ARC: Crushed (4 page)

After a while, I notice that Jo’s not laughing with me. She’s not really watching the TV and the bowl of popcorn sits nearly untouched on her lap. She catches me looking. She forces a half-smile and makes an effort to watch the movie. But she has that strained look in her eye that always seems to sit there these days.

“What?” I ask her.

She shrugs like it’s nothing, but I don’t turn away.

“Do you ever…” Jo starts, then shakes her head. “Never mind, it’s stupid.”

“Do I ever what?”

She doesn’t answer, so I pause the movie and try to look encouraging. Not my best expression, but it seems to work.

“Do you ever wonder what it’s like to be…” She nods at the TV. “Like them?”

I try to keep it light. “Like trashy BFF’s fighting over the same guy? Nope – you know Chi’s not my type.” She glares. Of course I know what she really means: normal. Do I ever wonder what it’s like to be normal. She doesn’t say the word, like she doesn’t want to admit out loud that we’re not normal. That worries me more than the rest of the question.

“You know… kids whose biggest problem is the mean girls at school.” She’s points her face toward the TV where the pretty brunette is awkwardly frozen with her mouth open.

“Jo,” I tease, “we
are
the mean girls at school.”

She doesn’t smile. “Forget it.” She sets the popcorn on my desk with more force than necessary. She grabs a pillow and plumps it like it’s the enemy. “It’s stupid.”

It
is
stupid. We aren’t normal. Not even close. And no, I haven’t ever thought about it, not once. But it occurs to me – Jo could be. Had she been born somewhere else, to people who weren’t Templars – or even who just didn’t know they were Templars. She would fit into a normal family and a normal high school (though I’ve no doubt she’d still be a mean girl).

But I’m not that way. My different-ness is more than a matter of upbringing, it’s in my DNA. It’s not even just that I eat people; it’s that I want to. I revel in my strength, my speed, my superiority. I delight in things no normal person would – or should. I can barely wrap my mind around the idea of wanting to give that up.

It makes me sad. Not that I’ve never thought about it, but that Jo has.

She still isn’t looking at me, her stiff face is pointed deliberately toward the TV. In the glow of the television, she looks… fragile. No, that’s the wrong word, even now. Jo’s not fragile. Rather, she looks brittle – still strong, but like the wrong hit could send her splitting in two. I don’t know what to say, so I hide in humor. “Ohhh,” I say, as if I suddenly understand. “You mean if we didn’t have armies of demons hunting our every move.”

“I said forget it,” Jo mutters.

“Or maybe,” I nudge her with my elbow. “You want a BFF who’s only a man-stealing monster, instead of a man-eating one.”

She rolls her eyes and smothers the world’s smallest smile. “Yeah, that’s it.”

“Oh no, I know what you want.” I rise a little in my seat, as if making a pronouncement. “You want to live in a society where premarital sex is only barely frowned-upon.”

That earns me the expected smack in the face with the pillow. I may have needled her about it a few (million) times. “Jerk.”

I slide up onto the metal railing at the foot of my bed – out of range – before adding. “Ah, well, I won’t take that attack personally. I’ve heard sexual frustration can do that to a person.”

I grin, bracing myself for a shove. But I miscalculated. Instead of diving at me, she grabs my feet and flips me backwards. I land on my back in a big whoosh of breath.

Jo might not like being a monster-fighting hero, but she does have a knack for it.

She leans over the rail I just fell from and smirks at me.

I groan. “Ah, I get it now. I, for one, would definitely take a life where people aren’t constantly trying to kill me.”

The smirk disappears from Jo’s face so fast, it’s hard to remember it was ever there. She falls back onto the bed, and I pull myself back up to my feet. She slides back over to her spot and faces the TV again.

“Jo, I was kidding.”

She looks at me. Dead serious and a little pale. “Are you?”

Well no, not really. Monster though I am, I really don’t like people trying to kill me. Who would?

Jo doesn’t wait for me to answer and turns back to the TV. After a long moment, very softly she says, “I just wonder what it would be like to have the kind of life where everyone goes to work in the morning, then, at the end of the day, comes home.”

We spend a quiet second thinking of all the people who never came home. Her list is much longer than mine. Her face shrinks back to its tense misery.

I clear my throat. “Boring, I think.”

She looks at me sharply. “Do you really mean that?” She studies my face, looking for proof. “Really?”

“Yes,” I say. And I do. “I can barely make it through the movie. God, what if that was my life? The horror!” I make an exaggerated face. She doesn’t respond. “Boring.” I say again, firmly.

