by Tracey Ward
“I think we’ll need a whole crate of milk,” Jonnie tells him. Me. Us.
We look at her, down to her shorter height, and that alone is super weird. I’m almost eye to eye with Jonnie standing in bare feet, but Nick has a couple inches on her. And his stride as we walk across the street! It’s so long. Purposeful but controlled, like we’re reining it in so we don’t leave her behind. We’re fast if we have to be. Stronger than a man our size should be. The way we take in the world, every detail in a quick glance, is almost painful in its precision. Nick is a super-computer with a processor that shouldn’t be allowed on the market. It’s just not fair to the rest of us.
“Probably,” we answer, our voice rumbling deep in our chest. Tickling my unaccustomed ears. “I think Stewart drank a gallon on his own today.”
“Maybe we’ll get two crates.”
“Make it three. Just to be safe.”
She smiles at us, the wind blowing her long, soft hair across her neck.
Campbell was right; she is pretty. Beautiful even.
“Smart planning,” she tells us.
Nick turns us away, unaffected. “Did Campbell give you a list of demands?”
“He did.” She shifts a piece of paper in her hand. Stapled to a neatly written list is a crumpled sheet of paper that says ‘candy’ in rough chicken-scratch. “It’s not a long list.”
“They never are, but his demands are rarely simple.”
“This one is. He wants Starbursts.”
“You got that from ‘candy’?” we ask, pulling up to a stop just outside the doors to the massive grocery store. It’s a bulk shop. The kind of place where the carts are bigger than cars and you can get a hundred-count tub of cream puffs on the same aisle as an office chair and a dental drill.
“He told me that’s his favorite.”
“You already had the favorite candy convo?”
Jonnie chuckles. “Is that a big deal?”
“For Campbell it is. He doesn’t get real with people. Telling you his favorite anything is like giving you his social security number.”
“It’s just sugar and brightly colored paper.”
“So is a marriage license, if you ask him.”
“Since when is a marriage license made of sugar?”
“I’m not from California. I don’t know what they do. And did I see him kiss you before we left?”
Jonnie blushes. “On the cheek. It was nothing. I think he was trying to rattle me.”
“I doubt it. He rattles people with words. He’s very proud of his intellect.” We gesture to the street to the right of us. It’s long, disappearing after several blocks in a bend that veers away from the ocean behind us. “Do you mind if I catch up with you inside? I want to check out some of the shops along this strip. See if they’ve got anywhere I can buy ammo. We didn’t bring much with us.”
“Sure, but I think you can buy it in here,” she answers, nodding to the warehouse. “You can probably buy enough to supply an entire army for about ten bucks.”
“I’ve got a brand I like,” we lie evasively, already backing away from her. “I’ll be back in twenty. Meet you at the registers?”
Jonnie watches us with confusion and a little bit of concern. “Okay. See you later.”
We don’t bother trying to cover our tracks any better than that, mostly because Nick just doesn’t care. Let people wonder and be suspicious. He won’t give the truth unless he wants to. Unless he’s talking to me.
I’m there with him in so many ways. Not just in his heart but in his mind. In his emotions. I’m in the back of his thoughts, a factor that he considers in everything he does. A major contributor to his mood as he puts his hands in his pockets, sliding his fingers around the stones inside them.
I’m stunned to feel the jagged exterior of the black stone. The bird stone. A piece of our creation that fell dead from the sky on the island the first time we escaped it. I wonder where he got it, but then I remind myself that this is a dream. He has it because I want him to have it. All the pieces that are left are scattered across the globe, and Liam is the only one who knows where they are. And he’s not talking. He thinks we’re irresponsible.
Based on what I did to Campbell today, I can’t in good conscience argue that we’re not.
We immediately find the store we’re looking for. It’s only three down from the warehouse, and when we take hold of the elegant gold handle to pull open a sparkling glass door, I feel breathless. Not afraid, but excited. Bubbling with anticipation.
