A Wild Light (35 page)

The darkness swelled. I closed my eyes, focusing on the light inside me, the burning light. My light. Grant’s light.

You can’t have him,
I told the darkness.
You can’t have me.

We already do,
it said.

No,
I said, and another strange power rose from deep inside me, a tidal wave of resolve that was desperate and felt like love.

No,
I said again, and slid my soul beneath, and around, the darkness.
No. You can’t change us. You can do many things, but you’re not that strong.

I forced the darkness away from Grant. I tore it loose and shoved it down, deep into the well where it had always slept.

It stayed there. Grant made a choked, breathless sound, between a gasp and a sob.

And the veil closed, becoming stars and sky.

O
VER the years, I’d come to believe that my mother had known when she was going to die. Zee had never said a word about her murder—the boys didn’t talk about the deaths of those mothers who had come before—but I had a feeling.

We went fishing the day before her death. It was going to be my birthday, and if there was one thing we hadn’t done, ever, it was tie a line to a hook and dangle it in water.

East Texas summer. Humid as a wool blanket soaked in boiling water. Suffocating, even in the shade where we had spread a blanket over the coarse grass at river’s edge, listening to the wind in the leaves and watching the brown water glitter.

I didn’t catch any fish. Neither did my mother. Mostly we just sat, and drank lemonade, and were quiet in each other’s company.

“I wish we’d had more days like this,” said my mother.

I had never heard her sound wistful, but it was there, on her tongue, in the air, in the way she drank her lemonade, in how she so carefully did not look at me.

“Me, too,” I said.

My mother stared up at the leaves and the glittering sun. “Sometimes I made you hate me. Sometimes I frightened you.”

I drank my lemonade. My mother was wearing jeans and a tight sleeveless shirt. She had left her weapons at home, except for a pistol that lay on the blanket between us. Her arms glimmered with mercury and quicksilver, embedded amongst the black scales and twisting knots of muscle, the curve of claws and spikes that looked so real I had spent hours as a young child touching her arms, marveling that I did not cut myself when I ran a finger over her skin.

“Baby,” she said. “I’m proud of you.”

I think I blushed, or buried my face in that glass of lemonade. “I haven’t done anything.”

“You will.” She said it like she meant it, punctuated with a mysterious smile. My mother rarely smiled. Usually it was just a twitch of her mouth, a certain warmth in her eyes. When I was little, I’d told myself that watching her bake—on those rare days when we had a kitchen—was like seeing her smile.

“I’m proud of you,” she said again, looking me in the eyes. “You’re not much with a knife or gun, and you’ve never had hard fists. But that doesn’t matter. You’ve got it there.” My mother pointed at my chest. “You’ve got the good heart, baby. Never forget that. Not when the world falls down, not when the worst happens. The worst always happens. But you’ll be fine.”

My mother’s smile faded, but not the warmth, not the intensity. “You’ll show them, baby. You’ll show them what matters, and it won’t be power, and it won’t be how hard you crush, or how easy you kill. None of that lasts. None of that has meaning. Just this. Hold on to
this
, and you’ll never break. You’ll never lose yourself. Never. Not my baby.”

Her eyes were bright, but she pulled me into a hug before I could wonder if those were tears. Her arms were strong. The boys, warm, between us.

“I love you,” she whispered. “I believe in you.”

I believed in her, too. I believed in her more than myself.

The next day I watched her die.

After that, I stopped believing in much at all.

But everything always changes.

ACCORDING to the news—both local and national—several farms north of Seattle experienced mysterious and devastating thefts over the course of one night. Livestock disappeared—whole herds of cattle, horses, pigs—large animals that should have been difficult to transport, gone in hours. No one could explain it. No one had seen anything—no one that the police deemed reliable—though one elderly dairy farmer, leaning out his window to smoke a cigarette, had claimed to witness “damned flying men” making off with his Holsteins.

The UFO enthusiasts loved that.

Several days later, newscasters reported that each of those farms had received sizable donations from an anonymous source—more than enough money to cover all losses. Tragedy, turning into a triumph of the human spirit.

Or something like that. It sounded good. If nothing else, the farmers were happy—if on guard—and the police kept scratching their heads.

The stolen livestock were never recovered.

WE went to Texas that same night we closed the veil.

Stayed in Seattle just long enough to get Byron, who still slept, guarded by a werewolf with a pistol and a psychic in red cowboy boots who took one look at Grant and suffered a migraine.

We didn’t talk about why we couldn’t go back to the apartment. Felt too close, maybe, with too many memories of violence. Blood still on the floor. A body in the bathroom that needed to be interred before someone followed the smell and accused us of murder. Lots of reasons.

But mostly, we just wanted to run away and didn’t know where else to go.

It was an hour, maybe two, before dawn. I settled Byron on the old couch. He didn’t stir, not even a little. Concerned me, but there wasn’t anything I could do.

Grant sat in the kitchen, watching us. He was bleeding. His hands, his face, long cuts where his skin had split. His eyes scared me the most, though: bloodshot, crimson, through and through. He tried to smile for me when I sat down beside him, but a deep breath accompanied the attempt, and he began coughing. Blood flecked his lips, then his palm.

