We Who Hunt the Hollow, page 3
It’s not unheard of for warriors to go rogue. Sometimes warriors get turned by the Hollow, abandon the two oaths, and give themselves over to evil. And that’s why we have Internal Affairs – to identify rogues and apprehend them. To take their powers away, so they can no longer be a threat. To make it clear to the world that Hollow Warriors can always be trusted.
But it sounds like the Renegades are a bigger challenge than anything they’ve had to deal with before.
Geema tucks in her knees and leans forward in a child’s pose stretch, resting her forehead on the ground. Then she sits back up with a sigh. ‘If it wasn’t for all that, I’d be staying here for Christmas too. I could do with some festive cheer. But as soon as Bree’s had her ceremony, I have to get back to Prague.’
Even if I’d felt like confessing about the bitterlin I seem to have summoned, I can’t now. My grandmother doesn’t need to be burdened with my problems on top of everything else she has going on.
Stretches done, I grab one of the bo staffs and start running through a series of simple moves, blocking and striking an invisible opponent. Meanwhile, Geema closes her eyes and balls her hands into fists. A moment later she is standing at the back of the room. I blink and she reappears by the rack of weights. She moves around the room in staccato bursts, so fast I can barely keep track, the staff hanging loose in my hands as I watch.
Geema stops near the rack again. She holds one palm out at the dumbbells, the other palm towards her bottle of water. One of the weights balloons in size, the water bottle shrinking in counterpoint. She reverses the move, returning the items to their usual sizes.
What must it feel like to have such an incredible power, to direct it so precisely? To have two such powers, teleportation and sizeshifting?
Maybe I’ll never know.
I return to my movements with determination, clearing my mind to let muscle memory take over. Gliding between each form. The exercise puts me in a trance, washing away anxiety, the last sediments of my nightmares and the tension in my body. When I’m done I slot the bo staff back into its loop on the wall, and pick up Mouse to return her to my shoulder. Now I’m calm and ready to face the rest of my day.
Like what you’re going to do about the monster in the attic?
It’s hard to avoid your problems when a mouse keeps reminding you of them. I growl at my familiar, ‘Busy day today, Mouse. We’ll talk about that later.’ When I’m not anywhere near my overly perceptive grandmother, for starters.
Geema pats me on the back as we stroll out of the gym.
‘I liked this, just you and me,’ she says. ‘While I’m home we should practise together.’
‘Uh-huh.’ She probably means I need the practice. That I need her help, just like I needed reminding to carry a weapon.
We part ways upstairs, and I have a quick shower before heading to the garage, which stinks of ghoul jelly. The panel on the door of the Hollow waste incinerator is lit up in red, tagged to Lydia’s ID, indicating it’s still processing the remains of her successful hunt – a hunt done without me. At least I could help by cleaning the cages. I’ll try fitting that in later. Right now I have some errands to run before that – ugh – Meet’n’Greet.
I climb into the small floater and turn it on. Angsty pop-rock starts bleating out of the stereo and I thumb it off with a groan. Mama must have taken the floater out last. She has the worst taste in music.
The garage door slides open and I glide out into the windy, wet morning. Misty rain blurs against the curved plastiglass windows as the floater lifts into one of the lower flightlines. The stream of traffic skims over the rooftops of the ’burbs towards the city’s commercial heartland, where the skyscrapers are bedecked in neon. The rivers are flat and dark, roiling with stormwater between the levees. A giant lit-up Santa stands on one of the bridges, waving a fat-fingered hand at the floaters flickering past. I haven’t even thought about getting ready for Christmas yet – first I need to deal with the arrival of my family and holding Bree’s oath ceremony in our apartment.
In the mall I stop by a tea store to get a huge box of Jet’s favourite, lemongrass and ginger, then pick up some honey-yellow candles from a homewares store. I wind my way through a packed supermarket, loading a basket with popping corn, maple-glazed macadamias and sparkling apple juice. I traipse back to the floater with everything, then return on dragging feet to the ground-floor plaza for the Meet’n’Greet. The ad displays on each side of the rotunda are already switched on, flicking through dramatic scenes of famous Hollow Warriors battling monsters. Cool and calm and in control beneath stormy skies, the monsters falling at their feet, time and time again.