The sign over the door reads ‘Mason’s Fine Jewelry’.
An old man in a dark suit and thinly rimmed glasses smiles when he sees us. “Hello, young man. What brings you into Mason’s today?”
We walk briskly past display cases radiating heat from small spotlights, from the sparkle of glittering diamond rings. We don’t give them a second glance, and I feel a disappointment I didn’t expect but doesn’t surprise me. One that still stings in the back of my eyes. In my heart.
“I wondered if I could ask you about a stone,” we tell him.
“A gemstone? Are you looking for your girlfriend’s birthstone? Because I have a chart here under the counter somewhere,” he mumbles, bending down to search with squinted eyes.
“No. Not a birthstone.” We pull the bird stone from our pocket, holding it up between our fingers for the man to see. “It’s this. I wanted to know what you could tell me about it.”
The gentleman turns his narrowed gaze to the rock in our hand. His head cocks to the side slightly. “Well, isn’t that interesting?” he whispers.
“What is it?”
“Off the top of my head, I’d say it could be melanite. Or it could be black zircon. Cassiterite.” He turns his eyes to ours, offering his wrinkled palm. “May I?”
We hand him the stone, his palm warm and dry as paper. He brings his glasses higher on his nose as he turns the shard in his hand, his eyes intent and excited. He absolutely loves his job and, like Nick, clearly enjoys a good mystery.
“From the feel of it, I’d rule out cassiterite immediately. It’s not jagged enough.” He looks up at us expectantly. “It is raw, yes? You haven’t tumbled it to smooth it?”
“No. It was chipped away from a larger piece.”
“How much larger?”
“Much larger,” we answer vaguely.
The old man eyes us for a second longer before grabbing a jeweler’s loop from off the glass counter. “We can do a magnet test to rule out malanite. They’re full of iron.”
“And a magnet attracts iron.”
“Precisely. But I don’t know that I’d bother.” He sets the stone on a cream cloth, leaning over it to examine it closely with the loop.
A shadow passes over the store. A darkness that appears and disappears almost instantly, like a cloud crossing over the sun. I want to look at the street to see if a big truck went by or if rain is rolling in again, but Nick won’t turn. I’m not in control the way I want to be.
“Why wouldn’t you bother testing it?” we ask the jeweler.
He ignores us for a second, engrossed in his investigation. Finally, he stands up straight, putting the loop to his lips thoughtfully. “I’d say what you have there is a black diamond.”
“So a clouded stone?”
“Essentially, yes, but don’t discredit it so quickly. A diamond clouded to the point of uniform blackness is extremely rare. And very valuable.” He gestures to his counters that run in a long, wide U shape through his store. “You can search every display in this shop and you won’t find one. Here or anywhere else in town.”
“They’re that rare?”
“In this size, with this quality, yes. They indeed are. If cut properly, you could most likely get yourself nearly four karats out of this stone. That’d sell for almost three thousand dollars, unset.”
“And diamonds are strong?” we ask, our heart starting to beat hard in our chest. Our palms sweating.
“On Friederich Moh’s scale r
ating the hardness of minerals, a diamond scores a perfect ten. No other mineral tested can scratch it. Something like a pearl or the human fingernail rate a two. Very soft. Though a diamond is hard, it’s also brittle. That’s what makes them difficult to cut. That’s why I suggest, if you choose to have it shaped, you make sure you go with a trained professional.”
“Are you a trained professional?”
He grins. The expression droops at the edges, his face falling. Distorting. His eyes opening too wide as his face droops slowly off the bone. “I’m a master, my boy,” he tells us, his voice distorted and slow, like a record being played at the wrong speed.
I want Nick to look around. I want to force our head to turn to the window, to see what’s coming, because I can feel it now. I can’t see the shadow that crossed us, but I can feel it on the floor at our feet. It’s creeping across the yellow carpet, slithering like a snake, reaching for us. Tugging at the reality of the room, pulling it down like a curtain on a stage of horrors.
