The Paladin Prophecy (5 page)

Will’s phone dinged. It was a text from Dad: IN THE CAR. BAD RECEPTION. HOME BY SIX. TALK THEN.

Will glanced at the time and was shocked to see it was the middle of the afternoon. He’d been grinding this for hours. “Belinda” would be home from work soon, and he didn’t want to be in the same room with her again until Dad returned.

I need to see what Dad thinks. Then we’ll decide what to do about it together
.

Will made a PB and J and wolfed it down as he prowled the house. He looked at the meager possessions they’d dragged around to six cities in fourteen years. They owned a small TV but seldom watched anything but news. All they did with their free time was read. Shelves lined every wall in the house—scientific, medical, legal texts.

#82: WITHOUT A LIFE OF THE MIND, YOU’LL LIVE A MINDLESS LIFE.

His eye landed on a shelf of family photos. He picked up a picture of his parents on their wedding day, playfully feeding each other cake. Belinda wore a gathered velvet gown, her long black hair woven with lace. Dad sported a burgundy velvet tux and a doofus grad-school haircut and scruffy beard.

Happy, laughing, carefree. He’d always felt a special connection to this picture, because he could glimpse the start of his own life in this moment, as if his spirit were right there, hovering, unseen: the
spark
in his parents’ eyes.

He thought of the glimpse of “Belinda’s” eyes he’d gotten when her sunglasses had slipped down—empty, vacant—and compared it to the vibrant woman in this picture.
That’s
what was different. Her
soul
was missing.

What had they done to her? Would they try to do the same thing to him?

He heard a car door shut and peeked out the window.
Three
black sedans had stopped in front. Men in black caps and jackets were headed for the house. One of them, a bald man, was pointing and giving orders.

Will’s chest tightened, and the air in the room clamped down: RUN, WILL. He fled out the back door, hopped the fence, and headed north. With a startled flap of wings, the little blackbird lifted off the fence and settled in a nearby tree. Two hours and change until Dad got home.

Dad will know what to do
.

*  *  *

The bald man in the black cap jogged around the side of the house. Raising binoculars, he caught a glimpse of Will as he disappeared over a rise, sprinting toward the hills. He ordered the others to hold back and spoke into his wrist mic. “He’s on the fire road, headed north.”

“Is he Awake?”

“Hard to say,” said the bald man. “But we can’t take any chances. Bring me the Carver.”

PROWLER

Will reached the trail beyond the last house at the end of the street and followed it up a slope to a locked gate at the base of the fire road. Slipping through a gap between posts, he headed straight up the fire road. The sun dipped low in the west, painting the slopes above him in vibrant crystalline light.

Air pumped through Will’s lungs as he followed a series of severe switchbacks carved into the canyon. The road leveled off and ran flat along a ridge before grading up again. Deep thickets of chaparral and dried bramble lined both sides of the road. Sharp sunlight around him faded to dusk. He stopped to look behind him and noticed a strange circle of light farther down the hill, as if the sun’s last rays had shot through a huge magnifying glass. The light looked so intensely bright, he thought the brush might burst into flame.

The weirdest day of my life
, he thought.
Dr. Robbins shows up right after the black sedan, the Prowler, and just before the fake Belinda. But if there’s a connection—and according to Rule #27 there
has
to be—what is it?

The test. That had to be it. What if his score had raised a red flag that caught someone
else’s
eye? Someone whose interest in him wasn’t nearly as positive or benign as the Center’s?

What if that test had set in motion whatever happened to his mom?

Will heard an odd noise, faint and scratchy. Something was moving through the underbrush near where he’d noticed that peculiar circle of light, which had now faded. He heard branches cracking; it was a deer, most likely. These hills were full of whitetails. Then there was more rustling off to the other side of the road. Louder.

Will stopped. The crackling in the brush stopped as well. When he ran forward again, the sounds picked back up, paralleling his progress forward.

What kind of animal reacts that way?