The Meet’n’Greet assistant, one of the mall staff, sees me arriving, and switches on the sign above the rotunda. Glittering letters scroll past: MEET’N’GREET A REAL HOLLOW WARRIOR/PROUD DEFENDERS OF OUR WORLD. She gives me a thumbs up. I weakly return it before slipping on my Hollow Warriors jacket, with the guild logo stitched on the chest, and taking a seat on the stool.
And I wait. This always happens. Nobody really wants to meet me.
I don’t know how much time passes – a millennia of quiet discomfort – when someone taps me on my shoulder. I turn around with a practised friendly smile. It’s usually a little kid or an old lady wanting a picture. But the shoulder-tapper is a white guy only a few years older than me. He’s kind of handsome.
‘Hello there, Hollow Warrior,’ he says, and I find myself sitting up a little straighter. He’s wearing a loose black knit with skinny trousers, and he reminds me of the boy I was madly in love with when I was eleven years old, all slinky and wry with a direct gaze.
Okay, he’s one hundred per cent handsome.
‘Hi,’ I say, feeling my cheeks warm. ‘Priscilla Daalman. I’m not actually a fully fledged Hollow Warrior yet.’ And before I can stop them, all these apologies come bubbling out. ‘I’m sorry it’s me you’ve met. I’m sorry, you probably wanted to meet a real warrior.’
I slam my teeth shut too late on my unexpected candour. Where did that come from?
He’s looking at me like he’s wondering the same thing. Like I’ve surprised him.
I keep my mouth firmly shut because I’m this close to saying sorry for saying sorry, and I would actually die of embarrassment.
‘Well ... you’re still a Daalman. I’m a huge fan,’ he says, as if it doesn’t matter. ‘I ... um. I hope this isn’t too weird. May I please get a photo?’
‘Okay. Sure.’ I’m charmed enough for the rest of my apologies to fall away as I regain some semblance of professionalism.
He steps next to me and holds up his handset, its camera a glossy bead that reflects our faces upside down. He smells like spiced soap, and I’m acutely aware of how close we are, of the hand he rests casually on my shoulder.
‘Smile,’ he whispers.
The camera clicks, and he steps away almost immediately, as if embarrassed by our proximity. I’m disappointed. I could have lingered longer in that moment with this one hundred per cent handsome guy.
‘You look like your grandmother,’ he says, tucking the handset into his back pocket.
‘I – you know my grandmother?’ It’s been a while since Geema was an active warrior in the Oceania Division.
‘As I said, I’m a fan.’ He smiles at me again. ‘It was so nice to meet you, Priscilla Daalman. Thank you for your time.’
‘You too –’ I realise he didn’t give me his name, but he’s already turned around, walking away into the busy crowd.
I blink, watching him disappear. Wow. I wish more fan interactions involved guys like that. It’d make these Meet’n’Greets a lot more interesting.
The rest of the allotted time creeps past like a snail in sloth’s clothing. Nobody else comes to see me, and finally the mall assistant switches off the signs and I’m free to go. I shrug out of my jacket and take off back through the shops on my last errand: ordering a cake for Bree’s ceremony. There’s a bakery upstairs that makes great cakes, certified real-sugar ones. My family loves a store-bought cake for special occasions. Years ago, Hollow creatures destroyed almost all of the world’s sugarcane fields, so it can be hard to find proper sugar-filled confections. For Bree, I definitely want something gooey and chocolatey and – damn. The bakery windows are dark, the shelves inside empty. A peeling SHUT DOWN by order of the Department of Agriculture sticker is plastered to the door – the store must’ve been caught selling sugar illegally on the side.
I can’t believe my go-to source for cakes is out of business. I’ll have to try somewhere else. I think there might be a place in a suburb closer to home.
