Bright Star (23 page)

Then, somehow, Jackson heard a voice, or rather an Energy—a pure Energy—that sounded inside him like a sad, feminine voice. “You have to let me go, my wonderful, beautiful, shining star. You should have let me go then, but it’s not too late.” A sob, then a stuttering sigh. “You can let me go the very next time, the very next.”

“What if she won’t let you go?”

“The very next time, my world.”

Jackson didn’t know if he should go in or not. This was all too much. And suddenly, he felt like his head was going to explode. It seemed to be splitting with Perma-Shift and he hadn’t even expended any High Energy. He didn’t know what the fuck to do.

He stormed into the room, and as soon as he was inside, the pain dissipated; almost as if it had never been.

Rush was seated on his bed facing the window. Jackson could only see his back. He slumped over and cradled his head in his hands. Jackson took a quick scan of his surroundings, both with his eyes and with his Energy. He could feel the subtle but aching buzz of abused Energy. There was no one else in the room. There wasn’t even any other Energy in the room. Not a trace. “Hey,” he called hesitantly.

“Hey.” Rush returned. He didn’t sound guilty to Jackson. He didn’t even turn around to face him. He sounded tired, though, as he continued to stare out of the window.

“Were you just talking to someone?”

Rush looked at him then and shook his head slowly.

“Can I talk to you?” Jackson asked, taking a step into the threshold.

Rush turned and Jackson could see his strained expression in profile: tense lines around his mouth, smudges like those he used to wear all the time. “Jackson, I can’t right now. I’m sorry, man, I just can’t.”

Jackson didn’t argue. He just walked out of the room with a shake of his head. There were so many things wrong in his world right then, so many things he didn’t understand. He couldn’t handle anymore.

After Jackson was long gone, Rush looked at the girl who had moved to stand in front of the window. Her shoulders were rounded in a sad slump and her hands were clasped in front of her. Rush didn’t want to be in love with her, knew that the world would be a better place if he wasn’t.

“You have to let me go,” she urged him sadly. Then she faded into the sunlight and the room went dark.

First, Second and Third Degree Burn

This time was for Jackson. She dressed in a diaphanous gown. The sheer white layers fluttered and settled on her like netting over a trapped tarpon. She chose the gown for its color—Rush liked her in white—but also for the ease at which the material would burn. The dress clung to her soft and primitive curves. It, like her skin, had been rubbed down by elderly women and blinded men with a thick, sandalwood-scented oil. The oil’s aroma would blossom on her skin when heated by the flames. The oil itself would cause her to burn faster. The Followers had bound her hands and feet with dried vines, then attached her to a wooden pyre in the center of the ancient ballroom. They’d restrained her so the natural human instinct of self-preservation would not prevail. It had never had any chance of prevailing. Bright Star would never try to save herself.

She waited patiently for Point to return. She’d gone to get Monk who had been absent from the congregation much of the morning. He would have to do the honors. Bright Star didn’t care to explore why. She just accepted that this was the role. He was progress and somehow at the same time record.

Point entered the room. She wore neat gray slacks and a cream blouse. Her hair was up in a bun and she wore short heels. She looked like the professional that she was. She looked like the leader that she was. She was carrying a lit torch and a clipboard. Behind her, following slowly, was Monk.

He wore a white t-shirt, white pants, and a yellow armband. He was tall and had the aggressive gait of a military man. He came and stood before Bright Star. With a minor Shift, she reached out to him with her mind and touched his cheek.

His disengaged glare turned soft. He believed.

“Take this.” Point handed him the torch. “And please, say the Energy.”

This had become his role. Before that last time, he had been compelled to say something to them all. He’d retold the story of Bright Star’s first rescue. He talked about her vision. He talked about her sacrifice. Then he touched the lit torch to the flowing fabric near her feet and with a whoosh she was consumed in flames.

Forty seconds passed. In the first ten her skin bubbled, her hair shriveled, and her ears began to melt away from her skull. At twenty seconds, she opened her mouth to scream but inhaled smoke instead. At thirty seconds, her blue eyes were turning black, as was her charred and flaking skin. Amazingly enough, she only started to die at thirty-five seconds.

That’s when Rush appeared.

When he entered the room, many of the Followers sat down. They knew he hated the kneeling, but some couldn’t bring themselves to stand in his presence. Some were physically incapable.

He walked in and his jaw dropped when he witnessed the burning pyre in the center of the ballroom. He’d known the time was near for her to make another attempt. The world could feel her High Energy gearing up over the past several weeks. He had even known that this time, this time there would be fire. Still, he couldn’t have been prepared for the acrid smell of burning flesh. The disfigured but living soul melting in a ball of orange and blue flame in the center of the room even dipped its head in deference to him and he felt his mouth pool with bile. He was going to be sick.

“Save her,” Monk prodded.

“Don’t you dare speak to him!” Point whispered harshly. She was shocked at Monk’s audacity. “It is his choice to save or not. He must make it, or all that we work for is lost.”

