We Who Hunt the Hollow, page 7
As I’m thinking that, the screen in front of me chimes – there’s a new message in Anon5678’s inbox.
I click through, and a shiver goes down my back.
I’m forming a plan for you. Be patient. I can and will help you but DON’T TELL anyone else – they cannot help. I promise I will tell you everything. You should be aware ... there’s more to your power than you know.
What the hell? What does DSC5678 mean by that? Am I dangerous?
The vice around my chest starts squeezing again.
I know I’ve given myself a new power to summon monsters. I know I can’t control it. I know it has to be outlawed by the guild.
But what don’t I know?
I’m slightly alarmed to find my oldest sister in the kitchen early the next morning, surrounded by empty containers and dirty bowls, the benches strewn with raisins and sticky spoons and slivered nuts. Sitting on the windowsill, Jet’s Possum looks at me and shakes her head as if to say, Hey, I have nothing to do with this.
‘Jet. What’s going on?’ I say slowly, like I might to someone standing on the edge of a very tall building.
‘I’m baking,’ she says cheerfully.
‘That’s what I was afraid of.’ I sidle past and turn on the coffee machine. Out the windows a dusky orange smears the horizon, the glimpse of a sunrise that will soon disappear inside a surge of storm clouds.
Geema once claimed she could remember when summer in the New Pacific Territory was warm, all blue skies and white-yellow sun. Could’ve been one of her fantastic stories. I always thought that world disappeared for good the moment the Hollow first invaded, well before she was born. But maybe it lingered long enough for her to catch a glimpse, and remember, and try to explain a time when there wasn’t an evil universe rocking the foundations of our world.
I can’t picture December without the storms, without the heavy iron skies and acid rain and yellow hailstones.
‘Honest, Priscilla, it’ll be grand. I’ve got a foolproof recipe. It’s got hundreds of comments – everyone says it’s really easy.’ ‘Uh-huh. What is it supposed to be?’
‘It’s going to be fruitcake.’ Jet mashes the mixture vigorously. ‘To celebrate Bree’s ceremony.’
I make the best non-committal hmm I can. I’m pretty sure there isn’t a single Daalman who likes fruitcake, let alone one concocted without any legally acquired sugar by someone who can’t cook. Damn, I really need to sort out a chocolate cake now. After yet another sleepless night wondering what to do about my power to summon monsters, I don’t have the energy to talk her out of baking.
As I take my first sip of coffee, it occurs to me that maybe I could give the power back.
If I could trigger a new power by myself, could I release it? Let it slide out of my skin like it had never been there? I’ve never heard of that before, but then again, I’ve never heard of a warrior my age triggering secondary powers either. It couldn’t hurt to try.
Well, Mouse says. You might summon even more monsters while trying, but yeah. Sure. Give it a go.
‘So not helpful! Until you have a better plan, you can shush,’ I mutter.
The coffee washes away some of the cobwebs. While Jet’s distracted, I grab a box of cereal and sneak it upstairs, tossing it into the attic and locking the door straight away, because I really don’t want to know how many bitterlins are in there now. Despite my efforts, I can’t quite block the niggling itch of my other sense anymore. I’ll sneak a vapour ray up to the attic tonight and take care of them, so at least that will be one problem properly dealt with.
I head back to make a second cup of coffee, trying to keep out of Jet’s way as she bounces around the kitchen. Her face glows with sweat, and her energy reminds me of a wind-up toy that has just been released. She swears. A spoon drops into the sink with a clunk – it’s suddenly a smooth matte granite flecked with black mica. I note there’s also a matching fork and measuring spoon. Crap, she’s turning things to stone. She really has gone into Full Chef Mode: the only time Jet ever seems to get out of control.
Possum looks at me with round yellow eyes. I’m not mind-linked to Possum, but I imagine she’s saying HELP.
‘How are things, er, going, Jet?’
‘Fine! Fine!’ she says, waving a hand at me, flicking cake batter everywhere.
‘Can I do anything?’
‘No! Look, it’s done. Ready to bake.’ She yanks the oven door open, then bangs the cake tin inside. Batter drips over the sides.