She turns back toward the movie, and lets out a little sound. In a normal person I would say it’s a sigh, but this is Jo. She’s too tough for that. The only sigh-like noises she makes are in frustration – usually at me.

“Yeah,” she finally agrees. “Boring.”

We sit through the rest of the movie in silence.

My eyes flick from the DVD back to Jo. She doesn’t look nearly as pissed off and actually smiles wryly. “I promised that in the next movie lots of people would die.”

I can’t help it, I laugh. “Because the boat sinks.” I roll my eyes. “Not exactly what I had in mind.”

“Yeah, well, for some reason, the admins weren’t comfortable with
Bloodspill VI.
” Jo says dryly and scoots up to a sitting position. “Seriously though, Meda. I need you to behave.” She holds up a hand to forestall my inevitable whinging. “I know it’s not easy, but it’ll get easier, I promise. They’re just testing you right now, to prove that you can be trusted. You just have to sit tight a little longer.”

I pick up the DVD case and fiddle with it, popping it open and clicking it closed as if considering it, but I already know I’m going to cave. Once again I’ll grin and bear it.

“If you had any idea all the things I wanted to do, and didn’t, you’d give me some credit.” I grumble. Alright, maybe more sulk and bear it. But still.

Jo, sensing her victory, pushes her advantage. “I need you to try harder. No fights, no sneaking out,
especially
not to murder anyone.”

She locks her eyes on me, but I’m not ready to give in quite yet. “I really don’t see what the big deal is.” I grumble. “We made it back fine. No one will ever know.”

And that, of course, is when the sirens begin to wail.

Chapter 6

Jo pales and our eyes meet.

“It’s not about us,” I say with false bravado.  “No one saw us.”

“What if we left some sign?” Her eyes frantically flick back and forth as she tries to think. “Or were caught on a camera?”

My mind flies back along our trail. I close my eyes so I can picture it, trying to remember if we went by any cameras.  I open them. “Jo, we didn’t–”

“Shhhhh–” she flaps her hand at me. The siren reaches the end of its wail, then the beeping begins. It’s a Morse-like code to let everyone know what type of situation we’re in.  We both hold our breath.

Long, long, long.

I let out a breath. It’s not a breach. If it were about us, it’d be long-short-short.  But then Jo grabs my arm, and I realize it’s not good either.  

Long-long-long means “in-coming”.  There’s a large group coming up the mountain – and we’ve got to get into position.

In the event of an attack, all the students are to consolidate in the partially completed school. At its center is basically a bunker, a heavily fortified building that contains the headquarters, the infirmary, and stairs into the escape routes below. This is the only part that is actually complete.  Surrounding that are the half-built cement walls that are going to be rings of maze-like hallways.  When the school is complete, if it’s ever attacked, the Crusaders will be able to retreat, ring by ring, into tighter, more defensible spaces.  It’s layered like an onion, and ugly enough to make the artist in me cry.

In the distance, I hear the pounding of feet as the other students race to the meeting point. I start off to join them, but Jo’s hand on my arm stops me.

“What?” I ask. She pointedly looks at my blood-stained clothes.

Oh. “Good catch.”  I whip off my pants and shirt, shoving them in the single trunk I was issued to serve as All Things Storage, and grab a pair of sweat pants and a white tank-top. I also toss a pair of pants to Jo, as there are probably kids in our hallway.  She’s taller and has more curves, so they’re cropped and slightly booty-licious, but better than being pantless.  Jo dodges into her room to strap on her favorite sword and knife.  Students weren’t originally allowed weapons before they graduated – but the slaughter in North Carolina changed all that. I’m the only exception, which is fine by me.  Demons physically can’t use weapons, and though I can, I find them distasteful.  And unnecessary.

We merge with the rest of the students as we reach the exit and spill into the field on the way to the new school. The headmaster hasn’t sounded the red alert, so we’re not in immediate danger. Still I, along with everyone else, watch the hills as we run toward the bunker. We’re silent but for the soft pant-pant of our breath as we strain our ears for trouble.

Chi, Jo’s boyfriend, paces outside the entrance to the maze, pushing his hair out of his face.  Tall, buff, and blond, he’s a good-natured guy who favors comfortable clothes and difficult women. He exhales when he sees us and smiles in spite of the tense situation. It takes more than the threat of an invading army to dim his sunshine.  Jo doesn’t smile back, but she relaxes a little.

“Ladies,” Chi says, overly formal as he falls in next to us.