I turn to head back to the parking levels, and a flash of periwinkle braids catches my eye. My heart betrays me; for a moment it forgets what she said, and snatches at my breath in delight. Then my memories catch up with my heart, and the delight washes away. Onyeka.
As if I said her name aloud, Onyeka turns around. She sees me and startles, and at least has the grace to look embarrassed.
‘Priscilla.’
‘Aren’t you supposed to be in Munich?’ I say, hating the fractious tone of my voice.
‘The lab has closed for the year. I’m back for a little bit,’ she says. ‘For Christmas.’
She’s been here, practically beside me, for days. In this city. ‘And you didn’t let me know?’
She holds up a finger. ‘Hey. You told me not to contact you. Ever again, I think, were your precise words.’
‘Because you’re the one who was leaving! You left me!’ I can hear the way I’m about to spiral back into an argument with her, the argument. The biggest one, the final one.
We fought so much in those last few weeks. About anything and everything. When we finally split up, my heart was torn asunder – and yet, I still had a moment of relief that at least the fighting was over. And then I felt guilty for that relief, as if it in some way negated all the wonderful, sweet aspects of our relationship. I shouldn’t have been happy it was over, not even in the smallest way.
I don’t want to fight with her now. I close my eyes for a second and try to compose myself. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘I’m sorry, too. I should’ve told you I’d be back in town. I thought about it, but I figured the chances of us bumping into each other ...’ She glances aside and sighs, her profile proud against the bright mall lights. My disloyal heart flutters.
‘Yeah. I get it,’ I murmur.
Mouse wiggles out from under my hair and squeaks. She’s on my heart’s side too.
Onyeka smiles at her. ‘Hey, little beastie,’ she whispers.
When Onyeka first told me about the graduate job offer in Munich, I didn’t want to believe it would happen. I hoped it was a mistake or that she’d change her mind, that they’d rescind the offer or that it would fall through in some way. But the days kept going past and her departure date kept getting closer. When she graduated, I realised she really was going, and something inside me closed off. I put a wall up. We stumbled on together for a few more weeks, finally breaking up before she left. There were no tearful goodbyes at the airport. I sat at home, unable to even look out the window, thinking about her plane taking off into the sky. Taking her away from me.
I swallow as the memories come back, loaded with heartache. ‘I have stuff to do. It’s Bree’s ceremony ... a cake. I need to get a cake for her. You have a good holiday.’ Retreating, before these perfidious things like my heart and Mouse can draw me back into Onyeka’s orbit. She is not here to stay. She will only leave me again.
‘Bye, Priscilla,’ she says to my back. And part of me can’t help wondering if it’s the last time she will say that to me.
I want to go home now. I’ll get a cake tomorrow. The flightlines out to the ’burbs are bumper to bumper, and I flip the floater into autopilot, sitting back to watch the crawl of red lights through the sky before me.
There’s a dull ache in my chest, back to full force when I’d thought it had finally ebbed away. The image of Onyeka behind my eyelids, too, has returned to full colour. I didn’t think I’d have any more memories of her – now, I close my eyes and see her in the mall, blue braids sweeping over her denim jacket as she turns and locks eyes with me.
I don’t want to think about Onyeka, so I force myself to think about the bitterlin instead. As much as I don’t want it to be the case, I know in my gut that hadn’t been a natural tear. It was no coincidence. Somehow, I’d accessed Hollow energy and pulled it in and –
Something rustles.
Oh hell no.
I’ve done it again.
CHAPTER THREE
I turn around and look right into the berry-red eyes of an alarmed bitterlin before it squawks and starts bounding around the back seat like a pinball. I punch the button to raise the divide between the front and back of the floater, flinching as the bitterlin bangs into the plastiglass, where it leaves a smear of purple-tinged saliva.
TWO of them. This is definitely trouble. Mouse shivers behind my ear. The bitterlin thuds from side to side, rocking the floater in the air.