Will stopped again, but this time the movement continued, on both sides, edging closer to the road. Mountain lions? Not likely. They were native to the area but almost no one ever saw them. And they always hunted alone.

He heard a low, guttural snarl.

Coyotes. Had to be. Will saw more movement in the thickets. Branches were shaking on both sides as the pack closed in.

The wind shifted and he caught a nauseating smell: burned rubber or hair, a heavy dose of rotting eggs. Was it coming off these animals? Will picked up a sturdy dead branch from the side of the path. Down the slope, he noticed a clearing where a mudslide had piled against the edge of the brush line.

As he watched, astonished, impressions appeared in the mud. They were blank and round, like bony knobs. And they appeared in a pattern: two, then one; two, then one, with big gaps in between. Like a tripod working its way toward him up the slope. An
invisible
tripod.

The snarling began again, all around him on both sides of the road. He heard a low gibbering embedded in the growls, dotted with glottal pulses and a guttering wheezy percussion. It sounded like some sort of
language—

Cold terror burst in the pit of his stomach.
There’s only one way down from here
, Will thought,
and if whatever these things are cut off the road …

Will spun around and sprinted down the hill. An instant later he heard them crash after him with a wild whooping yowl. As he neared the end of the ridge, a shadowy mass leaped over him from behind and landed directly in his path. Without breaking stride, Will swung the branch with both hands as hard as he could. The branch shattered as it smacked something he couldn’t see, and whatever he’d hit snarled in pain.

The impact threw Will off stride. He nearly fell, but pivoted, pushed off the ground, and kept his legs churning. Whatever invisible nightmare he’d just smashed with the branch wheeled after him. The air rippled. Something sharp sliced through Will’s sweatshirt and raked across his back. A fiery spike of pain spurred him to run even faster down the winding road.

It was getting hard to see. He could hear the things behind him, but he’d opened up some space. Desperate to extend his lead, Will headed into a sharp turn without slowing. As he planted his left foot to veer right, he hit a patch of mud and skidded. He lost his balance, turned as he fell, and—

Wham
. He landed on his left side, rolled, then stuck out his hands as brakes, skidding along the road. He stopped on the outside edge of the curve, just short of plunging over a twenty-foot drop into blackness.

Will dragged himself to his feet and limped on. He heard nauseating yawping sounds, the snorting and snuffling of something wet and fleshy; the things weren’t more than thirty yards behind him now and closing fast. With at least a quarter mile to the end of the fire road, he’d never make it before they caught him.

Farther down the road, a blinding light sliced through the night. A deafening throttle roared and a pair of white-hot headlights hurtled toward him, torque screaming. Was it the black sedan? He couldn’t tell.

Will threw himself to the side of the road as the car passed, the heat of a massive engine warping the air. He caught the acrid smell of burning rubber as it spun sideways and curled behind him. But it
wasn’t
the sedan. Eyes blinded by the headlights, Will could only make out the black outline of the Prowler he’d seen outside the diner and its hulking driver behind the wheel.

Flames erupted from the Prowler’s twin exhausts with a deafening
whoosh
. A wall of fire shot into the road behind it, and the creatures chasing Will ran straight into it. Their howls changed to revolting high-pitched squeals. Will saw writhing misshapen masses thrashing around, outlined in fire.

The car skidded beside Will. “Get in,” growled the driver. It was the same voice he’d heard—but in his
head—
outside the diner that morning.

Will threw himself onto the backseat as the driver gunned the Prowler down the road. Will looked back and saw the burning creatures flail off the edge of the cliff, pinwheeling fiery spirals falling away into a void.

The car roared through the open gate at the base of the road and reached the flats in moments. Will crouched down as they weaved through sharp turns at what seemed like impossible speeds. With the driver hunched over the wheel, in the light of passing streetlamps, Will noticed a large round patch on the back of the man’s leather jacket. Inside it were three images and words he couldn’t make out.