I help Jet pile a staggering number of dishes into the washer, and wipe down the benches. We collapse opposite each other at the little table as the day’s storm rolls in.
‘Cheryl had a freak out, didn’t she,’ Jet says, tracing the patterns on the laminate with her fingertip. There’s a smudge of batter on her chin.
‘Yeah. It’s different this time, though. I think she’s ready to step up.’
Jet says nothing for a while. Anyone else I could picture replying with something fiercely protective of Bree; with how Cheryl ought to step up, and not ever step back again. But Jet sees both sides of every coin. My oldest sister rubs at her messy bun, dislodging chestnut threads of hair. ‘Cheryl’s been running for a long time. I wonder if she even knows how to stop.’
‘Will you talk to her?’
‘Of course. That’s the one thing I can’t stop doing.’ She laughs. Our self-appointed agony aunt. She loves inserting herself into other people’s problems and dishing out advice. I’ll have to make sure she doesn’t get even a whiff of my secret bitterlins before I sort them out.
Mouse and Possum scamper over my feet below the table. ‘Her and Bree are different in a lot of ways,’ I say. ‘But they’re also really similar. Bree’s a neat kid.’
Jet sits back in her chair, and sighs. ‘Yeah, she is. I’m pretty proud of her. And you know what? Cheryl will be too. I’ll make sure of it.’
I get the sensation that something that’s been at odds in our family for so long, like a tilted book on an otherwise orderly shelf, is finally about to be set right. Jet and Eddy were only twenty-one when they adopted Bree – kids themselves. The adoption wasn’t long after Jet’s best friend, a trainee warrior from Vietnam, had been killed by a nest of bone fiends. Back then, I was too young to understand how hard everything must have been for them. It’s only as I’ve got older myself that I’ve realised how much Jet had to deal with, all at the same time.
I reach over to squeeze her hand. ‘She’s clearly your daughter. You’ve raised her well.’
My sister beams at me, and grips my hand in return – it’s as vice-like as her hugs. ‘Ta, Priscilla-my-cilla,’ she whispers. ‘I appreciate that.’
I return to the kitchen, and set a pot of tea brewing for the rest of the Daalmans as they begin to emerge. Then I head back to my bedroom, clutching my one idea in my mind like a drowning person clutching a lifebuoy.
If this power is so awful and so dangerous, then I’m going to give the damned thing back.
I’ve got free periods this morning, to complete an English report. But my edusys screen remains untouched as I settle on the floor next to my bed. I can’t meditate in the attic because of my teensy tiny bitterlin problem, so here I am. All my fingers and toes crossed that I don’t make things a million times worse.
Mouse radiates doubt like a tiny furry furnace. She takes a spot on the windowsill nearby, whiskers twitching. Be careful.
‘I’m always careful,’ I reply.
She doesn’t even sniff at me with laughter.
I rest my hands on my knees and close my eyes. Breathing out slowly, I tap into my other sense. I don’t seek out the flares of my family members or the imps or the bitterlins in the attic. Instead, I focus inward, like I did before the first bitterlin appeared. Tasting my own Hollow energy as it flows into me from Mouse. Feeling my heart beat through my body. The energy is entwined with me, the difference between what might be my first power and what might be the new power invisible to my senses. I don’t know how to do this – I can only try. So I think about letting go. About allowing some of the caramel and cinders to flow out of me and slip away on a silent plea to return to the Hollow.
Mouse makes a small noise, not even a squeak, that I hear more in my mind than with my ears. I lift my concentration to where she sits on the windowsill, and a burst of panic explodes like fireworks in my chest.
Mouse is unravelling. Fading away, as the Hollow energy that animates her comes apart at the seams. Oh shit, I’m unmaking Mouse! I’m not giving away a new power, I’m giving away all of my power, and Mouse along with it!
Adrenalin spiking my heart rate, I desperately wrench on the energy, calling it back to me. The burnt-caramel taste returns with a snap, reverberating like a plucked bow string. Breath hisses between my teeth at the sensation, like boiling sugar splashing over my body. It settles back beneath my skin, simmering and intact.
