A Wild Light Read online

  There was blood under his nails, but it all seemed to be his. Not that I had any way to know for certain. I picked up the knife, finally. The boys sucked the blood from the blade, leaving the metal gleaming in the lamplight.

  “Was he lying like this when you found him?” asked the man, voice low, rough, a little too calm.

  I hesitated. “He was on his side.”

  “No furniture has been knocked over. He doesn’t look like he fought.”

  “Or had time to fight.”

  “Maybe you found him dead. Your memories could have been . . . stolen . . . after that. It wouldn’t be the first time.”

  I stood, avoiding the man’s penetrating gaze. Wondering how much to say, when it seemed he already knew everything. I thought of the boys again, Raw and Aaz hugging the man’s legs, burying their faces in his knees—and forced myself to look at him. Really look.

  He had been wild-eyed when I first saw him, and that wildness was still there, but tempered now with a dull hurt that burned shadows into the angles of his face. Not a pretty man, but handsome. He looked capable. Nothing sly about him. Just . . . straightforward. Uncompromisingly so, if the relentlessness of his gaze was any indication.

  “You’re right,” I said. “My mother stole my memories once, when I was eight. I got them back, later. I know Zee is capable of the same thing. He did it to my grandmother.”

  “Yes,” replied the man, carefully. “You told me. You . . . traveled back in time to help her. Using that.” He gestured toward the armor on my hand. “He stole the memory of you from her, afterward.”

  I exhaled, slowly. “If I hadn’t seen the way the boys act around you—”

  “You don’t scare me,” he interrupted. “If the boys hadn’t remembered me—”

  “You’d be missing that hand. Or worse.” I walked toward the bedroom. My feet were sticky. I was tracking blood on the floor. I passed through the open doorway, switched on the light—stumbled, a little, at the sight of rumpled covers and clothes on the floor, mine, and a man’s—and then kept walking toward the bathroom. There was a first-aid kit under the sink. I didn’t question how I knew it was there. It just was, and I remembered that.

  I set the knife aside. Washed my hands, even though I didn’t need to. I saw a razor, a can of shaving cream; a black bra hanging from the door handle. I saw two sets of towels, and a man’s dirty socks on the floor outside the hamper; two toothbrushes leaning together inside an ugly-ass mug shaped like the Statue of Liberty’s head—you flew to New York City on a plane, your first, to help an old woman, an old man—and you bought that at the airport because, why, why, someone said you should, because it was a joke and you laughed, but you didn’t laugh alone, you weren’t alone, and every time you look at that thing you remember laughing, and you smile again—and I was smiling now, I realized, and scrubbed at my mouth with the back of my hand.

  I was in another world, I thought. Twilight Zone. Losing my mind, my bearings. Other dimensions existed. Maybe I had slipped into one. I could blame interdimensional travel on all my problems, starting with my first ancestor, and the creatures that had made her and come to earth millennia ago.

  My reflection offered no help. I looked like shit: black hair snarled, skin pasty, shadows under my eyes. I pulled back my hair and looked at the scar under my ear. Or tried to. It was hidden by one of the boys, a tattooed tail snaking out from beneath my hairline to hide a twist of lines engraved into my skin: a mark, lashed into me by a demon.

  A distinctive mark, one that had frightened Jack, and others. An ancestor had carried this scar: a gift from the same demon who had given it to me.

  Oturu. A being made of night, and knives, and nightmares. I dreamed of him, sometimes, but in those dreams I was always someone else—another woman—and there was blood, and death, and long hunts that seemed to span the distances between starlight.

  Oturu had marked me because he said I reminded him of my ancestor: the woman in my dreams. Not exactly a compliment. According to my grandfather, the nicest thing anyone could say about her was that she had almost destroyed the world.

  I clutched the first-aid kit to my chest and left the bathroom. The man leaned inside the bedroom door, waiting for me. Posture loose, at ease—except for those eyes. Like a wolf, I decided. Another kind of hunter.

  “Your hand,” I said.

  “Jack,” he replied.