Then, in a strip of darkness, the Prowler skidded to a stop.

“Out,” said the driver.

Will leaped out of the car and backed away. The driver remained in shadow, motionless, staring at him from behind black aviator shades. The man’s taut presence and unsettling stillness held a promise of violence.

“What were those things?” asked Will.

“You don’t want to know,” the driver said.

“But—”

“Stow it. You may think you’re dux, mate, but unless you want to kark it early days, next time don’t be such a nong.”

Will couldn’t place the driver’s accent, which was harsh as a blade. “I’m sorry,” Will said. “I have no idea what you just said.”

The driver leaned forward into the light and lowered his shades. He had fierce black brows above a raptor’s piercing eyes. And scars.
Lots
of scars.

He held up his right index finger. “That’s
one
,” said the man. Then he stomped on the gas. The Prowler sped off around a corner, the sound of its engine fading quickly into the night.

Will looked around. He was standing fifty feet from the back door of his house. Music drifted through an open window, a woman’s voice backed by a big band with old-fashioned orchestration:

“If you go out in the woods tonight

You’re in for a big surprise …

If you go out in the woods tonight

You’d better go in disguise …”

DAD’S HOME

Will peered around the side of his house: The black cars were gone.

He hurried to the back door and entered silently. Someone was in their kitchen. He caught a whiff of his mom’s perfume and cookies baking. Will edged down the hallway and peeked into the kitchen.

“Belinda” was pacing back and forth, holding a cell phone to her ear. As he watched, she raised a hand to the back of her neck and flinched, as if in pain.

Then she spoke into the phone in a monotone voice he hardly recognized: “He’s not back … I don’t know where he went … yes, I’ll let you know if he …”

Will backed away down the hall. He landed on a creaky floorboard, then bumped into the wall trying to avoid it.

“Will-bear?” she called. “Is that you? Are you home?”

Damn
.

“Hi,” he said, reopening the back door as if he’d just come inside.

“Come in the kitchen! I made cookies!”

“One sec. I’ve got mud on my shoes.” He wanted to run again, but Dad would be home soon. But he couldn’t face her yet, either, and with that loopy song blaring away, he couldn’t think straight. Will closed the door loudly and followed the music to the living room.

The antique turntable sat next to Dad’s precious vinyl collection: LPs and stacks of old 45s, still in their paper sleeves. The soundtrack of his parents’ lives. Will knew this music better than his own generation’s.

#78: THERE’S A REASON THE CLASSICS ARE CLASSICS: THEY’RE
CLASSIC
.

“At six o’clock their mommies and daddies

Will take them home to bed

Because they’re tired little teddy bears—”

Will jerked the needle off the record. A scratch popped in the speakers. “Belinda” came in behind him.

“You always
loved
that song,” she said.

“I haven’t heard it for a hundred years,” he said. “It’s kind of creepy.”

“You played it all the time when you were little—”

“I’m not really in the mood right now.”

“But you
loved
it—”

“Yes, I did,” said Will. “And when I played it over and over again, it used to drive
you
crazy.”

Her smile never wavered. She didn’t even blink. She held out a plate of cookies and a glass of milk. “Oatmeal raisin,” she said.

Will stared at the milk. Were his eyes playing tricks on him, or did it have a faint greenish glow?

She kept the plate in front of him. He finally took the milk and a cookie, hoping she wouldn’t wait for him to eat it. “Where’d you go?” she asked.

“For a run.”

“It looks like you fell. Did you hurt yourself?”

“I’m fine.”

“Come help with dinner.”

He followed her to the kitchen, trying not to limp. He broke off half the cookie, dumped it into the umbrella stand in the hall with half the milk, then pretended to chew as he walked in after her. She stood over the stove tending pots, one of them pouring steam into the air. Dr. Robbins’s packet sat on the table where he’d left it, next to his laptop.

“How’s the cookie?” she asked.

He held up the remaining half. “Good.”