Panting, I stare at Mouse. She’s still here. Oh, thank all the stars in the sky, my familiar is okay: whole and complete and brimming with anger.
That was not being careful! Mouse glares at me, and I can’t blame her. I’d be pissed off if someone tried to unmake me too.
‘I’m sorry,’ I whisper, mind reeling. What just happened? Why would Mouse start to disappear ... unless.
Unless I wasn’t trying to give away a secondary power at all.
‘Mouse. It’s not a new power. It’s my first power. My original power has changed. I can’t give it back.’
The impact of my discovery bulldozes me backwards. I slump against the bed, feeling sick with the realisation.
I’ve massively screwed up. I didn’t trigger a secondary power up in the attic. Instead, I somehow broke my first power, turning it from a simple but normal superpower into the nightmare ability to summon monsters.
I can’t remove it. Can’t stop doing it. Not unless I lose all of my power. Not unless I become a norm, ordinary and defenceless.
I have the power to summon monsters, or I have nothing at all.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I clap my hands over my face. What have I done to myself? What did I almost do to Mouse? What if I hadn’t heard her? She’d have gone away ... my little familiar, who’s been with me since I was thirteen.
It’s okay. You’re forgiven. Don’t worry about me – do you feel all right? I drop my hands as Mouse skitters along the sill closer to me. You have ... on your skin ...
I look down to see angry red welts coming up over my arms. As I see them, I register the pain – hot and crawling. Tears prick at my eyes. The pain is physical now, on top of the guilt I feel.
I clamber to my feet, strip off my T-shirt, and stare at myself in the mirror. Red marks twist over my neck, upper chest and arms, like the tentacle marks of a vile-squid. Hollow burns. They happen sometimes when the flow state of Hollow energy is disturbed or reversed. Usually we’re wearing high-tech armour to protect against the possibility, designed by the boffins in the guild’s research division. There’s not much I can do: only time heals paranormal wounds. Until then I’ll have to cover up so nobody can see them, and ask what on earth happened to me.
Cover up my skin, cover up my fear. Pretend everything is okay. Pretend I haven’t broken my superpower.
‘I’ll be fine,’ I mutter to Mouse as I pull open my wardrobe doors. She and I both know I’m lying. ‘Will you?’
As long as you don’t do that to me again.
A bubble of laughter pops out of my mouth, devoid of any humour. ‘Ha. Oh, I promise.’
Not that I’m even sure how I did it. Normally, a familiar only becomes unmade when they’re too far from their warrior. It doesn’t make sense that I could start unmaking Mouse when she was right beside me and still mind-linked with me.
Although it’s not like anything about this summoning monsters problem makes sense. How did I corrupt my power in the first place, if I didn’t trigger a secondary one? How can a power change into something else?
I close my eyes, taking in a deep breath. My only idea to fix this problem almost ended in disaster. I almost lost Mouse, almost lost my power – almost did to myself the very thing I’m most afraid of.
It wasn’t a new power. It’s my original power. And it’s broken.
I cannot fix it.
I cannot get rid of it.
I’ve reversed past square one and gone into negative territory.
The first tear spills down my cheek as I take in a shaky breath. Mouse scoots over to me and nibbles at my sock. Hey, hey, hey. You tried something, it didn’t work out, that’s okay. Now you know more than you did before. Information is power, right?
‘Right,’ I reply automatically. I don’t feel like I’ve gained anything, although her calm voice in my mind still helps. Maybe I answered one question. Now the problem is, I have seventeen million more questions.
Getting myself under control, I put on a camisole and the softest long-sleeved T-shirt I own. I tie a silk scarf around my neck. The burns itch like rows of fire ants nibbling on my body. I’m not sure I’ll be able to resist rubbing at them and giving the game away – surely everyone will figure out what I’m hiding. It seems obvious in the mirror. Tension grinds in the tightness of my jaw. The T-shirt swims around me. I watch myself absently rub at the crook of my elbow.
Damn. On top of all that, this is exactly not the outfit I’d had in mind for my date with Bastian later today.