“Mr Dupaynes,” I reply with a regal head-nod.  

Jo snorts. He nudges her with his elbow and she wrinkles her nose at him.

Chi sticks with us as we jog with the crowd through the maze of half walls. When we get close to the central building, though, he gives us a funny little salute and peels off.  As an upperclassman with all his limbs in working order, his position is in the second to last ring.  Jo has to prove herself in classes before she can be added to the roster as a combatant, and I’m not to be trusted.

Instead Jo and I continue into the main floor of the bunker, which, along with the second floor, make up the infirmary.  The polished white floors and walls seem to glow, despite the hordes of quasi-dirty children cluttering up the place. Instead of the giggles and whispers that interrupt the evacuation drills, the students are tense and silent but for the occasional whimper of a younger child. In their wide eyes and clenched hands I see the memory of the last time they had to flee from their school.  ”Jo, do you think – ” I turn to face her, but she’s no longer behind me. “Jo?” I twist, searching the crowd, then find her wild mess of hair on the other side of the room, moving with purpose. I put up my hand, to call her over.

Then I realize that purpose isn’t to find me.

Jo works her way to the edge of the room and, with a furtive look, slips out into a hallway.

No choice for it, really – I slide around the room and into the hallway after her.

I’m not familiar with this building, but Jo spends a lot of time in the infirmary. She walks briskly down narrow hallways and I creep after her, keeping on my toes and trying to match my gait to her uneven one, so the sound of her steps mask my own.

The
bam
of a slamming door ahead brings us both to a frozen halt. There’s no mistaking the sound of boots coming this way.  

It occurs to me, maybe too late, that if it does turn out to be a demon-attack, the half-demon caught skulking would not look good.

Jo spins and, spotting me not ten feet behind her, starts.  She glares, swear words forming silently on her lips as she limps quickly toward me.

Ah, yeah, it probably occurred to Jo as well.

She doesn’t stop when she reaches me, but grabs my arm and shoves me backwards. We go a half dozen feet, then she wrenches open the door to a storage closet and shoves me in, wedging herself in after me.

“Where are you going?” I barely breathe the words, and still they earn me an elbowed
hush
in the ribs.

When the coast is clear, she slides back into the hallway, me close on her heels. I try again. “Where are we–” I whisper, but she cuts me off with evil eyes and a mouthed “Shhh.”

This time we don’t run into anyone, and Jo pulls me into another stairwell.  

It’s dusty and doesn’t have a railing, and I try to imagine the layout in my head. If I’m right – and I’m nearly always right – this one actually goes nowhere. I shoot Jo a questioning look, which she ignores, and we continue up one more story. When we turn the corner to the last leg of stairs, Jo’s plan becomes clear in the shape of a small, mesh-enforced window.  The window is over our head, but there’s a handy crate filled with construction garbage shoved in the corner. Jo drags it under the window and we each balance on a skinny edge.

On the other side of the valley we see the dull shine of cars, about ten of them, as they come down the road, surrounded by a motorcycle escort. The shine disappears behind some trees as the road curves.  Below us, lined in front of the bunker is our army of Crusaders. About two-hundred adults stand at the ready and, behind them, a ring of motorcycles.  As we wait, the riders kick-start their engines, and they burst to life with an angry roar. I know more Crusaders are hidden out of sight, ready to ambush the visitors if it becomes necessary.

The cavalcade keeps coming, undaunted by our welcoming party. The cars are silver and expensive, BMWs I’d guess, with darkly tinted windows. The motorcycles aren’t the chrome-covered Harleys our people ride, but sleek little machines that keep the rider bent forward toward the handle bars.  As the cars approach, our motorcyclists arch around our army to circle alongside and behind the incoming vehicles.

When the cars are a mere ten feet from our army they roll to a stop.  There’s a quiet minute, when nothing moves. Jo’s forehead is wrinkled, but more in thought than terror.

“Jo–”

She shushes me with a hand, then points out the window. A door in the first car opens.  A man in a suit, the same grey as the car, steps out.  He says something, but we can’t hear. Jo scans the crowd below, but all eyes are on the drama unfolding, and she eases up the window.

The Sarge steps out of the crowd.  “Hello, Art.” She talks loudly enough for the assembled Crusaders, and, coincidentally, us, to hear. At the name, Jo draws in a breath.

“Who– ?” I ask.

“Arthur Graff. The Sergeant of the Northern Chapter,” comes the quick reply.

So, expensive cars and suits notwithstanding, they must be Crusaders. But why are they here?

