by C. M. Fenn
“Lang, that’s not fair you cheat!” He shouts over his shoulder.
“Lang!” Sam barks.
Lang releases Crank from his telekinetic grip, and the three of them reach the door at the same time, each fighting to be the first in, creating a struggling tangle of arms and legs and grunts of effort.
Despite the embarrassing display, Sam chuckles quietly. It’s a comforting sound and one I don’t hear too often anymore. He slips his arm around my shoulders, and I press into him as we walk through the parking lot.
“This was a really smart idea.”
He nods. “We needed something, anything really, to boost morale. I’ve never seen things this bad before. I’ve never seen everyone so down.” His sigh is heavy. I can feel it pass through his chest.
“This will help a bit. Besides,” I say, “I can’t see this going on much longer. It’s been nearly four weeks since our last confrontation with the Elder Shade. He’s under a lot of pressure to get his mission accomplished. I don’t think he’s going to delay much more. He’s too afraid of the Circle and what they’ll do to him.”
“I know.” We stop outside the door. “But we aren’t ready for him.” The lines at the corners of his eyes deepen as he scrunches his face up in thought. I feel the concern he hides so well, tugging at him under the surface, threatening to pull him down.
“Well, there’s nothing we can do right now, so let’s forget about it.” I step back and take his hand, towing him toward the door. “Today’s a happy day. Let’s try to enjoy it.”
Caesar. Our newest addition to the family and mascot of L.A. base is a golden-brown bully mix named Caesar. After walking the kennels for half an hour, fighting over which dog was best, Caesar found us. He was coming back from a checkup with the shelter’s veterinarian and when he saw the five of us huddled together discussing our options, he pulled free of his leash and charged.
At first it was alarming to see a tough, muscle-strapped dog barreling toward us with his multi-fanged jaws agape, but as he got closer, what first looked like a ferocious snarl turned out to be a very toothy grin. When he reached us, he began to do the strangest thing I’ve ever seen a dog do.
He danced. Or more like wiggled. His feet lifted and shuffled, nails tapping the smooth concrete floor. His cheeks were pulled back in a decidedly human smile, tongue hanging out the side of his mouth, while his crooked tail whipped around violently behind him.
The arguing stopped as everyone fell head over heels in love with Caesar. I’ve never had much experience with dogs (Jana was allergic so we could never own one), but this seemed to be the happiest dog on Earth. When the lady whose leash he had slipped caught up to us, she laughed with us and said he was called “Caesar the people pleaser.” We had to have him.
We spend the rest of the day at a pet store buying him everything a dog could need, each of us determined to make him the most spoiled animal alive.
Once home, Sam has time for only a quick dinner before he has to start his night shift. After we eat and he changes into his uniform, I walk with him to the door while he straps on his sidearm.
“There was laughter in the house tonight, Sam.”
Sam’s grin is evidence he’s pleased with his efforts to boost morale.
“Yeah, it’s a nice change, isn’t it?”
“Most certainly. Maybe we should suggest London Base get their own mascot.”
Stepping outside into the warm night, the air feels dewy, and I’m struck by the scent of brine rolling off the ocean a few miles away. I close my eyes and smile into the breeze, thinking I’ll never get tired of that smell.
“What do you have planned for tonight in Chaos? More Chronicling?”
Because I’ve had so much spare time lately, I’ve taken to updating the Chronicles. There’s so much to record now with all the new information about the Circle of Elders and the Nether Realm. And who better to record it than the one who witnessed it straight from the enemy’s mind?
“Yep. I’m nearly finished. I’ll be in the library all night.” I feel a twinge of guilt in the pit of my stomach.
“Okay, well, have a good night, Addy. I’ll see you in the morning.” He leans down and kisses me soundly. I nearly lose myself in the moment, feeling like I could dissolve into him. He breaks the spell when he pulls away, but I’m consoled by the fact he seems as reluctant to part as I am.