  “He can wait. Like you said, he’s not dead.” I almost couldn’t say the words. I had to force them out until it sounded like I had a speech impediment. “Maybe he’s looking for another body.”

  “Hopefully one outside the womb. I’d rather not wait for him to grow up and find us before we get some explanations.”

  I grunted, and gestured for him to back out of the room. But he gave me a look and limped to the bed. Sat down on the edge of it. And waited.

  I wanted to kick his bad leg. The bed—and him sitting on it—reminded me of a bear trap. I had gotten caught in one of those in Alaska, during daylight hours. The teeth had broken off against my leg, but it had still been a bitch to open the jaws to free myself.

  Hadn’t smelled like sex, though.

  I didn’t sit beside him. I fumbled open the first-aid kit, laid it on the edge of the mattress, and found bandages, ointment. The man stared the entire time, which I hated. I didn’t even know why I was doing this except I felt like I should.

  “Give me your hand,” I muttered.

  “Take it,” he replied, still holding his fist against his stomach. The front of his shirt was bloody.

  “Don’t play games with me.”

  He shook his head, his gaze never leaving mine. “This isn’t a game.”

  “Touching you won’t make my memories come back.”

  The corner of his mouth tilted up in that bitter smile. “Take my hand, Maxine. Or walk out of here.”

  Or punch you, I thought.

  I grabbed his wrist. My tattooed fingers were slender and small compared to the rawboned muscle of his forearm, feminine, even, which wasn’t a description I usually applied to myself. I was surprised, too, at the heat I felt from his skin. The boys normally left me desensitized during the day, unable to feel heat or cold unless it was on my face, or breathed in.

  I didn’t remember this man. I didn’t remember ever touching a man, except in an exorcism. I didn’t know how to be gentle.

  But he winced, and I found myself trying. I loosened my grip, carefully drawing his hand away from his stomach. His fingers remained curled against his bleeding palm, and I slipped mine underneath—small, my hand small in comparison—carefully straightening them.

  He could have done it on his own. He had offered to help me stand, earlier. But this was a test. He watched my face, wincing only one other time, when I said, “You’re a manipulator.”

  “Maybe,” he agreed, after a moment.

  He said nothing more as I bandaged his cut hand. The blood made it seem worse than the actual damage, just surface lacerations that would hurt like hell. I didn’t have much experience with fixing people, but I thought I did a passable job.

  “I can’t feel my fingers,” he said. “I hope I still have them.”

  “Whiner,” I muttered, watching him try to flex his hand. He didn’t have much luck. I had that gauze coiled around him tighter than a diamondback.

  I shoved all the paper wrappers on the floor. Boys would eat them later—a thought that came so easily to me, I almost missed how strange it was to think it. Disturbing, even. It hit me again that this was home. Even the boys treated it like that. I could see their toys on the floor: half- eaten teddy bears, razor blades, Playboy magazines. A life-sized cardboard cutout of Bon Jovi stood in the corner, complete with big hair.

  I pointed. “That’s new.”

  “Zee used your credit card,” replied the man. “Remember?”

  “Yes,” I said slowly, thinking about it. “Now I do. It arrived yesterday morning. I wasn’t expecting it.” I glanced at him, holding his
gaze. “You thought I was lying about remembering?”

  “No. I’m just puzzled why you remember that and not me.”

  “He has better hair,” I said, walking from the bedroom. “Or maybe it’s the leather.”

  He snorted, and called out, “What’s my name, Maxine?”

  I froze in midstep, then kept walking. “Zee called you Grant.”

  “Good,” he replied, with bitter amusement. “Don’t forget it.”

  CHAPTER 4

  GROWING up, I had one friend, not including the boys.

  My mother. The only person I could count on.

  Larger than life, mean as hell in a fight, ruthless, cunning—and the best baker, ever. Her oatmeal cookies could raise the dead. Or make a little girl feel loved after a hard day of demons, and the endless road, and the knowledge that it would never end, that the days would only stretch out longer, and with sharper teeth.