Monk ignored her. He had to, as they all felt the life slipping from them. The sudden wash of grief that came over him was overwhelming. Something hard pressed into his back, he couldn’t breathe. Bright Star was sharing her pain. And her pain wasn’t the fire or the flames, or physical in any way. Her pain came from the knowledge that Rush was truly considering not saving her.

The Shift did not take forty seconds. The fire was out. The pyre was gone. Again, there were no amazing flashing lights or booming claps of thunder. Bright Star’s flames did not reverse until they subsided, nor did her wounds. No, the state of the universe merely changed from one to another, a world where Bright Star had not burned. But she had. There remained the acrid smell of smoke and her fiery auburn locks were still seared to the quick in patches on her smooth and melting skull.

Rush turned to leave.

“You saved me,” he heard from behind him. Then there was an awed and subdued cheering. The Followers were embracing Bright Star and hailing Rush.

*

“Wake up.”

Jackson rolled to a sitting position in his bed. He squinted against the near blinding sunbeams streaming through the window.

“What did she do?” he asked groggily. His voice was raspy.

“She had those fucking Followers of hers set her on fire in the ballroom!” Rush answered. “A ballroom we didn’t have two weeks ago. Do you understand?”

“What?” Jackson asked attempting desperately to shake the cobwebs from his brain. Then, the words registered. His eyes snapped wide. “What?”

“You were there, Jackson!” Rush answered slowly through his teeth. “You saw her soak herself in oil and have Monk light her up with a burning torch. She was only one and a half minutes from death at my estimation and not the kind you come back from. She couldn’t even call to me. She had Monk do it instead.”

That woke Jackson. Truly, truly she could have died. What if Monk had not been strong enough to call to Rush?

“I would have known anyway,” Rush responded to the unasked question.

Jackson scowled at him, irritated at the mind intrusion. Then he swung his legs off of the bed and stood, heading toward the bathroom. “What are you going to do?” he questioned his brother.

“Do?” Rush shrugged coming to lean against the door frame. “I’m not going to do anything. In fact, I think I’m going to go away for awhile.” He brought up a hand to massage the back of his neck.

“Go away?” Jackson asked, hoping he didn’t sound like an overly dependent little brother as he splashed water on his face.

“Yes. I haven’t decided where, but I think that I may be able to relax some if I leave for awhile.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Jackson argued as he toweled himself off.

“Maybe she won’t do it if I’m not here,” Rush offered finally and Jackson met his gaze in the bathroom mirror. He said nothing.

Rush gave a derisive grin, then turned to leave. He knew hope was futile. He knew she would always,
always
, be able to find him. The pain in his back started again.

“You should go see Dr. Sandoval.” Jackson watched his brother wince.

“I thought we’d established that Randall was useless,” Rush answered dryly. He wasn’t going to see anybody. The problem in his back was purely and simply stress-related, and it was never ever going to go away. It would only get worse until, well… the pain wouldn’t matter anymore then.

“Where is she?” Jackson asked.

“In the kitchen,” was Rush’s response. “She’s waiting for you. Even if she seems as if she is not. She is.”

“Not Bright Star.”

Rush looked at him sharply. “Who?” his voice was gruff.

“Never mind,” Jackson answered softly and left the room.

*

When Jackson entered the kitchen, it was to see Bright Star curled into a window seat eating a bowl of fruit. She gazed outside wistfully. Badly bruised all over her body, she smelled like burning tar. Her lips were cracked and raw. She had very little hair and her scalp looked at if it were still melting. It was shiny and smooth like plastic. Still, her face remained the same. Beautiful.

“Why do you allow it to remain that way?”

“What?” she asked turning to him. “My hair?”

Jackson nodded.

“I can’t change it,” she answered without pain. She obviously considered the loss of her hair insignificant. And—Jackson was convinced—she chose not to dwell on her inability to reverse what was a minor consequence of the fire.

Jackson reached out to her abused skull. Where his hand smoothed over the brittle stubble, bright, burnished copper locks fell straight and familiarly. As he touched her with his hand and his smile, her crowning glory was returned. She reached up. Her hand mingled with his as she touched the soft strands. He rubbed a thumb over her lips. Her rosy lips made a soft O. Still, she was silent.

“Don’t forget: I am still the Precocial.” He stood back from her. If he had remained close to her, still smelling the musky scent of burned wood and oil on her skin…

Bright Star smiled warmly. The sight stirred that longing inside of him until he realized she looked beyond him. He turned.

Rush entered the kitchen wearing only pajama bottoms. While his body had grown thicker in the past few months, he grew only muscle. The ropy cords of ligaments, the smooth egg of muscle on his biceps and another connecting his shoulders to his neck, frowning angrily on his shoulder blades. His waist was narrow, his stomach hard and ridged. Even his feet were broad and sinewy. His physique was enhanced by the velvety, glowing brown skin covering him. He looked like the heathen Jackson’s father had always called him. Rush had always been powerful, now he allowed his physical presence to show it. No need to hide anymore. Everything about him gleamed with health. Jackson didn’t know what to make of it. He considered asking his brother why he’d hidden himself for so long, but he wouldn’t dare. He was just as afraid of the answer as he was of posing the question.