I watch his truck pull through the gates and wave into the darkness, not sure if he sees me. Sam trusts me more than he trusts anyone else, and I lied straight to his face. I will NOT be spending my time in the library tonight. I feel horrible, as if I’ve betrayed him. As I walk to my room to get ready for Chaos, I push down my feelings of shame and mentally steel myself for the night ahead and for what has to be done.
I open my eyes to total darkness. There are no windows in Major Calm and when the lights are off, shadows swallow my room. I lie still and forcefully steady my breathing.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
Slowly.
I try to take advantage of the warm, comforting effect Major Calm has on me.
I’m nervous about tonight and even a little frightened, despite the determination I feel about my decision. When I’m satisfied that my heart isn’t going to beat out of my chest, I spread my awareness out in search of my comrades.
I can feel Lang-hao and Crank outside the Calm, their minds preoccupied with rooting out Lesser Shades. In the training wing Kira’s trying to teach Ember swordplay. Everyone else’s presence feels foggy, indicating they’re top-side.
If I’m going to do this, I need to do it now, so I get out of bed quickly before I can change my mind. I walk through the empty halls and the vacant common room. It’s a true test of the strength of my resolve as I press forward, each step heavier than the last.
Before long I reach my destination. I’m standing outside the heavy steel door to Inner Silence. I reach out, trying to feel anything on the other side of the door, but there’s only the emptiness I’ve come to associate with Mikhail.
I picture his face in my mind: his square jaw covered in stubble, his closely cropped dark hair. And his eyes. Those eyes that are the same color as this steel door in front of me. Those eyes that have shown vulnerability, warmth, and concern.
And anger.
And loathing.
I shiver involuntarily as the kind, shy Mikhail in my mind shifts to the violent, raging Mikhail from that night in my room. Which Mikhail waits for me behind this door? Is this the right thing to do—go in there for answers?
I search within myself for the hundredth time and again the answer is the same. Under the fear and doubt, my instincts tell me as strongly as ever I mustn’t abandon Mikhail. I don’t know why or how I know, but I’m certain Mikhail will play an integral part in helping us defeat the Elder Shade.
I know the others would never agree with me. I know they would try and stop me if they could. The suspicions they’ve always harbored for Mikhail have finally escalated into fear and disgust—perhaps even hatred for some of them. I know Sam’s basically written him off completely. Simone, who’s always reserved her strongest venom for Mikhail, now blames him for any and all of our current troubles.
It’s ironic that if it weren’t for Simone and her ability to sense weaknesses, I wouldn’t be standing here right now, willing to give him a second chance. She said my biggest weakness would be my failure to act on my instincts and that could be very dangerous. So here I am, acting on my instincts.
Refusing to delay any longer, I close my eyes, lift my arms with my palms facing out toward the door, and focus my mind.
Three wards. Three different unbindings that must be performed simultaneously. I think back to the night Angel, Mel, and I secured the portal and recall with exactness the stitches and seals we used to do so. Now I must reverse them.
I do my best to divide my attention into three separate trains of thought. It’s a bit like trying to pat your head, rub your stomach, and hop on o
ne foot all at once, but as the bindings begin to loosen, I’m surprised the task isn’t more difficult.
When the last protective threads are severed, I grip the large round hatch door handle and heave to the right. The sound of metal bolts slinking out of their sockets resonates through the empty hallway. Before hauling the door back, I remind myself to guard my heart and expect the worst. The damage he’s already done to me is great, and I must protect myself from further harm, emotionally and maybe even physically. At this point, I just don’t know.
Taking one last, deep breath, I open the prison door and slip inside.
Chapter 55
The small grey room is lit by a single fluorescent light running along the center of the ceiling. Even though nothing about the room has changed since the last time I saw it—the metal table and chair are still bolted to the floor and the steel bed juts out from the wall to the right—a visceral sense of gloom now hangs in the air. I shut the door behind me, careful not to turn my back on the still form lying on the bed.
