Rising, page 25
part #3 of Girl With Broken Wings Series
Gabe’s eyes drill right into me. “Those looks you always give me.”
“Gabe,” I whimper. I’m glad I’m already sitting on the floor. My knees feel so weak.
“But it was guilt,” Gabe says. “It was guilt.”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. The cloud moves away, and the sunlight comes streaming back. But not enough. Never enough.
Gabe stands up and carefully rights the IV pole, checking that the IV and catheter lines are still connected to Tarren.
“We’re out of Fentanyl,” he says. “I need to get more.”
This is worse than him yelling at me. He must know this.
“I can get it,” I say.
“You know how to pick up heavy sedatives on the street?” Gabe arches an eyebrow. His voice is sarcastic, but there’s a dangerous edge on it. His aura is dark.
Yell at me, I think desperately. Scream. Make me cry.
Gabe grabs the key card from the table. “Watch Tarren. I don’t have any contacts around here, so this may take a while.”
If I wasn’t so damn hungry maybe I could think of the right words. It’s not as if I haven’t practiced this moment a thousand million times in my head, always searching for a way to make Gabe understand. The heater kicks on, and I feel the vibration of its loud cough through the floor.
Gabe walks to the door but stops with his hand on the handle. He doesn’t turn around, just asks in that poison-soft voice, “Was I in on it?”
I swallow. “Your plan was to strap every weapon we owned to your body, rush Grand, and pray that he tripped.”
Gabe laughs. He actually laughs. “Yeah, that sounds like me.”
“I had to make Grand believe I was switching sides,” I tell him. “It was the only way to get close enough.”
Gabe reaches up and touches his ribs. Reds and oranges ripple through his aura when he makes the connection.
“It wasn’t just the draining,” he says in a voice gone low to gravel.
“You had to believe too,” I say.
Gabe shakes his head. “No fucking way. There’s nothing you could have said, done.”
“You did,” I croak. “I made you believe.”
I don’t need to see his face to watch my words wound him. The reds in Gabe’s aura turn crimson.
“I wasn’t supposed to hold on for so long. It wasn’t supposed to be that close.” My last words are a whisper. I’m not sure if he even heard it.
I wait, staring at Gabe’s thin shoulders, at the coat I bought him that hangs on his skeletal body.
“Uh-huh,” he says and walks out of the room. I watch the door close.
Chapter 32
“It wasn’t your fault,” I console Tarren as I carefully unwrap his bandages. “This thing with me and Gabe, you can’t blame yourself. You’ll want to go all Tarren-guilt over it, but I won’t let you. This one is mine.”
For once in his life, Tarren doesn’t argue.
In the room below, I listen to the silly lyrics of a kid’s cereal commercial and then a sharp back and forth between adult voices. Raven’s father suggests that the family continue on to his parents’ house in Lincoln, Nebraska. He thinks Raven is just as likely to show up there as come back to the motel. Her mother is adamant that they stay put until Raven is found. She conclusively wins the argument by dissolving into sobs.
The inner layers of Tarren’s bandages are sodden with pus and a somewhat horrifying green phlegm. The smell coils in my nose, bringing tears to my eyes. When I arrive at the last layer of bandages, I have to press my fingers outside the wound and slowly peel the bandage back, bringing flakes of melted black fabric with it.
“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” I hiss even though Tarren’s long lashes never even tremble. Thank god for serious knock out juice.
I drop the wet mess of bandages into the trashcan along with my stained latex gloves, and then I stand over the bed and try not to freak the hell out any more than I already am. The burn is raw and red around the edges, and the black fabric that was once a part of Tarren’s shirt is now hardened, almost like a shell of plastic embedded into his skin. The next step of his care is debridement, but that’s…fuck, that’s terrible. Gabe needs to be here. Dr. Lee needs to be here. I’m even desperate enough to take Lo.
The latex gloves are stubborn as I push my fingers into a new pair. My hand travels to the nightstand, to the scalpel that sits in its Dixie cup bath of alcohol. I watch my hand bring the scalpel forward. Am I really going to do this? Can I really do this?
