Let go of me, Michael sent, issuing the command directly at the thread dancing in her mind. He could see it clearly above her eyes, knew exactly how it would respond.
Except it didn’t. Something redirected his efforts, leaving her mind untouched by his, the effect like a mirror bouncing a beam of light all over a room.
“What the hell?” he said, springing out of the chair.
She rose to face him, her smile widening as though she had discovered a hidden advantage in whatever plan she was hatching.
“Oh, Michael,” she said, tilting her head in mock sympathy. “All anyone’s ever told you is how special you are, how powerful and smart and capable. And you believed every word. You’re so self-absorbed that you don’t even notice when those around you are special, too.”
“William,” he said, glancing at the door to the living room.
“You’re not the only one who’s special around here.”
“But he wasn’t like that before. When Elkin died, I used it in front of him. He was standing right next to me.”
Charlotte shrugged, an arrogant smile pulling at her lips, like she wanted to burst out laughing and could barely contain it. “He’s maturing. You must’ve gone through something similar.”
Shaking his head, Michael made for the door.
“Wait,” Charlotte said. “Michael, don’t leave. I’m not finished.”
Michael stopped at the front door. He glanced into the living room to see Charlotte standing by the couch, William sitting up and watching him with a doleful expression on his bruised face. Michael wanted to go to the boy and comfort him, but the thought of being without his ability—of being so completely stripped of it—made his skin crawl.
“Michael?” William said, obviously confused.
Charlotte was audibly sobbing, probably an act. This was all a game to her. “You don’t have to leave us. I just wanted to talk to you. Why won’t you talk to me, Michael?”
Michael hesitated. William’s hazel eyes—a mixture of his mother’s brown and the green of that rapist, Paul Scallazo—seemed to be boring into Michael’s head like tiny, silent drills.
Without a word, Michael picked up the sack of potatoes, slung it over his shoulder, and left.
Chapter 26
Warren’s mind raced behind a set of binoculars.
Night had fallen like a shroud around the mountains. Shivering inside an enormous cloak he’d found in a ruined building in the Hollows, he watched the town from atop a steep cliff. Thanks to the Selarix he’d swiped out of Meacham’s office—the man didn’t need it anymore, and he never would again—those ments would never find him. Dominic’s tracking skills were no match for Warren’s. Out here, in the mountains beyond the town limits, Warren was king.
He set aside the binoculars. By the glow of a flashlight, he checked his supply of the drug, saw he was down to two canisters and one needle. Enough for a few emergencies, but not much else. He would have to set up a base somewhere. Plan his revenge with a steadier mind. He put the binoculars to his eyes once more to study the town.
Gulch was mostly dark except for the light of six torches inside the park in front of the Matinee. Villagers walked among those fires, socializing, laughing, comfortable with the new life Blake and his boys had given them. Men filed out of the town hall, looking pleased with themselves. Warren was familiar with the ceremony. He had seen it only once before, with John Meacham, but the memory was clear in his mind.
They had elected a new mayor.
“I’ll be damned,” Warren said when he saw who it was.
Midas Ford walked out of the town hall, wearing a suit he had probably purchased from Sinatra’s. It was customary for the newly elected mayor to wear his finest clothing for a whole week—a suit if he had it, a vest and a hat if he didn’t.
Warren wouldn’t have been surprised to see Blake as one of the newly elected ministers. Dominic and Reggie, too. He should have killed Reggie in that jail cell when he’d had the chance. And Dominic—all those times he could have picked him off with a rifle during one of the man’s senseless midnight jogs.
And where was Charlotte? He didn’t see her among the villagers, nor did he see her blonde slut of a sister, Arielle, or any of the other ments in their posse. That was fine. It would happen another day. He would find Charlotte, and he would give her what she wanted most—a strong man to take care of her and her boy. In exchange, she would help him get his revenge against Michael, Blake, and every other asshole in this spiteful town.