I remember this feeling. It’s the same one I got in the dreams at the clinic. The ones I had of Nick that turned into nightmares before I knew what was happening. The ones that left me breathless and afraid in the middle of the night.
I close my eyes. I count to a hundred as fast as I can, willing myself out of the dream. Out of this store. Out of the jaws of the monster still creeping toward me.
“Nick, run!” I scream at the top of my lungs. But I don’t hear a sound. I can’t see a thing. I can’t feel anything.
I’m in the void where there’s nothing. Floating in the in-between that used to terrify me, but now it fills me with a brief relief. I’m out. I’m free from the dream. From the monster.
But what about Nick?
I wake with a start, sitting straight up in bed. My chest is heaving. My heart is beating in my throat. My body is soaked in sweat. The room is dark, and for a sickening second, I don’t know where I am. I worry I’ve Slipped away from the house in New Zealand, but once I remember the place, I realize that’s where I am. In an unfamiliar room, nearly pissing myself with fear. And worry.
I throw off the covers, swinging my feet down onto the cool, bare floor under the bed. It feels good against my feverish skin. I push my hair away from my face, feeling the slickness of my sweat on the strands.
“Breathe,” I whisper to myself. “Slow down. Breathe.”
I listen to my heart hammering in my ears. I will it to slow, to calm, and just for a second, it listens. It calms.
Right before bursting with the explosion outside.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
MAX
I open the door slowly, hoping it doesn’t creek. I don’t want to wake Liam up. He needs his rest, and to be honest, I don’t feel much like talking. Definitely not after I step inside.
It’s a big space, but it feels small. Hot. Cramped. The ceiling looks low, the windows too small. There’s not much furniture but what’s here feels too big for the room. Everything feels bloated in the dark, bigger than it is because it’s being built up by shadows. Elongated and stretched to unnatural, impossible levels. There’s a tall wardrobe on the wall on the left, two beds under the windows in front of me, separated by a squat nightstand with a blinking digital clock. The red numbers read twelve twenty-two. Again and again and again. Liam is in the far bed, asleep and breathing deeply. The second is empty. No Naomi.
I walk slowly to the wardrobe, my hand itching to reach for my gun, but I leave it loose at my side. I force myself to be calm. To be cool. My hand is steady when it reaches for the knob on the closet. As it pulls it open abruptly.
Empty. Nothing but two metal hangers that swing in the breeze I’ve created, their shadows crawling down the wall behind them.
So where the hell is—
“It’s cold.”
I nearly jump out of my skin. My right hand grips my gun while my left slams the wardrobe shut. Behind the door, standing on the threshold to the room where I was just a minute ago, is Naomi. Her face and hair are pale, her eyes so faded blue they’re almost white. And they’re staring at me.
“What’d you say?” I ask breathlessly.
She doesn’t answer me. I frown, glancing around the room. Liam is still sleeping. Her bed is perfectly made. Untouched. There’s a chair on the right side of it, but it was empty when I came in. No one sitting silent and creepy inside it. Wait, was it empty? I’m pretty sure.
“You doing okay?” I ask her.
She blinks once, slowly. No answer.
I sigh, releasing my gun. Lowering my tight shoulders. “Gwen is taking a nap. I’m your buddy for the next couple hours. Is that okay?”
Nothing.
I smile thinly, drawing on my veneer. “You don’t talk much, do you? That’s fine. I can do enough talking for both of us. It’s better that way, anyway. I’m more interesting to listen to.”
I think she grins. Or grimaces. It’s hard to tell in these shadows. I wish I could pull the curtains on the windows to brighten this room up, but Liam is resting, and I don’t want to mess with that.
I nod to the chair by her bed. “Do you mind if I sit down?”
She steps out of the way, pressing her back against the closed door to the room.
A door I don’t remember closing.
