by Dia Reeves
She was right.
The flying man alighted before Frankie and Petra. He had dirty-blond hair and huge crystalline wings like a fairy. Like Frankie, he was stocky and had a certain pugnacious quality, the kind of guy who’d smash his own wings with a crowbar just to destroy something beautiful.
“I’ve been searching for you for two weeks.” His deep voice shivered my bones, and he didn’t speak English like it was his first language.
“I’m sorry,” said Frankie, still rocking Petra on his lap. “I didn’t dare face you until I was sure it took.”
“Were you successful?”
“Yes.” I could tell he was grateful as all hell to be able to answer affirmatively.
The flying man looked surprised and then pleased. “Well. Perhaps I will be successful as well.” He turned his wild, sky-colored eyes on Rosalee, zeroing in on her like a bull spotting a red flag. He stomped over—I’m sure I felt the ground shake with every step—and towered over us like a Philistine, burying us in his shadow. He grabbed Rosalee.
“No!” I tried to grab her back, but he knocked me aside with a careless swipe of his huge hand and left my head ringing. He lifted Rosalee as though she were weightless, both hands easily spanning her waist.
“Dad,” said Frankie, faintly derisive, “I don’t think you’re human enough. Remember the last woman?”
“But we’re here now,” argued the flying man. “Amongst an entirely new species.” He grinned at Rosalee with angel-white teeth. “I think I should like to see how human I am.”
“Well, I shouldn’t.” Rosalee removed a knife from the garter beneath her Carol Brady dress and sliced through the arm holding her. The flying man dropped her, his now useless arm dangling at his side, tendons severed and gushing blood onto the stone.
Rosalee skipped back to me and helped me sit up. “I ain’t into bestiality,” she told the wounded flying man as casually as if he’d asked for her phone number in a bar. “Sorry.”
The flying man roared in pain and fury, but before he could do anything, the appearance of squealing emerald trucks on the square above us distracted him. Scores of Mortmaine, several of whom literally appeared out of nowhere, converged on the amphitheater. Green all over the square; green for safety.
The flying man didn’t know what hit him. Mortmaine rushed down into the amphitheater and swarmed over him like ants, hacking and slashing and eerily silent as the flying man was forced backward into the red pool beneath their full-on attack. Once he was dead and torn asunder, the fountain went clear again, except now it was cloudy with real blood.
As he watched his father fall, Frankie released Petra and shot to his feet. He flexed his shoulders and, with a great tearing sound, unfurled his own wings, ripping his nice Sunday jacket all to hell. His wings were easier to see than his father’s—a translucent bluish green—and with one mighty flap, Frankie was airborne.
Only he had a passenger.
Petra had caught him by the foot as he left the ground, and she held on like a kite string, her pink skirt billowing prettily, her negligible weight dragging him down just enough for the Mortmaine to catch her legs and use her to reel Frankie in.
“Wait,” Frankie screamed, throwing a desperate glance at the Mortmaine closing in on him, and at Petra, who was once again lying curled up on the ground, Frankie’s church shoe clenched in her hand. “I’m the only one who can care for her. She’ll die without me.”
“She’s already dead, breeder,” one of them said before they engulfed Frankie like a strangle of kudzu, ripping off his wings, and when the Mortmaine climbed out of the amphitheater, they each held a bloody piece of him.
They built a huge bonfire up on the square and tossed both Frankie and his father onto it. The smell of their roasting flesh was weirdly delicious.
A Mortmaine stepped down toward Petra, an older man as skinny as she was, but not fashionably so. He’d simply stripped away his nonessential parts until he’d made a weapon of himself. “Initiates!” he called in a ringing voice.
A small group of younger Mortmaine came down the tiers, all wearing green shirts. Wyatt, my Wyatt, was among them, bloodstained and as radiant as I’d ever seen him.
“Gather round,” said the older Mortmaine. “So you can see what happens when a breeder impregnates someone. Katie! Cut off the girl’s head.”
One of the initiates, a short, pigtailed girl carrying an ax almost as tall as she was, hopped down to Petra’s tier, raised the ax, and—
“Stop!”
