see if Gabriel’s breathing. He is. He’s just taking a spell to recover. Though by the looks of that blow, he might not be moving any time soon. This Nafikh needs distracting, most basic rule of the game, and there’s no sentry in sight to take care of it, just a bunch of loser servs hiding under their desks, and a hobbled Qadir.

  No way, she warns herself, extinguishing the notion.

  But if she makes an effort, maybe they won’t put her on the sets. And then maybe, just maybe, she can still be bought out. You are crazy, she warns herself, but the idea’s growing on her fast. She’s got nothing to lose. Nothing. It’s the sets or, at the rate things are going, getting wiped out by new Qadir.

  The phone grows sweaty in her hand. She looks down at the blank face, willing it to ring. Then hurriedly switches off the ringer, so as not to spur the Nafikh into an even worse state.

  Hansel flexes His hand, then shapes it into a tight fist, fixated on the injured Qadir. He bends, cocks His head. The First is motionless. Lucy wonders if he can see, if he’s aware at all that the Nafikh is about to finish him off.

  Hansel swivels around. He says something to the Second, His lips in a snarl. The Qadir shakes her head, her posture meek, slavish.

  The phone jitters inside Lucy’s hand. She looks down. It’s a text. It reads: 3 Larkpond Lane.

  Lucy’s heart smashes her ribs. Don’t you dare. Don’t you fucking dare move. But she hands the phone backwards, feels Eric take it. Wipes her palms on her jeans. Nothing to lose, she thinks savagely. She takes a breath. Turns around. “He’s going to kill the Qadir. I’ve got to distract.”

  There’s no harm in putting an altruistic spin on her action, in case she makes it out.

  Eric just looks up at her in shock, mouth agape. Yeah, well, it probably never crossed his mind to do something about the carnage out there. She walks the length of the room, conscious of everyone watching her. She comes to the doorway, steps out. She taps the floor with her boot. It isn’t enough, Hansel’s so fixated on the Qadir, bent over almost double, back muscles flexing, shifting.

  She adjusts her face into the grin They prefer. She steps forward, plunking her heel down hard on the wooden floor.

  He starts. Then His upper body slowly swings her way, still hinged at the hips.

  For a second, her plan quakes and fritters, shredded by the swiveling head, the swirling pits of hell now fixed on her. In the corner of her swimming vision she sees the Qadir’s inscrutable gaze.

  Across the way, a door opens, and a sentry slips out. About fucking time. It is Sina, rifle cocked. Please please please shoot. But she doesn’t. The Nafikh probably can’t take any more doses. Their eyes meet: Sina nods, Go for it.

  Lucy’s mind drains but for high humming panic. She’s moving forward as she intended, though every part of her body screams, Run. But you can’t outrun Nafikh. They’re like tigers. He’s out of the cage. Lucy’s face stretches so hard it hurts, her teeth gritted together.

  She moves forward until He’s so close she can feel His breaths blasting her skin, hot and wet.

  She stops no more than a foot away, staring up, trying to keep her spine straight because They can’t abide fear, They can’t bear any reflection of Their own torment, why do They come here, Why why why?

  “Shanesh,” He says. What. His voice is deep as the fire from which He emerged.

  Lucy swallows, her mouth paper dry. “If you please,” she says, then forces more strength into her voice: “I know where Dara-Lin is located.”

  At the mention of Her name, Hansel’s whole body stiffens. He leans in, suspicion twisting His face grotesquely.

  “Gatareh el Dara-Lin,” Sina calls out the translation, slowly approaching from behind. “Gatareh el!”

  The silence is absolute. From the corner of her eye, Lucy can see the Qadir’s enormous form, still as stone, watching.

  The Nafikh seems to drink in the words, His throat moving hard once, twice.

  Gatareh must mean find, Lucy supposes in some far-off place in her mind.

  “Kojeh?” Hansel says abruptly.

  “How?” Sina calls at once.

  “I know where She was taken. I can take you there.”