Facing the wall and away from me, Mikhail lies unmoving. Broad shoulders taper down into a strong back and thick waist. I can barely perceive his chest gently rising and falling beneath a navy blue shirt. Unable to “read” Mikhail, there’s no way to know whether he’s really top-side or feigning sleep.
I move toward the chair and unthinkingly try to pull it across the room to his bedside then feel foolish when the bolts hold it firmly in place. I reluctantly kneel instead on the hard concrete next to the bed, feeling vulnerable on the floor.
“Mikhail?” I whisper so I don’t startle him. He doesn’t move.
“Mikhail,” I say, louder now. Nothing. Not even a twitch.
I reach up slowly, watching my hand tremble as I lightly touch my fingers to his shoulder.
“Do not touch me.”
So he is awake. His voice isn’t aggressive and he hasn’t tried to harm me yet, so I take this as a good sign and press on.
I draw my hand back and self-consciously clasp it to the other in my lap. “I need to speak with you.”
Silence again.
“It’s really important.”
“You should not be here. Please leave,” he says haltingly, his voice quiet but thick with fervor.
“Mikhail, …” I search for words, distraught that there’s no easy way to say what’s next. “Mikhail, Angel has died.”
The words hang there in the silence, heavy, like the executioner’s axe poised to drop. I’m waiting for a reaction—an outburst of some kind—anything, but the only change is a slight difference in his breathing. I’m beginning to wonder how long the silence will last when he finally speaks, so quietly I can barely hear him.
“How?” He breathes the word out like a sigh, but he still refuses to turn and face me, so I can’t see what emotions might be playing on his face or in his eyes.
“She was sick. All along. She hid it from everyone. She was tired and had to let go.”
His response comes quickly this time. “You could not heal her?” Though his tone is more curious than accusatory, the words still sting.
“I—I could have, but I didn’t. It isn’t what she wanted.”
More silence.
“Does the boss know that you are here?”
“Mikhail,” I urge, not wanting to be led down that road. “Angel wanted the other Walkers to understand why she had to let go.”
“You must leave. He will kill me if he finds you here.”
“Will you let me show you?” I reach up again, intending to rest a comforting hand on his arm. “It was her wish—”
“DO NOT TOUCH ME!” Mikhail shouts. Faster than should be possible, he sits up and whirls around to face me, legs swinging over the side of the bed. Instead of the anger I expect to see on his face, he wears only a mask of fear.
Startled, I jerk backwards, landing hard on my back and elbows. When he sees how he’s frightened me, his shoulders fall limp and he drops his face into his hands.
“Adelaide, how can you come here? How can you even look at me after what I did to you?”
“What you did,” I say, willing my voice not to quiver, “was wrong and terrible. But it’s not who you are.”
“You’re wrong.” He shakes his head back and forth, laughing darkly. “You’re wrong, Addy. It is exactly who I am. Why can’t you see this when all of the others can? I was always exactly who they thought I was.”
“I don’t accept that. It’s not true.”
Finally he lifts his head and looks me in the eyes, his features sagging. His lids are heavy and his eyes haunted.
“You don’t know. You don’t know ANYTHING about me. If you did, you would not be here. You would not say these things to me.”
“Then explain yourself,” I say sternly.
“What is the point?” He lays his head back against the wall behind him and closes his eyes. “Leave me alone.”
“The point is that after what you did, after how you betrayed me … ALL of us … don’t you think you OWE me an explanation!”
He doesn’t react. In fact, he’s so still and unresponsive he looks as though he’s carved in granite.
“Enough of this. You can’t do this anymore. You don’t get to shut down or run away, not after what you’ve done. Your behavior has done nothing but push everyone away. You have no one to blame for the suspicions the others have about you but yourself.”
The muscles in his jaw tighten. “This I know.”
“Then do something about it. Be accountable for your actions.”
“Do you want me to say ‘I’m sorry’?” He barely opens his eyes and stares at me from under weighted lids.