Wyatt pushed Katie back, almost into the fountain, and dropped to his knees beside Petra.
She dropped Frankie’s shoe, and her tiny hand gripped the front of Wyatt’s shirt. “Did that man say … impregnated?” she asked in a small voice.
“What’s the holdup?” demanded the older Mortmaine.
The bright radiance had drained so quickly from Wyatt, I was surprised not to see a puddle of light beneath him. “Elder … I know this girl.”
“Knew her,” said Elder, grabbing Wyatt by the scruff of his shirt and hauling him to his feet. “Katie?”
The pigtailed girl shot Wyatt a vindicated look as two of her fellow initiates came to her side to unfold an unresisting Petra and hold her flat on the ground. Again Katie raised the ax.
“Wait!” Wyatt cried, struggling against Elder’s tight grip.
But Katie didn’t wait. She swung the ax. The blade sliced cleanly through Petra’s pale neck; the sound of metal hitting stone was fearsomely loud.
When Wyatt screamed, Elder shook him like a terrier with a chew toy until he stopped. “Katie! Lift the ax.”
She did. And everyone gaped. Not only was there no blood on the blade, Petra’s head was still attached to her neck. To prove it beyond a doubt, Elder tossed Wyatt aside, marched to Petra, and pulled her head by the hair. Petra whimpered in pain, but somehow she still had a head to whimper with.
When Elder released her, her whimpers changed to laughter. Hysterical laughter.
Once again, Wyatt dropped to his knees beside her, pushing aside the initiates who’d been holding her down—once they let her go, she immediately curled into a ball again. “I’ll be a hit at parties, Wyatt,” Petra said, giggling unpleasantly as she held her stomach. “Me and my uncutoffable head.”
Wyatt looked up at Elder, pale with horror and shock. “There’s gotta be something we can do for her.”
“We are gone do something for her,” Elder told him. He turned to address the other initiates. “We’re gone put her out of her misery. As you saw, when Katie lifted the ax from the girl’s neck, the mortal damage she’d inflicted was healed instantly. The breeder spawn in her belly have advanced enough to have taken complete control of her body; enough to do whatever it takes to keep her alive until they no longer need her. You do notice the way she’s curled in pain, don’t you? That’s because her children are eating her from the inside out. When she’s used up, about four mini versions of the breeders we just eliminated will come bursting out of her. Literally.”
“But—”
“No, Wyatt. Either we kill her now, or her children will kill her later.”
“We should definitely kill her now,” said Katie matter-of-factly.
“Fuck you, Katie!” Wyatt screamed. “She’s my friend!”
“A Mortmaine’s only friend is his duty,” said Elder. “Now cut open her stomach and remove the spawn.”
“Gladly.” Katie stepped forward.
“Not you,” said Elder. He removed a knife from his belt and held it out to Wyatt. “Since Wyatt cares so much about her, he’ll ensure that it’s done painlessly. Take the knife, Wyatt.”
Wyatt just looked at him disbelievingly, stroking the damp yellow hair at Petra’s temple.
Elder’s face darkened. “Take it!”
But Wyatt wouldn’t.
“Do it, Wyatt,” said Petra.
“No.” Wyatt was looking at her like even her tiniest pore was worthy of intense scrutiny. “I can figure som
ething out. I can make something, a card.” The desperation in his voice was painful to hear. “I just need time to—”
Petra reached up and smacked Wyatt across the face. It made a sound like a thunderclap. “Stop it, Wyatt.” Her voice was strained but strong. “The one time I need you to be brave and you’re wigging out on me. Take the knife.”
He took it. It trembled in his hand.
“You heard him. I’m dead no matter what.” Petra was almost beatific in her agony. “I always figured I’d come to a bad end. Because of what I let happen to Mikey. I don’t even care. Just …” Her hand tightened on Wyatt’s shirt. “Can you tell everybody I went down fighting? You saw me, didn’t you? Saw me grab his foot?”
“I saw you,” Wyatt said. Pride threaded his words, puffed them with momentous weight. “You were badass.”
Joy superseded the pain in her waif’s eyes. “Really?”