Raw disappeared into the shadows and came back with a first-aid kit, still wrapped in plastic. Little thief. I pulled my chair snug against Grant’s and tried to open the kit. It was hard to see. My eyes burned, and every muscle in my body felt like jelly. I fumbled the case, almost dropping it, and Grant placed his hand over mine.

“I’ll keep,” he said.

I shook my head, but the tears had started. He pulled me close, a tremor rolling through us both that started with me and ended with him, until our teeth chattered, and we clung to each other not just for reassurance but because we were cold.

“I almost lost myself,” he said. “I never thought it could happen, but that power felt so good. I could have done anything in that moment, Maxine. It showed me.”

Sounded too familiar. My fingers curled against his rain-soaked shirt. “Like getting rid of all the bad people in the world.”

“Changing them. Demons, too. No crime, no abuse. Peace on earth.”

“The one thing that could tempt you.”

“It said if I did that, I could keep you safe. That you wouldn’t die young.” His voice shook. “If it hadn’t let go of me when it did . . .”

I kissed him, both of us desperate, lost, clinging to each other with all our strength. I didn’t let myself think about what we had done, how close we’d come. To what, I didn’t know exactly, just that we had stood on the edge of something terrible, a transformation that would not have left us human. Not in our bodies, maybe not in our hearts.

I heard a groan behind us, in the living room. I tried to pull away from Grant, but Dek and Mal knotted themselves together, binding us, and their purrs were deafening. Grant kissed the tip of my nose, then my eyes. He wasn’t shivering anymore. Neither was I.

I heard movement, accompanied by another soft groan. Grant shut his eyes, shaking his head, and patted Mal. Both boys chirped at us and untangled their bodies so that we could shift apart. Not far. I couldn’t bear the idea of being far from him. My heart felt too raw.

Byron was sitting up, holding his head. Except, there was something in his posture—

“Jack,” Grant said.

I sighed. My grandfather squinted at us, like his eyes hurt. When he tried to stand, his knees buckled, and he fell back on the couch. I looked for Zee but didn’t see him—or Raw and Aaz, for that matter.

Grant’s cane was on the floor. I pushed it into his hands. Both of us still bled, but it had slowed to an ooze. We had to cling to each other when we stood. Legs wobbly. Progress slow, as we hobbled to the couch. Jack watched us, a faint smile touching his mouth.

“The both of you,” he began, and shook his head. “You fill me with such hope. And terror.”

I ignored that. “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” Jack said, but with a hollow tone in his voice that made me think he might be lying. He rubbed his hands together, white-knuckled. “You both look terrible.”

Grant and I studied each other.

“I still think you’re cute,” he said, rubbing my bald head.

“You look fresh from the fight,” I told him. “Very hot.”

Dek and Mal began singing Bonnie Tyler’s “Holding Out for a Hero.” Grant kissed my cheek and sighed.

Jack said, “Maxine. In the veil . . .”

He stopped, as if he couldn’t say the words. He looked at Grant with the same consternation. “And you. What you did, lad—”

“Impossible,” Grant interrupted quietly. “I know.”

“No, you don’t.” Jack twisted his hands even more. “What you did, the pattern of it . . . I’ve never seen anything like it. I couldn’t have helped you erect it even had I tried. It’s not something the Aetar would have designed. It’s not even close to what I attempted to teach you. In fact . . . I would say it’s . . . superior.”

Grant stilled. So did I. I felt the seed ring, in my pocket—heavy.

“Lad,” Jack said again, more urgently—but he was interrupted—and we were saved from answering—by the front door opening.

It was the Messenger. She had been sporting injuries earlier, but those were gone, her skin flawless and pale.

“You should come,” she said.

We followed her outside. It was still dark, but I felt the sunrise, close, like someone breathing in the night.

“Where’s the Mahati?” I asked her.

The Messenger pointed. I looked, and saw a tall figure standing beside the barn. He was missing his left arm, chunks of flesh from his thighs, but his spine was straight, his silver braids long, and the chains that dangled from his ears to his nose chimed with a soft music. He watched us, and I felt his rage quiver like a living thing.

“You know,” I said, “call me a hypocrite, but when I told you to bond to a Mahati, I didn’t really mean that you should keep him.”

Alive,
I didn’t add.

“He is strong,” said the Messenger, in a crisp voice. “Stronger than any mule. See how he still retains his mind even though I control his body? I can do much with him.”

She fixed me a hard look. “And I must, as it was made clear to me that humans are not to be bonded with.”

“It’s . . . still wrong,” I said, sounding lame. Grant tweaked my hip and shook his head.

“Does that mean you’re staying?” he asked her.

The Messenger touched her collar. “For now. There are things . . . I think I should learn.”

I looked to see if Jack had anything to add, but he was staring at something behind me. I turned, and saw the hill where my mother was buried. My eyesight was good, even in the dark. I sensed movement. Small bodies. Dirt flying.

I took a step, alarmed. Grant grabbed my arm. “No, it’s not what you think.”

“How do you know?”

“It’s in their auras,” he said.

“They’re burying me,” Jack said, in a heavy voice.

I didn’t know what to say. I touched his shoulder, took Grant’s hand—