School that day is a struggle. It’s hard to concentrate when you’ve burned yourself in a failed experiment. When you know your superpower is broken. And when you have a date afterwards. A date with a one hundred per cent handsome guy who might even like you ... for you.
I log off the second school officially finishes, putting it firmly out of my mind. I don’t want to be thinking about late English reports when I could be thinking about Bastian. I choose my favourite pair of black jeans to add to my T-shirt and scarf combo, and iron my hair glossy and straight.
And my mind somehow roams back to my first date with Onyeka, on a bitter spring day over a year ago. We walked the long track around the lake near the seaside, and stopped for milkshakes in a cafe on stilts over the green waters. I can still remember the way my whole ribcage seemed too tight, too full of air. How I couldn’t taste the milkshake on my tongue. How I couldn’t look away from her wide smile and the fringe of her lashes over copper-bright eyes.
I push the image away. Bastian. I’m meeting Bastian today, not Onyeka. And now in my mind I see a tall, slinky guy smiling at me on a rain-soaked street, feel the slow press of his fingers enclosing my hand. Feel that warm spark of attraction as his eyes linger on mine.
I slip out of the apartment past my distracted family. I’m meeting him nearby, within walking distance. As I step into the whispering wet afternoon my hair immediately fluffs up, and I mutter swearwords at it as I flip up my hood.
Mouse sniffs with laughter. At least one of us finds humidity amusing.
Bastian is outside the cafe I picked. He’s leaning on the wall beside the door, arms crossed, staring blankly at the street. I can tell he’s not seeing whatever he’s looking at – his mind is far away.
‘Hey,’ I say when I’m close enough.
He tips his head in my direction and his whole demeanour shifts as he pushes himself away from the wall, a big smile breaking upon his face.
‘You came!’
‘Well, yeah. Did you think I was going to stand you up?’ I’m genuinely curious. I’d never do that to anyone.
‘No, I thought perhaps you would be ... too busy or something like that. No, never mind. You’re here, I’m here. Let’s go inside.’ He opens the door and waves me in, following closely enough that I catch his scent of spiced soap. He’s wearing all black, damp hair pushed back from his crown, buzzing energy coming off him like fizz off soda. He beams at me and I can’t help returning it – his expression is so infectious.
‘I’ve been looking forward to seeing you.’ He leans in to nudge my shoulder with his own.
‘Me too,’ I say honestly, feeling sunny and charmed all over again.
We order tortilla chips and guacamole, and cold glasses of lime juice, and sit up on stools at the bar in the front window, close enough that our knees bump. I’m highly aware of every place our bodies brush against each other as we settle in. From here we can watch people walking past outside, the way the rain curtains the street. Our food arrives and we dig in, Bastian rolling his eyes heavenward at his first bite.
‘This is good,’ he says through a mouthful.
‘I know, right?’ I’m proud to have made the right choice of where to go. I’m pretty sure this cafe has some connection with black market smugglers because this dip tastes like it’s made from real avocado.
‘I haven’t lived here long enough to discover the best places to eat,’ he says. ‘You’ll have to tell me all your secrets.’ He shovels another chip into his mouth.
Except for the bitterlins one. And my broken superpower. And my Hollow burns. I tug at the scarf around my neck. ‘That’s a bold demand. We might have to see if you can earn any of them first.’
A sideways glance. ‘Hmm. Somehow I think it’ll be worth trying.’
We joust for the next chip, like seagulls coming in for the same prize, and I laugh. ‘How long have you lived here, then?’ I’d assumed he knew the city well.
He waves his hand, offering me the first pick. ‘A little less than a year. I moved for work. There’s a lot to discover, I’m finding.’
‘What do you do?’
‘Recruitment for a very dull company. Don’t ask for details or you’ll pass out from a sudden attack of extreme boredom.’ Outside, the rain starts coming in heavier, drowning the tarmac. I’m glad we got in before that hit. Bastian knuckles a smudge of guacamole from the corner of his mouth, gestures outside. ‘Speaking of discovering things, what’s with the rain? Is it always like this?’
I smirk. ‘Is that your conversation game? The weather?’