Francesca explained exactly what I needed to do, but there are words, and then there’s…cutting Tarren. I lower the scalpel, have a mini-panic attack, and lay the blade almost flat against the black, burned mess of fabric and flesh.
Deep, deep, deep breath. “I’m so sorry,” I whisper and begin to gently scrape away.
My brain wants to go anywhere but here, so I let it wander down the twisted path of my new, post-Gabe world.
“I think I understand now,” I tell Tarren, “how you can drown in secrets.” My hand is trembling, glowing, but I’m in control. Little black flakes speckle the towel beneath Tarren’s body. The scalpel reveals red, angry flesh and slick purple muscle beneath the charred surface of Tarren’s wound.
I have to find her. Tarren’s words echo in my head. I see again those golden strands rising in his aura. That sadness. For me. Pegasus.
I’ve been so wrong about him, tricked by his scowls, by those frosty eyes he hides behind. He put the distance between us, but I was the one who imagined barbs and landmines along the path. I thought his coldness was hate or indifference, never fear.
I’m the last one left. I remember again all those colors, that agony in Tarren’s aura as he spoke those words. My world tilts off kilter as I see myself exactly as I must look through his eyes. Another sister – another person to protect, another person to be lost, another wound to forever fester.
I have to do something for Tarren. Something worthy. It comes to me, like a kiss of serendipity. I kneel besides the bed, so my face is even with my brother’s. Then, I break the one promise I’ve ever made to him – the only thing he’s ever asked of me.
“I forgive you,” I say. “For all of it. Everything you’ve done and everything you will do, even if you have to kill me one day.”
I finally understand. Tarren will only kill me if I represent an imminent danger to another, if I lose control of the monster. This isn’t, as I’ve always believed, a cruel threat that forever divides us. This is Tarren’s promise of protection. I think of Rain, of kissing him, of touching that multi-colored aura of his. Tarren won’t let me hurt Rain. He won’t let me hurt Gabe again or anyone else. In this crazy moment of emotional overload, I’m absurdly grateful to him for that, for being strong enough to pull the trigger if it has to be done.
***
Four hours trickles by. I’m convinced that the clock is toying with me, that the minutes have colluded to overstay their welcome, and the hours are too hung over to show up for their shift. Gabe texts me every hour. No Chuck Norris jokes. Just two words – Everything fine. No indication when he’s coming back, if he has the drugs, if there’s any chance he might at least let me explain.
Raven’s dad is out looking for her again, and her mom has mercifully decided to take Abe to see a movie. I’ve given the scarecrow clerk at the front desk a second prepaid credit card, which will last us the week if we need it to. I silently thank Lo again for the extra cash he gave me when Gabe got injured.
Another text pings on my phone. Everything fine
But it’s not, I think at the phone.
I need something to do, some distraction. I spot the remote on the nightstand and idly flip through the TV channels. The reality shows I remember from my normal life just six months ago have figured out how to reproduce. They swarm the channels, a never-ceasing parade of tears, confessions, and increasingly ridiculous competitions. I stop at a local news station where a blocky-headed anchor discusses the fallout from my pet store rampage. I watch with a growing ache in my stomach as a perky field reporter wrapped in a colorful red scarf interviews local townspeople of Peoria. The word “monster” seems absurdly overused. An older woman with large round glasses breaks into tears as she speaks into the microphone.
“Who would do this? What kind of monster would murder innocent animals?”
I pull my knees to my chest and wrap my arms around my legs. The anchor’s face is all concern and sadness as she absently pats her scarf back into place. A police sketch fills the screen that looks nothing like me. The woman in the sketch is no younger than 30. She possesses cruel eyes and a bitter mouth. Gabe takes a particular pleasure in showing off the sketches he has inspired. He and Tammy used to compare to see which of theirs was the most outlandish. Now I have an entry into the game.
I should turn the TV off, but I don’t. The anchor discusses how the story has gone viral. PETA and several anonymous donors have offered money for any tips that lead to my capture. A local child has written a poem for the dead animals, and it’s gotten over 60,000 likes on Facebook. The broadcast ends with a short story on the police officer Rachel killed. His memorial on the morrow looks like it will be well attended.