Wyatt chose that moment to knock Petra unconscious with the hilt of Elder’s knife. And then he quickly sliced through her pink dress … and her stomach.
Like that, Petra became unreal. No longer a person, but a thing full of stuff that needed removing.
Due to Petra’s ability to heal quickly, Wyatt had to work swiftly and ungently to find what he was after, reopening her stomach several times before hitting pay dirt.
What Elder had called spawn, grotesque things the size of Ken dolls, had fused to several of Petra’s organs and spine so that when Wyatt pulled them free, howling and irate like bratty toys, most of Petra’s innards came with them.
Wyatt smashed each of the spawn beneath his boot, grinding them into the gray stone. His face was dead as he worked. He could have been carved from wood.
Elder inspected his work and called the other initiates over. “You and you, put the girl’s body on ice; y’all can deliver the news to her people, find out how much fun that is. You and you, scoop up this spawn mush; y’all get to take it back to Nightshade and analyze it. Who knows, might be a cure for the common cold in all that goop. Or a pheromone that would make me irresistible to the opposite sex.” Elder was looking at Rosalee as he said that last bit.
“Hiya, Rosalee,” he said, climbing the tiers to greet her. “Been a long time.”
Rosalee smiled and waved. “Hey, Steve.”
Elder cleared his throat. “It’s David, actually.” When the initiates sniggered, he silenced them with a thunderous frown.
After Elder had called attention to our presence, Wyatt locked eyes with me, his wooden mask slipping to reveal the horror and shame underneath.
Elder clapped his hands. “Okay, everybody, back to your regularly scheduled programs!”
Wyatt turned away quickly, along with his fellow initiates, and fled the amphitheater.
The Mortmaine departed the square just as quickly as they’d arrived, leaving no trace of their massacre behind, other than the lingering scent of roasted flesh.
“How thrilling was that?” said Rosalee, clapping her hands together.
I opened my mouth to speak, having no idea what would come out, but Runyon spoke first.
“Very thrilling,” he answered. “God, I miss being Mortmaine. The ruthlessness of it—”
“Momma!”
“What’s wrong?” she asked, with her own voice. She turned to me, surprised.
“Don’t let him out like that.” After filling my eyes with so much ugliness, I relished the act of burying my face in my hands.
Rosalee squeezed my shoulder, concerned. “What is it?”
“Ruthless is right. Don’t you see?” God, how could she not see? “If the Mortmaine find out about you, about Runyon, they’ll kill you, too.”
Chapter Twenty-eight
Petra’s funeral was held the following Wednesday afternoon in the graveyard behind St. Michael’s, in the shadow of the dark park. I felt guilty being glad that going to the funeral meant I wouldn’t have to go to therapy yet again, but there it was.
Wyatt, in a black suit with a green waistcoat, stood apart behind the sea of mourners. He wasn’t crying, but the pain in his face had its own liquidity. For him this was real, not a respectful way to avoid therapy. Petra had been his friend. A clingy, whiny friend, but still.
After they lowered Petra into the ground, I looked back at Wyatt, and he looked at me. I watched the horror of that day in Fountain Square twist across his face; I watched his shame.
He let me watch.
“Hey.” Rosalee followed my gaze to Wyatt. “Should we go to him?”
“No!”
Wyatt winced, as though the word were a blade and I’d flung it into his gut, but I couldn’t afford to care about his hurt feelings. The last thing I wanted was for Rosalee to go anywhere near the Mortmaine, even an initiate.
“Let’s go, then,” said Rosalee, pulling me along behind her. She was wearing one of her own dresses, not as tarty as some she owned, but even still, she looked less like a mourner and more like a merry widow. “I’m freezing out here.”
It had gotten cooler, a lot cooler, but the wind blowing down from the north was hardly arctic. When we got in our car, I asked, “You like to travel, don’t you?”
“Yep.”
“Then why don’t we travel? Like, to the other side of the planet. Just for a few years or so.”
Rosalee laughed and rummaged through her purse. “You need this more than I thought.”
“Need what?”
“Did you take your pills today?”
I unclasped my own purse. “No, actually—”
“Good!”