  And then she died. And for five years it was just the boys and me. Living in hotels and my car, traveling the country. Hunting demons.

  Being alone was easier. No risk, just loneliness. No one ever died from that.

  But something had changed inside me, I thought, approaching the kitchen of the homeless shelter. After years of living the straight and narrow—living alone—something had changed, and I couldn’t remember what. I couldn’t remember why I had settled down in this place, when everything about the way I had been raised screamed that I shouldn’t.

  Which made me think it had something—everything—to do with the man limping along behind me, grim-faced and silent.

  Grant. I had told him not to come. I didn’t want company. Especially his. Too much, too soon.

  He wore clean clothes. So did I. Gloves, turtleneck. Covered from my neck down. I rarely showed my tattoos. Too many questions when they disappeared at night.

  I glanced at him, then looked away, quick. Not before he noticed, though. He limped a little faster, and leaned in. “Don’t look at me like that. I tried to warn you.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “We share an underwear drawer,” he whispered tersely. “Clean underwear, thank you very much. It’s not the end of the world.”

  “Did I say anything?”

  “I think your eyes bled.”

  I shot him a look. “Later. We’ll talk when we’re not in public.”

  “Will you let me get that close?” Grant leaned in, his expression hard, unflinching. “Will you let me be alone with you again?”

  Heat suffused my face. I was a tough woman. Covered in demons. Used to dealing with monsters. Sex with a stranger—and I assumed that we were sleeping together—was nothing. Really. Even if I did not remember being with any man, ever.

  At all. Not even kissed.

  “Fuck,” I said, loudly. Heads turned, but when the volunteers saw it was me, their startled expressions faded, and they gave each other resigned looks that were a hairs-breadth from being disparaging. My middle finger twitched at them.

  Grant never even blinked an eye, but his mouth softened. “That’s my girl.”

  I turned away. Something about his tone, the humor buried in the hardness and anger—that’s my girl, that’s my girl—lodged inside the little cracks of my heart. Lodged like a ton of bricks. I wanted to vomit.

  The kitchen was exactly as I remembered, which was some comfort. Journey blared, gruff voices rising and falling as crates of oranges were dropped on the floor, shoved sideways around battered cardboard boxes filled with industrial-sized bags of pasta. Sausages sizzled as they were dumped inside metal serving bins, alongside pancakes and scrambled eggs—but those scents were nearly buried beneath the overwhelming sweetness of warm cinnamon buns being pulled fresh from the giant upright ovens. My stomach growled. I needed food—not just for me, but for the boys.

  I didn’t feel like eating, though.

  Grant’s cane stopped clicking. I told myself not to look, but I twisted around anyway and found him speaking to the men who had been unloading the oranges. Big guys with rough, dented faces, muscles that strained against their rain-spattered jackets, and gloves in their hands that they kept slapping against their thighs—impatient, wanting to get on with business. But they looked at Grant with respect. Listened to him with complete focus.

  This was his place, I realized. His homeless shelter, his apartment.

  Grant glanced at me. I felt another jolt when our gazes met, and broke eye contact, embarrassed and angry.

  Focus, I told myself, grim. Focus, or you’re good for nothing.

  I scanned the kitchen for the person I had come down here to find. With Jack’s body dead, there were other problems that could arise. Maybe. Perhaps. I wasn’t sure. But it was nothing I wanted to take for granted. The old man was upstairs under a sheet. I didn’t want anyone else to end up the same way.

  Over in the corner I saw a girl stacking loaves of day- old wheat bread. A faded purple kerchief covered her braids, and she wore a patchwork apron that had definitely come from home. I didn’t know her name. I told myself it was because I was an asshole and not some pothole amnesiac.

  “Hey,” I said, and the girl jumped, gasping. A tentative smile flitted across her mouth when she saw it was me, but there was a trace of nervousness, too. My sparkling reputation. I vaguely remembered seeing her yesterday, on the edge of a crowd that had watched me put a man down for harassing a woman. Broken his nose against the floor, in plain view of a dozen horrified people—which was stupid and smart. Stupid, because it drew attention to myself. Smart, because a little brutality made a good deterrent.