I sit glassy-eyed, trembling as the broadcast ends, replaced by a fast food commercial for a new mega burger filled with more beef patties and bacon than ever before. I finally lift the remote and turn off the television. Monster, monster, monster.
Gabe’s been gone too long. Something is wrong. I’m now entirely positive I shouldn’t have let him go out thieving by himself in his condition. I stand up to get my coat. Tarren moans. The sedatives are beginning to wear off. Dreams flicker in his aura, and I see movement beneath his eyelids. Rosy hues of pain rise in his aura, and his fingers close on the sheet.
I go to his duffle bag and open up the side compartment where he always keeps his battered copy of The Odyssey. It belonged to our mother, Diana. Gabe has told me how she used to read it to her children at night after tucking them into bed. I think about what that must have been like, to fall asleep to the tales of sirens and cyclopses and a man trying so desperately to find home.
I drag a chair close to Tarren’s side of the bed, though I still keep an arm’s distance away. I’m already weak with hunger, and if his aura starts jumping again, I’ll need as much space between us as possible.
Tarren mumbles something that might be “damn it to hell” or “do a shell”.
I open the book, careful not to tug too hard on the loose cover, and read from the very beginning about how Odysseus washes up on shore barely alive. This kind of thing apparently happens to Odysseus a lot. His is not a good life.
As I read, I keep an eye on Tarren’s aura and watch the red grow deeper as the minutes pass. I continue reading. Odysseus keeps losing his men, but not yet his hope. Give it time, I think, and my phone dings.
On way back, Gabe’s message reads.
“I thought it was Mom at first,” Tarren whispers. His voice is hesitant, slow and dry as sandpaper. “Reading.”
“Nope, just me,” I say lamely.
Red, red, red. Tarren’s aura is a shrine to pain. He clutches the sheet in both hands. I look away, but that doesn’t help. I hear the hiss of his breath through his clenched teeth.
“Gabe’s on his way, bringing something for the pain,” I tell Tarren.
“Are we in a forest?” Tarren asks. At least I think this is what he asked. His words stick together, and he could have said, “Are we the farthest?”
“We’re in a motel room in Peoria.”
“Hurt?”
My throat is suddenly as solid as rock. “Yes. You got hurt.”
A vein throbs in his forehead. “F…fire.”
“You ran into a burning building to save me. Why did you do that Tarren? Why the fuck did you do that?” My voice cracks. I want to throw something, punch something, break this chair I’m sitting on into kindling.
“How…bad?”
When I don’t answer, Tarren cracks his lids open and brings his arm up. He stares at his bare skin, his eyes tracing the scars. He doesn’t say anything, and his aura is so overwhelmed with pain that I can’t even guess at his thoughts.
Something tugs in my brain – a tiny shiver of recognition as my mind reaches out to reunite the connection that was so brutally forged.
No, No, No, No! Stupid Pixie Girl. I should have known, should have never trusted…
I leap from the chair, putting myself between Tarren and the door, gun in one hand, dagger in the other.
It’s time that we spoke. Gem’s gentle words ring in my mind from just beyond the motel door.
Chapter 33
Time decides to kick itself up a couple hundred notches, or maybe that’s just my heart.
“Maya,” Tarren whispers. I glance back at him, at all that red pain covering him like a shroud of thorns and brambles. He sees my stance, my gun.
“I need…W…weapon,” he manages through gritted teeth. His hand is under the pillow searching for the gun that’s not there.
The electric lock clicks, and by the time I shift my gaze forward again, Gem stands in front of me in all his poorly dressed glory.
Turtles. Fucking turtles on his brown t-shirt. We’re possibly about to be demolished by someone who buys his clothes at the San Diego Zoo gift shop.
A smile tugs his lips up, but then his eyes swing from my gun to my dagger.
“Oh no, that’s not necessary,” he says and moves to go around me. I mirror him, keeping the weapons between us.
“No!” I growl with as much menace as I can muster. While the logical part of my brain knows that Gem could kill me with a sneeze if he wanted to, the emotional part of my adrenaline-infused gray matter doesn’t give a flying fuck about that. I’ll stop him, somehow, anyhow, if he tries to hurt Tarren.