“But I have my emergen—” I blinked. “Good?”
“That way your meds won’t interfere with this.” Rosalee waved a small brown bottle with an eyedropper under my nose. “Tilt your head back. Open your eyes wide.”
I did, and something wet splashed into both my eyes. “What was that?”
“Tears of Happiness,” she said, wetting her own eyes. “Something to chase those oh-no-my-friend-just-died, the-Mortmaine-are-plotting-to-kill-my-mother blues away. I bought it off your friend Carmin a while back.”
“Don’t joke. If they find out—” I had to stop being shocked by anything she did. “You buy drugs from Carmin?”
“Lotta people do.” Her smiling eyes were dark and lustrous. “He’s a very talented boy. And stop worrying about the Mortmaine. I know what I’m doing.”
Instead of driving away, we sat with the heater on until the last car had pulled out of St. Michael’s. When we were alone, Rosalee grabbed a black trench coat and a wicker basket from the backseat and grinned mischievously. “Let’s go.”
I followed her as she threw on the coat and hurried across Avispa Lane, plunging into the looming dark park.
“What are we doing in here?”
“I need a spindle.” From the basket, Rosalee removed a flash lantern that was barely strong enough to beat back the darkness. “Don’t look so worried. Runyon knows this place like his ABCs.”
Rosalee spied about, while I clutched her coattail like a scared little kid. Everything the light touched seemed to cringe. I was wearing an aubergine-colored dress I’d made especially for the funeral, and I blended in so well with the surrounding darkness, I felt invisible. Ghostly.
“Mushrooms!” Rosalee dropped down and picked several from the base of a dead tree. In the light of the lantern, with her basket, she reminded me of Little Red Riding Hood gathering treats for Grandma.
Something about it struck me as funny, and I laughed until I was literally sick, vomiting into the undergrowth as tears of laughter poured down my face.
“Oh, dear.” Rosalee tsked. “Maybe I gave you too much Happiness.”
“I’m okay.” I wiped my mouth with the hanky from my bra, giggling. “What’re the mushrooms for?”
“Medicinal purposes. But we didn’t come into the dark park for mushrooms we could get anywhere. Check it out.” She pointed to a short tree, a midget among all the towering pines, a midget with its own brand of needles.
“The spindle tree,” said Rosalee. “They call it Satan’s Fountain Pen.”
“Why?”
She pulled on a pair of black gloves, snapped a red thorn the size and shape of a knitting needle from the tree, and used it to carve into a neighboring pine. The thorn scorched the bark from the tree as Rosalee wrote HANNA + ROSALEE = HOT. She stood back to admire her work. “Look at that perfect spelling. The Little Rascals’d be so disappointed.”
“Who?”
“Never mind, young’un.” She tossed the used, sizzle-less thorn aside and snapped off another, wrapping it in sacking I hoped was fireproof before placing it into the basket. “Let’s go.”
In the car I had another laughing fit, one so bad Rosalee had to pull over. But she was cracking me up. She kept cocking her head and listening to Runyon, arguing with him. Saying “no” and “make me,” like a little kid. A crazy little kid. Just like me.
When she noticed me laughing at her, I noticed that she had one blue eye and one black eye. Looking at her like that almost killed me. I seriously almost died laughing.
“Sorry,” I wheezed.
She had to blink really hard to chase that blue eye away, make it black again. “Don’t apologize,” she said, as she wiped my eyes and nose clean. “I think your mania is heightening the effect of the drug. I should’ve thought of that.”
“I don’t feel manic. It’s just … everything is so great. You’re great. I’m great. Portero is great. I used to feel like such a freak, but I’m not a freak here. I don’t even register on the freakometer.”
“Freakometer” threw me into another fit of giggles.
Rosalee held my face, an unfamiliar look of tenderness and warmth in her eyes. Protectiveness. It would have been sweet if everything hadn’t been so goddamn funny.
Her eyes flashed blue. “No!” she said, and made them go black again. She let go of me and punched the steering wheel. “I said no! I’ll find someone.”
If I could have stopped laughing, I would have asked her what the hell she was talking about. But the laughing continued almost unabated until we reached the lake.