Warren picked up his pack and headed east.
Chapter 27
Meet me in our front yard at ten.
Arielle had sent the whisper into his mind during dinner. It had remained all evening, taunting him and lifting his spirits, but also making him slightly anxious.
She emerged from the side of the house, carrying a light blanket. Michael met her halfway across the yard, and they kissed with the wind stirring the trees around them. Spring had passed, leaving the mountains with an unseasonably hot and humid summer, though it was cooler now. Michael had never seen such clear night skies, not like this one, where it seemed there was only a glass shell between them and the cosmos.
“Let’s watch the stars for a bit,” Arielle said.
Taking her hand, he led her into the field.
They spread the blanket out over the grass and lay on it, eyes on the sky with their hands clasped. At one point, Arielle curled against him with her head under his chin. They lay that way for a while, Michael breathing in her scent.
“You know?” Arielle said in a dreamy voice. “Sometimes, I think we could run away together.”
“It’s not a bad idea,” Michael said. “We could go South, where it’s nice and hot.”
“I could start another Cold War Café, and you could start a shop and fix cars.”
“And we could get married,” Michael said.
She stretched toward him, then kissed him. Her lips were so soft he almost couldn’t feel them.
“You would marry me?” she asked with her eyes closed.
“Once every year if I could.”
“Would we have babies?”
“As many as you can handle.”
“I want two,” she said. “A boy and a girl. I want twins.”
They held each other for an hour until it was clear she could no longer stay awake. Michael walked her to her front door. They stood kissing in the doorway for several minutes until he finally tore himself away. When the door had shut between them, Michael lingered for a moment to take in the crooning of owls and the smell of wind in the trees before heading home.
Charlotte watched from a window on the second floor.
The tears had long since dried off her face. Life wasn’t fair, but this was too painful to accept. After everything she’d been through and done for her sister, why did Arielle always get the attention she wanted while Charlotte had to scrape and claw just to be noticed?
The core of her mind tingled. Speak of the devil.
“Charlotte?” her sister said. “What’s up? Why are you standing in my room in the dark like a creep?”
Arielle struck a match, lit a candle.
“I came to talk to you,” Charlotte said.
Arielle’s mouth hung slightly open. She was about to speak when Charlotte cut her off.
“I saw you with Michael.”
“Don’t start,” Arielle said, pulling off her sweatshirt. “He and I are together now. I told you.”
“And you think that’s fair?”
“Stop yelling.”
“You took everything from me.”
Arielle froze, the blanket hanging off one arm. She tried to speak, but Charlotte wouldn’t let her. There was nothing Arielle could say that would matter.
“Paul could have chosen you first that day, but he chose me. And because he did, I ended up with a crippled son. Every time a man attacks you, someone comes to your rescue and makes sure pretty little Arielle doesn’t get raped and ruin
ed because, otherwise, Michael wouldn’t like her.”
As soon as those last words flew from her mouth, Charlotte stopped and evaluated what she had just said. It wasn’t like her to rant like this. She had given too much of herself away.
“I’m sorry, Charlotte,” Arielle said, her tone flat. Emotionless. A wall was building behind her eyes; Charlotte could almost see it. In a way, she was proud of her little sister. “But this isn’t my problem. Michael loves me, not you, regardless of how many times you tried putting your tits in his face.”
Charlotte slapped her, but Arielle took it with no sign of pain.
“Feel better, sis?” Arielle asked. “Is that what you needed all this time?”
Charlotte glanced down at the bits of grass on Arielle’s sandals, which had accumulated during her nighttime tryst beneath the stars with Michael. It wasn’t fair. So much of it just wasn’t fair.
“Get out of my room,” Arielle said.
The room darkened behind her blonde head. Was it an illusion, or was there wind Charlotte couldn’t feel stirring the candle flames? Her heart began to beat more quickly as tendrils of that darkness collected in Arielle’s eyes.