Gem gives me a befuddled expression, like he can’t fathom why I’m pointing weapons at him, snarling like a pack animal.
“Have I given you any reason to doubt my intent?” he asks.
Okay, maybe not, but why is he here? This whole thing, the saving me, the letting us go; it could have all be some sort of sick joke. He looks so much like his father.
Gem’s blue eyes meet mine, and I feel the touch of his mind, that channel between us growing strong once again. I fight instinctively against his mental intrusion, but then he pulls me forward, across the channel to his own thoughts. I feel his emotions with such clarity that they seem my own.
I’ve come to help, he whispers in my mind. I can feel it, the ardent truth of his words. But…but…NO! This has to be a trap. How could it be anything else?
I pull away from all of his sticky guilt and scuttle back into my own head.
Why? I ask Gem.
Through our connection, I feel the pulse of an old shame kept well fed over many years. Because I helped damage him.
I stare at Gem, at those turtles on his chest, as I lower my weapons. God help me, I believe him. My feet move, and I allow Gem a path to Tarren, to all his scars displayed beneath the heavy sheen of sweat that has arisen on his skin.
If you hurt him, I begin, I swear…
Noted.
Tarren has managed to rise to his elbows, and he stares at Gem. His body is rigid, every muscle clenched and trembling. His face is pale as a specter. Only his eyes shine with color, those ice blue irises filled with recognition.
“We…h…had a…deal,” Tarren manages.
“And I’m not here to break it,” Gem answers.
I expect Gem to do something dramatic like start glowing or chanting strange words, but he just takes in a deep breath, and then it starts. I feel the crackle of his power rev up. The static electricity of it crawls over my skin, vibrating in my teeth.
The expression tightens on Gem’s face, and his lips press together. My eyes rivet to Tarren. If I’m wrong about Gem, then I’ve just given my wounded, utterly vulnerable brother to him. My hands throb, and I realize that I’m gripping my weapons so hard that my tendons are close to snapping like broken violin strings. What if Gem explodes Tarren’s mind, or steals his memories, or turns him into some drooling vegetable?
Instead, something beautiful happens. Tarren sinks back onto the mattress as his muscles relax. His fists unfurl, his eyelids slowly creep downward, and the red grows fainter and fainter within his aura. Finally, his brows drift up from their crouch.
A strange noise. I realize it’s me, as the breath I’ve been holding rushes out of my lungs. I gasp in more air, dizzy and relieved. Gem doesn’t move from his position next to the bed. He stares down at Tarren, his eyes tracing the map of scars in my brother’s flesh.
“Don’t…don’t do that.” I holster my weapons and step to the bed, intent on pulling the sheet over Tarren’s shoulders. Gem raises a hand to stop me.
“There’s something else I can do,” he says.
What? Another ability? A tiny flower of hope opens vulnerable petals. Can he heal the scars?
“I can help him in here.” Gem touches his temple. He looks at me, asking for permission. I don’t know what he’s going to do, but we’ve gone this far.
“It will help him?” I ask in a small voice.
“Yes, I think so,” Gem says.
Tarren would refuse. Adamantly. He’d scoff at a hand offered if he were hanging from the edge of a cliff. To accept assistance is to proclaim weakness.
That’s not it, Gem whispers in my mind. To ask for help is to believe you are worthy of it.
“Do it.” I tell Gem. “Help him.”
Gem closes his eyes and extends his hand toward Tarren. I see those five fingers, that palm creased with an X moving closer to my brother.
“No, don’t touch him,” I hiss.
Contact makes it easier. Gem opens his eyes, and holy hell, they’re glowing. No pupils or those baby blue irises – just a sapphire light pulsing from his orbs.
I bite my lip as Gem lays his hand across Tarren’s forehead. My breath escapes in short pants. Gem extends his other hand to me. I hesitate, caught in the vortex of his power, my fear, the adrenaline snaking through my veins. Anything, I remind myself, anything to help Tarren. I thrust out my hand. Our palms meet, and the static of Gem’s power ripples through my skin like a thousand spiders crawling up my arm into my shoulder socket. Our connected minds come closer together, that channel between us reinforced with steel. Gem squeezes my hand.
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