  I was a woman of all trades around here, but mostly the muscle kind. If there was a problem with security, folks came to me. If there was a problem with anything else . . .

  I couldn’t remember. I couldn’t even recall why these people knew me, just that they did. I had lived here for almost two years. Two mysterious years, for some mysterious reason.

  I heard that cane clicking on the floor and smelled cinnamon. Told myself that was the oven and not the man who warmed my shoulder without touching me. He felt like a radiator.

  The girl looked past me, and her smile widened into something genuine and sweet. I cleared my throat. “Byron is supposed to be here.”

  She tore her gaze from Grant, and frowned. “Oh. I haven’t seen him.” She turned, studying the kitchen, and her frown deepened. “That’s strange, isn’t it? He’s never late.”

  I walked away without another word and headed for the doors. The moment I was in the hall, I started running. Grant called my name, but hearing him only made me run faster.

  The homeless shelter had been built from a collection of linked warehouses, part of a former furniture factory just south of Seattle’s downtown. There were beds for men, women, families, along with a small day care, and a job-training center. The Coop also had a second wing filled with short-term apartments, reserved for special cases.

  Byron was a special case.

  His room was at the end of the hall. I rapped on the door. Heard nothing on the other side and pulled a set of keys from my pocket. Listened to the muffled click of a cane on the stairs and felt ridiculous for trying to outrun a man with a bad leg—and for trying to escape him at all.

  You live with him, I told myself, unlocking the door in front of me. He knows your secrets. You wouldn’t have made that decision lightly.

  And the boys wouldn’t have tolerated it unless they liked him.

  “Fuck,” I said again, and opened the door.

  It was dark inside. Some fresh air would have been nice. The room had been designed like a standard hotel space: bed, dresser, one window, a bathroom by the door. Movie posters covered the walls: Hellboy, Blade Runner, a few others that Byron and I had picked up over the last few months. Books had been stacked in islands along his desk, surrounding stacks of paper. No computer. He preferred longhand, and I didn’t care if he mastered the Internet, or knew how to type. I just wanted him to learn. I had been homeschooled,
and had somehow found myself doing the same for him. He was good with history and math. I dared any so-called college kid to match his brains and maturity.

  The teen was still in bed. I didn’t need to turn on the lights to see him. He was asleep, but restlessly so, half the covers kicked off, one sock hanging from his toes. He still wore his white T-shirt with its Shakespeare logo.

  Grant appeared in the doorway. “Is he okay?”

  I held up my hand and knelt by the bed. The boy’s cheeks, usually bone-pale, were mottled red. I stripped off my glove and touched his brow. I felt heat through my tattoos. Too much heat.

  I rubbed his shoulder, watching his eyelids twitch. “He has a fever.”

  A faucet turned on in the bathroom. Water ran. Grant reappeared, a wet rag dangling from his bandaged fingers. I placed it on the boy’s brow, soothing back his dark hair, suffering a peculiarly breathless anxiety that, not for the first time, made me wonder if this was what it felt like to be a mother.

  “How did you know?” Grant asked, quietly.

  “I didn’t. But he and Jack . . .” I stopped, still unable to get around the fact that this man, for all intents and purposes, was a stranger. I wasn’t a kid anymore, but never talking to strangers still sounded like good advice. Safer. Fewer headaches. Required no effort.

  Grant leveled a long look at me. “Jack experimented on the boy. Made him immortal, a chronic amnesiac. Neither of us have been able to determine why he did that—or when—but we know, based on what Zee has said, that it was before Pompeii went up in flames and ash.” He pointed at the wall. “That enough for you? You can start banging your head now.”

  “Smart-ass.”

  “If our positions were reversed—”

  “Stop—”

  “—and I didn’t know you—”

  “I wouldn’t care.”

  Grant leaned down, holding my gaze. “I would be cautious, too, Maxine. But not . . . willfully blind.”

  For some reason, that cut. “Don’t lecture me.”