“I saw what pure rage felt like the day Michael let me into his mind,” Arielle said, her voice resonant, commanding. “I took some of it with me. Don’t make me use it.”
Charlotte’s mouth gaped open as she watched the whites of her sister’s eyes turn a demonic black.
It’s just an illusion, she told herself. She’s messing with your mind.
Where was William when she needed him? Where was her shield?
“Get out,” Arielle said.
Charlotte forced a smile, despite a cold feeling of dread uncoiling in her stomach.
“Fine,” Charlotte said. “But he’s a monster, and he’ll destroy you both.”
She slammed the door on her way out.
Chapter 28
Warren tossed his hand-rolled cigarette away before entering the tavern. The smoke had done nothing to mask the smell of cows and hay he wore over his clothes like a second coat. But it didn’t matter. Everyone who came here smelled like shit. He was just another regular.
For the past few weeks, he’d been working a farm on the outskirts of Easterville, a town whose citizens mostly made a living by raising their own livestock and selling milk and eggs. Easterville was a real backward sort of place, even compared to Gulch, and getting in wasn’t easy. Warren had faked a religious conversion by acting like he’d been possessed by the Holy Spirit at church one day while several of the townsfolk lay their hands upon him to drive out evil spirits and allow the great, glowing Holy One to seep into him and free his soul—or something like that.
What a bunch of bullshit.
The tavern was quiet this afternoon. It was a small, dimly lit place meant for regulars who didn’t mind the stink the farmers brought with them. The occasional drifter or caravan guard came in sometimes. It was easy to pick them out by the way they’d always sit rigidly at the counter and survey their surroundings. They didn’t bury their faces in their arms or ask for their own bottle the way the regulars did.
“Oh, great,” Warren said, hearing running footsteps outside. They grew louder by the second. “Just what I need right now.”
Toomy Bunkers crashed through the door in his usual clumsy way, allowing in a bright wash of sunlight that made Warren and the other regulars wince. The windows in this place had long since been boarded up. For some reason, Toomy liked to throw the door all the way open instead of slipping in like the others. Warren shook his head, thankful he was normal and hadn’t been born a pathetic retard.
Toomy walked slightly hunched over, like he was waiting for a whip to fall across his shoulders and take a bite out of him. Because he lacked any wits whatsoever, all he was good for was emptying the trash, the slop buckets, and the spittoons. His hands were always brown with tobacco spit afterward. It was disgusting.
“Hi, Warren,” Toomy said in his dull, rounded voice. It sounded like he had marbles in his mouth. The bartender set a beer mug down for Toomy to take into the back, where the owner kept an office.
Warren watched him pick up the offering and then try to cross the room without bumping into every chair along the way, his eyes on the overflowing mug. Long faced and ugly as a baby horse, the boy pissed Warren off something awful, though he didn’t know why. With a sudden burst of movement, not sure what had possessed him, Warren extended his right leg and sent the boy falling face-first into the floorboards. Toomy spilled his beer everywhere.
A couple of regulars laughed at this, though Warren had expected a more enthusiastic response. Didn’t Toomy piss off everyone around here? Or was it just him?
Look at him. The ugly little bastard was trying to push himself up with one hand while still holding the beer mug with the other. The liquid had splashed out of the mug, leaving it empty, and still the retard held it like it was full to the brim and he couldn’t spill a drop.
“Get up,” Warren said.
“I-I-I—”
Warren sometimes wondered if all retards had stutters. Charlotte’s boy never had one, but he barely spoke, so who knew for sure?
Warren would find out eventually. If he succeeded and got Charlotte out of there, he’d be seeing a lot more of the crippled little bastard.
The thought made Warren even angrier. He kicked the beer mug out of Toomy’s hand.
“Nooo…” The boy moaned. “That was for Mister Alecker.”
He appeared to be on the verge of tears.
“To hell with Mr. Alecker,” Warren growled.