I shift uneasily on the crate, and I look again to Jo for the answers. Again she ignores me, her focus out the window, where Graff is speaking.

“Thank you, Lizzie.” Dear God! Lizzie? The Sarge’s name is
Lizzie?
“I’m sorry to drop in on you unannounced, but I was in the area and thought we needed to get some…things settled.”  

What things? I flash a look at Jo, but she’s still fixated out the window.

Graff doesn’t say more, and I see that the Sarge has her hand up as if to stop him.  She walks toward our guest, but stops with five feet still separating them.  “On Tuesday morning, what did I tell you I would be having for lunch?” she asks him.

“Tuna on wheat. With relish,” Art answers, promptly.  

The Sarge smiles and strides forward to shake his hand. Apparently it was a test to make sure he wasn’t a demon in disguise.  Everyone assembled lets out a collective breath. The angry grumbling of the motorcycles dies as they’re cut and helmets come off their riders. Hands are shaken and backs slapped all around. Apparently we’re happy to see these guests of ours.

Or at least most of us are.  Jo’s mouth has compressed to a thin line and the eyes she turns to me are so filled with worry, it seeps out and contaminates her whole face. It even spreads to me.

“Who are they, Jo?”

“The Northern chapter,” she murmurs deep in thought. So deep in thought she’s forgotten to be pissed at me. I break out in a tiny sweat. “Our parent chapter,” she adds.

I comb my memory for what I know about them. There was some disagreement between the founder of Mountain Park and the Northerners, and so when the Mountain Park founder rescued the Beacon Map from the demons, he leveraged that into an opportunity to start his own chapter. Theirs is still the largest and most powerful, however, and they like to throw their weight around.

Which, judging from the look Jo’s wearing, does not bode well for this little monster.

After my true nature was revealed, a steady parade of representatives from the different Crusader branches showed up to debate what to do with me. I’m half-demon, which, combined with my Crusader abilities, means I’m physically more powerful than anyone on either side – demon or Crusader. Basically, I’m the single most powerful weapon on earth. Or at least, I could be, if I were trained to my full potential.

I try not to let it go to my head.

But because of all the lies I’ve told and the whole people-eating thing, my reputation isn’t exactly stellar. Many Crusaders think they can’t afford to risk training me in case I end up giving into my darker side (or already have and this is all just a clever ruse).On the other hand, with the way the Templars are losing to the demons, many Crusaders (and myself, naturally) wonder – can they really afford not to train me?

And then, just to keep things complicated, I’m also a Beacon, which means one day I will have the opportunity to do some great good, a good so great as to change the course of human history. But the
potential
to do good and choosing to actually do it, are two very different things. Apparently a lot Beacons turn out to be duds, rendering questionable the value of my Beaconness. After all, if human Beacons fail to choose good over evil, what hope does a half-monster stand?

It’s a lot for the Crusaders to work through.

Call me self-centered, but I’m a little worried this en masse arrival of the Northerners has something to do with me.

Jo’s thoughts must be running along the same route as mine; her fingers clamp onto my arm. “Meda, promise me you’ll be good.”

“I already promised.” I try to pull my arm away, but she only grips harder as she stares me down.

“Promise me, again.”

I eye her. “Jo, do you know something you’re not telling me?”

She releases me quickly – maybe a little too quickly?

“No, of course not,” she says easily.

Too easily?

“It’s just… the corps are not as–”

“Corps?”

“Corporates.” She jerks her head back from where we just came. “That’s what we call those up-tight suits.”

Heh, I like it.

“Anyway, they aren’t as… flexible as other branches. Meda, you
must
try to be good. Actually…” She shoots me a look. “it’s more than that. You need to try to blend in.”

“Jo, you’re not listening. I
am
trying.”

She jerks to a halt and turns to face me. “No, Meda, you’re not. Not really. When you hid with us the last time, when you thought we would kill you if we found out you were a half-demon, you did a much better job.”

I think back. Maybe she’s right, but there’s a fundamental difference – back then I was only trying to
seem
good, this time I’m actually trying to
be
good. The latter is much harder, and it smarts that she prefers the former.

Jo’s still talking. “So, Meda, I want you to try like you did last time. Try like your life depends on it.” Her hands are crushing mine.  “I believe you that you’re trying, but not that you’ve tried your hardest. That you’ve given everything you thought you had, and then some more.” She releases my hands. “That’s what I want to see from you.”  She looks at me, and the worry and weariness is all over her face.  “Please?” she adds.