  Sina translates as she speaks. The Nafikh takes deep, long breaths, apparently considering this. Inch by inch, He closes in on her, until the hot wetness of His breaths touches her face, and the heat pouring off His body makes her skin prickle with sweat. She can’t bear to look into His eyes, but they’re sucking at her like magnets. Help me, she begs Sina with her whole being, regretting her decision, what is she, stupid, no matter what the Qadirs planned for her it would be nothing like this hell, her bones crunching inside the massive fists, blood pouring out—

  Shit shit shit because now she’s crying, the tears popping out helplessly, she’s just so tired is the problem, hasn’t slept in days—and she can’t take it—

  He’s right in her face, and she steps back, just one step, and in that instant glimpses Sina’s drop-jawed, astonished expression: Why does she look like that?

  The Nafikh’s eyes roil darkness, sickening her insides. Then He grasps her chin, drags her close, pressing on her jaw like a dog’s, forcing her mouth open wide.

  His chest expands, cracking sound, sweat in glistening rivers, and she glimpses fiery white wisps trickling past His lips. Then the Nafikh plunges towards her, and His mouth clamps over hers. The last thing she remembers is screaming, but there’s no sound.

  Wake up wake up you have to wake up now Lucy.

  Wake up Lucy.

  Can you hear me?

  You must wake up and thank the Nafikh.

  Wake up Lucy.

  HER TONGUE IS HEAVY and hot as baked potato inside her mouth, and her throat hurts so very much, she can’t breathe or speak to the voices, she can’t move. I can’t move! she tries to let them know, but all that happens is her lips crack apart the slightest little bit, allowing in a wisp of cool air.

  Huh-huh-huh-huh.

  It’s all right, Lucy. Lucy, look at me.

  Huh-huh-huh-huh—

  Herself, breathing hard and fast.

  Look at me, Lucy.

  Shapes, dark and light, motion. She blinks till the image clears: Gabriel, bent close. He tucks his hand under her head, lifts it.

  “Get up. He’s waiting.”

  With his help she finds her way to her feet. Her mouth tastes burnt. Her chest feels weighted, strangely opaque, like it’s wadded up with stuffing.

  It’s the Source.

  She can’t feel it. Or—just barely. A tiny winking spark.

  She licks her lips, suddenly overwhelmed with craving for water. Her hand creeps to her chest. She feels different. She feels—solid. Rooted.

  “You got a boost,” Gabriel says in her ear. “You understand? You’re one of us, now.”

  She blinks at him. She’d forgotten he was there.

  A boost?

  “Ajhare-in,” the deep voice intrudes.

  “You are joyous,” Gabriel translates. “Say Anesh ajhari.”

  “Anesh ajhari,” Lucy says. She tries to make her face smile.

  “Just be normal,” Gabriel whispers.

  Lucy’s smile falters.

  Hansel lifts His hand, languidly shapes a pointed finger that reaches out and touches her lightly on the forehead. “Gatareh el Dara-Lin.”

  Gabriel maneuvers himself between them, causing the Nafikh’s hand to drop away, and he speaks with pressing, cajoling insistence. It’s all incomprehensible to Lucy other than the repeated mention of Dara-Lin. Hansel doesn’t appear pleased with what He’s hearing. He points at Lucy, shaking His head. Lucy sways in place, fascinated. She’s never been so close to a Nafikh without the urge to hurl her guts up from anxiety. Without the Nafikh zeroing in on her, His intentions a blank, wild horror. He’s ju
st not looking at her that way, now. He’s not looking at her at all; she’s become invisible. She could hang out right at His side and He’d not harm her, because she’s become important. She’s the one who’s going to keep Him safe, she realizes. She’s special to Him.

  Then all of a sudden the Nafikh is walking away, guided by Sina. An incalculable disappointment springs up inside her. She doesn’t want Him to leave.

  “Oh, no you don’t,” Gabriel blocks her passage. “You tell me you can make good on that promise. Look at me, Lucy.”

  She feels her feet pressed into the ground. Her heart drums steadily. The light inside is a shimmering coal, and when she draws her mind to it, she feels its heat reaching outwards. It doesn’t hurt. It doesn’t hurt. Her muscles twitch, she could just blow right up, crash through the ceiling and rocket into the sky—

  “Whoa,” Gabriel warns, shaking her by the shoulder.

  She starts, staring at him in confusion. She fights to halt the wildness raging inside her. She could pummel him a thousand times and still have enough left over to spin like a top.

  “This is adjustment. Normally you’d be monitored and helped along, but there’s no time for any of that now. You feel that craze kicking around inside, you suck it up and focus, you hear me? He’s insisting on coming with us and that you come along, too, so you have to hold it together!”