“I just want—”
“Because I am,” he interrupts. “Addy, there is nothing I could ever do or say that could make up for how badly I hurt you.” His chest heaves with emotion and I can see he’s struggling to contain his anguish.
I’m also fighting to keep control. A few tears escape and as they roll down my face, Mikhail lifts a hand as though to wipe them away. He stops, his hand suspended in the air, then pulls it back and balls it into a tight fist on his lap. He glares down at it, perhaps to avoid seeing me cry.
I wipe my wet face on my sleeve and scoot closer to the bed.
“Mikhail … brother, you’re my kin. I feel connected to you all the way down to my bones.” I lightly rest my hand over his clenched fist and am relieved when he doesn’t pull away from me. I nearly choke on my next words. “I forgive you.”
His body is shaking. Little splashes of water fall from his face and onto my hand.
“Please, drop your defenses for me. Let me in. Whatever you’re hiding, whatever you’re afraid of, you have to know it won’t change how I feel about you. You think I don’t know you, but I do. You have a good heart. You’re a good man. Whatever you don’t want me to know about you, I promise it isn’t as bad as you think. You’re family and nothing can change that.”
“I will show, then.” Dread laces his words. “And you will see.”
Finally! Triumph and relief wash over me. “Thank you.” Before he can change his mind, I lift my hands and place them over his temples. I close my eyes and eagerly send my consciousness out toward him and wait for him to lower the wall between us, praying he actually does.
After a brief pause and a heavy sigh, his iron-clad barrier begins to dissipate from around him. For the first time, I’m able to read his frequency. It stirs in me the unlikely mixture of comfort and a kind of stark gravity. Slowly I begin to move into his mind.
Once fully contained within, I’m swiftly inundated with powerful, almost overwhelming stimuli—sights, sounds, feelings, smells. It’s similar to the way the Elder Shade bombarded me with those awful images. They’re rapid and ceaseless, though this time there’s no malice behind it. These images are Mikhail’s memories. He’s telling me a story. His story.
Chapter 56
Fear hits me first.
Hide.
Run.
Don’t be discovered.
I see through Mikhail’s eyes as he lies on a dusty linoleum floor in a large dark and deserted building. Under his head is a balled up jacket and he shivers from the cold. Scattered around him are the remains of a makeshift camp—empty tin cans and a plastic half-gallon jug of water.
The image jumps now to a darkened alley. Mikhail’s pressed up against a dumpster, knees drawn in close, and I hear through his ears as a man and woman scream at each other from one of the apartments nearby. A rat, fur blackened and greasy, crawls across the toe of his shoe.
Again and again, similar scenes play out: Mikhail squatting in abandoned and condemned buildings, sometimes in the wilderness, other times right on the street. In each memory I feel his desperation. He avoids public places, crowds—anywhere someone might see his face and recognize him.
His memories shift dramatically. I get the sense we’re moving backwards, as though he’s showing me his story in reverse.
Now he lies—naked, wet, and cold—on a slick tiled floor, trying to shield his body from the kicks and blows of others standing around him. The shouts and jeers are in another language, Russian most likely. Hot water from running showers creates a steam that swirls and obscures the faces of his attackers. I wonder why he isn’t fighting back. Why does he feel so afraid and helpless? Why can’t he fade into the shadows and escape?
The next memory moves backwards still. A barred prison door slams shut, the echo reverberating around in his mind. Keys jingle and heavy footsteps sound off down a cement corridor as Mikhail sits on a metal bed, much like the one here in Inner Silence, only this is a real prison cell. It’s one of many down a long walkway of cells, each filled with a prisoner clad in faded blue jean coveralls.
I realize this must have been before he received the call to Chaos. This had to have been before he had his powers. He was unable to fight back or escape.
A quick flash of blinding light erases this scene and is replaced by Mikhail standing against a wall, holding a black sign in front of him with a name on it. Mikhail Novikov. Another flash and he’s standing in profile against the same wall holding the same sign. What? Mikhail’s last name is Kozlow. Isn’t it?