I slide past her, careful not to touch her because I’m pretty sure neither of us would like it, and take a seat in the bare wood chair across from her. She just stands there staring at me, her eyes surgically sharp. I rub my hands together, glancing around the room. It hasn’t changed in the last thirty seconds. It’s still creepy. It’s still too small. There’s still no friggin’ TV.
“So,” I begin quietly, opening my hands to her. “You got any hobbies?”
Her brow creases slightly. She’s confused or annoyed, but it’s better than the blank stare, so I keep talking.
“I’m big into comic books,” I tell her. “Always have been. Some people say it’s nerdy, but those people are douchebags. Do you know what a douchebag is?”
She shakes her head faintly.
“Yeah. I doubt Liam would like it if I told you, but it’s bad. It means you suck. Not like literally. I’m worried you’re going to take that literally. Do you know slang? Have you heard it much? You were locked in a box for a long time, right? No outside contact except for your brother? And I doubt he’d say ‘suck’. It doesn’t sound like him.” I chuckle to myself, realizing that I’m rambling. That I’m actually nervous. It’s a weird feeling for me. “That was a lot of questions and you’re not going to answer any of them, are you? That’s okay. I was going to talk, not—”
“Books,” she says softly, her voice low and raspy. Her British accent almost non-existent.
I raise my eyebrows in surprise. “You read a lot of books?”
She nods.
“Did they say ‘suck’ in any of your books?”
She nods again.
“Okay, cool. So you do know slang. Good. I use a lot of it. None of that English stuff. I don’t know what half of that means. I’m all American. Butchering the English language whenever I can. I even say ‘ain’t’ sometimes. I’m very edgy.”
No response. I swear, I can hear crickets outside. Or is that the rain again? It’s back, filling the hot, silent room with a hushed murmur that makes me wildly uncomfortable.
“You said ‘it’s cold’ when I came in,” I remind her. “Are you cold in here? Because it feels hot to me.”
She shakes her head. “Not here.”
“It’s not cold in here?”
“No.”
“Where is it cold then?”
“Nothing.”
“You mean ‘nowhere’?”
“The nothing,” she repeats firmly. Almost impatiently.
“It’s cold in the nothing,” I say slowly, totally confused. But then something clicks. Something about this feels really familiar. “In the void? Alex’s void that she Slips through. Is that what you mean?”
“The nothing.”
/>
I nod tolerantly. “Okay. Okay. In the nothing where Alex Slips. Is that where it’s cold?”
“Dark.”
“Yeah. Nothing is like that.”
She nods slowly as though we’re having a meaningful conversation.
Meanwhile, I have no idea what’s going on.
“When you go there with your brother, you get cold?”
“When I go.”
“Right. With your brother. It’s cold.”
She doesn’t answer. Not a word or a movement. The room is silent except for Liam’s breathing and the steady thrum of the rain falling harder and harder outside the window, pinging off the metal roof with growing enthusiasm. There’s not just more rain on the way. There’s a storm coming.
“Run, Nick!”
I jump up out of the chair, instantly on alert. Alex is screaming. She’s up here on the second floor. And she’s terrified.
“Look out,” I tell Naomi, heading for the door.
She doesn’t move. Her small body blocks me from opening the door, her eyes refusing to meet mine. I growl in frustration, taking hold of her arms to move her gently out of the way. Her skin is cold as ice under my sweating palms.
I throw the door open, ordering over my shoulder, “Stay here!”
I run down the hall, bolting past open doors, searching for the one that’s closed. The one where Alex is hiding. It’s not hard to find. She’s at the opposite end of the hall. As far away from Naomi as she could get.
It doesn’t sound like it did much good.
As I reach for the doorknob, lightning shoots across the sky. It flashes in the window on my left with blinding ferocity, lighting the hallway like a searchlight. Thunder follows it immediately. Booming and angry, rattling the windows. The door under my hand.
I push it open to find Alex sitting on the edge of the bed, her skin pale as a ghost and coated in sweat. She looks up at me in surprise, her face immediately crumbling.