“Nooo…”
The bartender, Mary, a broad-shouldered woman in her forties, came over and picked Toomy up by the armpits. The boy was sobbing now, sucking his lower lip into his mouth and blowing it back out again like a fish.
“That warn’t necessary,” she snapped at Warren. “He warn’t doing nothin’ to you.”
“He warn’t getting me a beer, now was he, woman?” Warren barked.
She gave him a sour look before continuing to lead Toomy toward the rear of the bar, out of harm’s way. The boy was still whimpering and sobbing. Warren pictured Michael crying like that—crying because he had just watched Warren slice open his blonde girlfriend right in front of him. The thought gave him a warm, pleasant feeling all over.
The door swung open, and a man strode in. Sunlight poured in around him, making him little more than a silhouette. Another tourist. They always had to swing the door open all the way as if the room were some sort of stage, and they were making a grand entrance.
He wore cargo pants that appeared to be brand new, with pockets lining the thighs and calves, and—could it be?—a real leather belt holding them up. His shirt was clean cotton and buttoned down the front, and none of the buttons seemed to be missing. It didn’t look faded from constant exposure to the sun. His boots were covered in dust, but Warren could still see the shine underneath. They were almost new.
Warren would look fine in those pants and boots, with a shirt like that one tucked in and ready to go. And that leather belt—damn! He had to get himself some of that finery.
“A whiskey, please,” the stranger said, leaning an elbow on the bar.
His hair was parted along one side and combed all the way over, straight for the most part but ending in curly tufts at the ends. Otherwise, there wasn’t much that would’ve made him stand out from a crowd. He was of average height with a weak chin, slightly flabby around the neck. He looked well fed, but he wasn’t fat or even husky. His limbs were thin, and he seemed barely tough enough to take on a child in a fistfight. The only part of him that stood out, aside from his new clothes and weird hair, were his eyes. Close together and piercing, they darted about to take in their new surroundings.
Warren had seen eyes like that before.
“What are you looking for?” Warren asked, making sure he was sitting back in his chair with his arms spread over the table and his long, denim-clad legs ext
ending outward like he owned the place.
“Why? You got something I might want?” the man sarcastically asked.
He had a hint of an accent he was obviously trying to cover up. Warren picked it out only because Louis Blake, John Meacham, and all the other former soldiers of the People’s Republic had the same one. This man was a spy, for sure.
“I got information I’m willing to sell,” Warren said. “You seem like the right type to buy it, too.”
The bartender, having returned to her post after helping the retard, served the man his whiskey. He sipped it while peering into the back of the room, probably to make sure he wasn’t going to be ambushed. The stranger kept his body turned toward Warren the whole time.
“How do you know what type I am?”
Warren smiled. “Why don’t you have a seat over here and we’ll talk about it?”
“If I have a seat there with you and you pull a gun on me, I got tables everywhere I turn. Can’t do much but sit there and hope.”
“Nah,” Warren said. “If I wanted to shoot you, I’d have done it already, soldier.”
The man stared into Warren’s eyes without blinking, even tipped his head forward a little like his thoughts had suddenly taken on weight.
“You’re lying,” he said. “You don’t have a gun.”
Warren’s voice was abruptly loud. “And you’re a goddamn ment.”
He leaped toward the man, tipping over the only table between them. In response, the man ducked, twisted, grabbed hold of Warren’s collar and the length of twine holding up his pants, then whipped him down against the bar so his head clipped the side. Warren rolled away, arms up.
The man had moved so fast. Or had simply appeared to. He was another one like Dominic, who could slow men’s minds and move around them like a hummingbird flitting around a bumblebee.
“Nooo…” Toomy called from the rear of the bar. “No fighting. No fighting.”
Gripping his head, Toomy rocked back and forth. One of the regulars, an old man with missing teeth, cackled. The others just watched, faces mere shadows in the darkened seating area.
Bloodcrier: The Complete Two-Book Series Page 38