  She doesn’t know why Gabriel’s so bent out of shape. Of course she should come along, if He wants her to. She cranes her neck to see where the Nafikh has gone. She should be with Him, because that’s what He has requested.

  “Oh, someone shoot me now,” Gabriel mutters. “Lucy. Look at me. Tell me we’ve got a destination. Tell me you can make good on that promise.”

  “She can make good,” a voice says.

  Lucy turns her wobbly, addled head. It’s Eric, holding up his phone in triumph. “It’s north of Route 15, middle of nowhere. We’re running down all the records now, but the property’s in the name of an Elijah Lord, which has to be one of Elander’s aliases. The aerials look right: the property’s over twenty acres with a main house, barns, and two cottages inside a security fence. Very isolated, very expansive. Aside from the structures you’re looking at forest.”

  “How’d you find it?”

  “It was her,” Eric points at Lucy. “She figured it out.”

  “Figured it out, or knew all along?”

  Eric is taken aback. “No—she didn’t know. I’m sure of it.”

  Gabriel looks Lucy up and down. “All right, then.”

  She wants to reply, but finds she still can’t speak, instead a weird nnngh sound dribbles out of her mouth. She clamps her lips closed. Crushes her two hands into fists so they don’t fly out and smash everything to pieces.

  THEY’RE OUTSIDE IN A cold wind blowing off the river. It sweeps the empty lot, whirls snow clouds through the air. The snow prickles Lucy’s cheeks. Every touch is a thousand points of fire. She stays close to Gabriel, hands clenched behind her back. She should make a break for it. She might. She feels like screaming. If she has to stand here a moment longer, she’ll crack into a thousand boiling pieces and ignite the whole bloody lot of them.

  Gabriel and the Second Qadir are having an argument. The Qadir’s like a granite statue, all planes and jagged surfaces, with gray hair and gray eyes and skin the color of milk. She stays just inside the door track, as if it’s a border she cannot cross. Lucy considers this, mystified. She imagines pushing her over the track, like shoving a vampire into the sun. She can’t think what might happen.

  She’s trapped here, Lucy realizes, suddenly awash in sorrow, recalling the First Qadir gazing out the window.

  He’s almost dead, she heard. It’s almost over.

  She could just cry.

  She becomes aware that she’s breathing that way again, huh-huh-huh-huh. She shifts all her focus to stopping the noise. The argument unfolds in clipped, hard undertones, so that it doesn’t carry to the rest of the sentries pacing by the idling vans. It’s all in Nafikh, but Lucy got the gist earlier. Gabriel told the Q.C. Gate to go in without them, is the problem. It was a strategic decision: Q.C. is only a few hours away from Theo’s hideout. But apparently, the Boston Gate will incur a huge debt, never mind the shame, and the Qadir’s incensed.

  “Edjeh een!” she snaps, and Lucy jumps. Come here. She obeys. Her legs feel like bombs on a timer.

  “Fahareh!”

  Lucy blinks, looks up. The Qadir’s craggy face comes into focus.

  “You did not deserve this gift.”

  I saved your life, Lucy could argue, but the Qadir’s mood is too foul. “It was the Nafikh’s decision.”

  “Huh,” the Qadir sneers. “He gave you a boost, and now you adore Him. It is always the same. Look at where you are. Look at where you are going. You should try and speed up your adjustment.”

  Lucy flushes. Her weird longing to see the Nafikh falters, cracks a little. Along with it comes a pang of wistfulness, so acute she can’t speak. A hole spreads open inside her. Dark, pitiless, devastating.

  “She will be useless to you,” the Qadir tells Gabriel. “Keep her on the side. Go.”

  She turns and strides away, the door clattering down behind her. Gabriel seizes Lucy by the arm, pulls her down the stairs. “You will not carry a weapon, you will not stray from the line, you will do exactly as you’re told,” he instructs. “Right now, the way you are, you’re a liability, you’re a shackle, you hear? You do anything wrong and you get us all killed. Answer me. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  Lucy’s cheeks boil with shame. There are five other sentries waiting by the van, Sina included. They’re a hulking mass of metal and leather and fierce stares. They’re carrying machine guns, ammo belts, knives, all in addition to the dosing rifles. Lucy’s the one who warned them about Theo’s weapons stockpile, but all she got was some other sentry’s dark woolen coat and boots; the boots are dead heavy with metal toes, and that much harder to walk in being a size too big.