‘Shush! I’ll handle this,’ I say, except my voice betrays the tight panic squeezing around my ribs. I frantically look around the cab and spot the poisoned dagger I’ve been carrying since Geema got home. I unsheathe it and lower the barrier by a fraction, enough to wedge the dagger through. The bitterlin – ludicrous creature that it is – eventually flings itself past hard enough to scratch its leathery hide. Within a few minutes it drops to the seat and rolls up into a ball, looking like a very large and very dead purple louse.
‘Ugh,’ I say. Thank goodness, I got it. And now to go home and get rid of a stinky dead bitterlin before anyone notices.
A while later I zip into the garage. The big floater is gone, which means one or more of the others are out, so maybe I can actually get away with this. I can’t stuff the dead bitterlin into the Hollow waste incinerator – it will leave a record in the database, and then there’ll be questions from Mama and Lydia about what I’d hunted and why the job wasn’t in the system – but I figure I can hide it in the attic with the first one, then figure out how to dispose of them both at the same time.
I pull on a pair of gloves and roll the critter into a bag, then wipe down the slick fauxhide seats and plastiglass interior of the floater, finishing with liberal sprays of freshener. Bag in hand, I creep cautiously out of the garage. Everything seems quiet. The briefing room and offices are dim, with only Rosie the imp on duty – she doesn’t look around as I scuttle past, the bag hanging by my knees. All the other lights in the apartment are off. Mama, Lydia and Geema must be out with Bosco and Rosco.
I kick it up the stairs and am walking through the kitchen when a voice says, ‘What the hell is that you’ve got?’
I scream, almost dropping the bag, and turn around. Standing in the open doorway to the rooftop terrace, a cigarette hanging in the corner of her mouth, is my sister Cheryl. She’s dressed all in black, camouflaged against the dark beyond.
‘Holy hell, Cheryl! You scared the crap out of me. When did you get home?’
She wrinkles her nose. ‘While you were out, obviously. Is that a dead bitterlin? What are you doing with it?’
I look down as a drip of goo slowly plops onto the floor from the bottom of the bag. I can’t think of a half-sane excuse. ‘I don’t know,’ I say lamely, putting it down. ‘I don’t know what I’m doing.’
Cheryl tilts her head, regarding me for a second. Smoke spirals into the air past her short chestnut hair, the shortest I’ve ever seen it. Curled up on a deckchair behind her, her familiar, Dingo, watches us with one sleepy eye. ‘What’s going on, kiddo?’ she says.
Everything. Nothing. Someone in particular. ‘I just saw Onyeka. She’s back in town for the holidays.’
‘Ah, come here.’ She stubs out her cigarette and pulls me into a fierce hug, leather jacket creaking. I press my face into the nook below her chin. She smells of smoke and salt. Oh, how I’ve missed her. Even though there’s almost twelve years between us, Cheryl is the sister I am closest to. Not a week goes by without us being in contact. She knows all about what happened between me and Onyeka. She knows how much it hurts to have seen her again.
We weren’t close when I was younger. I was only four years old when Cheryl got pregnant and all my memories of that time are constructions, built from what my family has told me. Then she left for a while. But I remember when she came home again, when I was seven and she was nineteen. We started hanging out all the time. I never felt like she was trying to parent me. She always treated me like her equal. Her sister.
She is powerful and amazing, like every Daalman. But she’s also dark, and different. Recently it occurred to me that maybe the reason Cheryl and I get on so well is because we are both, in our own ways, disappointments to our family.
It’s been three years since I last saw her, which isn’t unusual – Cheryl is hardly ever here – but right now I really feel how long that’s been. I close my eyes and breathe out shakily. ‘I miss her, Cheryl.’
‘You’ll be all right,’ she murmurs. One hand brushes my hair. ‘You’ll be okay.’
I really want to believe her.
‘And you also know not to bring dead monsters up into the house,’ she continues. ‘Throw it in the incinerator, then come to my room. I’ve got a present for you.’
She thinks I hunted the bitterlin down on a legitimate job. A spontaneously leaked monster, as per normal. She doesn’t know there wasn’t an alert from the city’s surveillance grid, or a call-in from a civilian. That there’s no record to back up the running of the incinerator.