  “You will stay glued to me or Sina, one or the other. You keep away from the Nafikh. Do not engage Him. You act like He’s not there, you hear?”

  “Don’t worry, I’m losing that sick feeling already,” Lucy is glad to inform him. “I’ll be fine on that count.”

  “You have no idea how fast it can come back up to wreck your day,” he corrects her. “Takes an average of a week to get back to a healthier way of seeing things. And He’s not looking good. He came out too soon, His pain isn’t being managed, and can’t be. What I need from you is to stuff those desires to get closer to Him, you understand?”

  Lucy can’t imagine actually wanting to be close to a Nafikh. She glares at Gabriel, conveying her disdain for this whole damn lecture.

  “Jaysus,” he snaps. “I will not hesitate, do you hear? I will not, Lucy Hennessey.”

  “You won’t have cause,” she says through gritted teeth.

  “Oh, dammit,” Sina says.

  Hansel has climbed up on top of the first van. He’s staring out over the weedy snowy lots towards the river. He leans forward, swaying a little, as if drawn towards the view.

  “Get Him before He falls,” Gabriel says. One of the sentries breaks away, lopes around the van and climbs onto the hood. The Nafikh turns, frowning. The sentry murmurs in Nafikh, making unhurried, graceful gestures. Finally, He climbs down. His thick blonde hair lifts in the breeze. The sunlight strikes His bare skin, which glitters brightly: He’s covered in a fine coat of ice crystals formed by sweat. Strands of ice hang from His nostrils. His lips are bruised blue.

  The sight provokes a lurch of worry. “Shouldn’t we get Him some clothes?”

  Gabriel shifts his gaze, looks sternly down his nose at her.

  “Oh,” she says. “O.K. Right. Why the fuck is it like this?” Lucy blurts.

  “Why the fuck is anything like anything?”

  It’s pretty much the dumbest response she might have gotten, but uttered in that bland English
accent, he somehow pulls it off. For a second, she’s reminded of the crush she’s always had on him. Then he gives her a shove, points, indicating her ride, the closest van.

  “Not the limo?” Lucy asks, disappointed.

  “I told you, you’re staying away from Him. All right, let’s do it,” he calls out, turning. The other sentries swiftly move in one by one, grip his outstretched hand, then lope off to their designated vehicle. Lucy jams her own hands deep into her pockets, pretends not to see. She hasn’t felt this way since she was a kid with her arms folded tight around her scrawny frame, white stork legs pressed together, last one picked for kickball. It’s so fucking stupid, but it hurts.

  LUCY’S RELEGATED TO THE back row. She twists on the bench, looking out across the river. The harbor islands in the distance look like a handful of pebbles flung towards the crooked peninsula of Hull. Somewhere along that shore is the little brown house, the barnacled boat, Eva sitting near her picture window, the TV blaring news about the terrorist attack in Boston. Phyllis will be there by now—no way Eva wouldn’t call her—and they’ll make Sean repeat his story of Lucy’s frantic call, how he searched for the car, the GPS. She knows so intimately the scene of people banded together in a time of trauma, having witnessed it time and again, the murmuring, the food and drink, the buttressed, excited feeling of surviving.

  She presses into the freezing window, tipping her head back till all that remains is the vast blue sky. Every shudder and bump jolts her forehead against the cold glass. The engine thuds steadily, and a cold wind blows through the vents. No one speaks. Time passes. She sees snow-covered fields, stands of trees, the occasional cluster of homes on a stretch of black road. The city’s already a world away. She imagines people in these country houses also glued to their TVs, the truth of what’s actually happening beyond anything they’d ever imagine. She wonders if any more Nafikh have blown, and if Theo knew what would happen, if he cares at all.

  GABRIEL HUDDLES UP WITH his phone, getting more details from Eric on layout, distances between structures, possible numbers they might face, all of which he relays to Sina, leading to repeated changes in the plan. The plan continues to include Hansel potentially blowing them all to smithereens. A numbness, and a kind of wonder, gradually replaces Lucy’s concern. She feels at her jeans pockets: no, right, the phone is in Bedrosian’s car.