FOUR
THE FLAMES LICKED AT the edges of the pictures and then hungrily gobbled Nadia’s fake smiles. I inhaled the bitter smoke. My eyes watered as I watched the last image of her face catch fire. “Are you really there, Nadia? Or am I just crazy?”
As soon as her image disappeared, I was already missing her. I peeled the bandage off and looked down at her face on my still-aching arm. Her eyes caught me, made me feel like I was falling. Heavy, tingling prickles raced up my legs, and my breath quickened. The bricks on the patio rounded, transforming into cobblestones. Diane’s hanging plants drew their tendrils up and became gas lamps hanging from thick posts, giving off a greenish glow in the darkness. Nadia’s arms pumped in front of me as she ran along the uneven street, high-rises hemming her in on either side.
I was with Nadia. I was Nadia. Somehow, I was in her head, seeing things through her eyes as she fled through the dark city. My stomach heaved with her fear. Her heart—my heart—was beating so hard, and I realized I was no longer in Diane’s backyard. Was something chasing us—her—again? That evil animal granny who’d tried to take her away?
I felt a dull pain in my shoulder as we dove behind a Dumpster. We whipped around to see if the danger was near, just in time to see a man’s body land in a heap a few feet away. She craned her neck and immediately shrank behind the metal wall again, but not before we caught a glimpse.
The guy’s neck was laid open to the spine.
My mind lit up, trying to process what I was seeing. I thought this was the afterlife, that these people were already dead. But this guy had just been killed, and he didn’t look like he was going to rise any time soon.
My horrified thoughts fell silent at the sharp crash of metal on metal. Nadia peeked out from behind the Dumpster, wondering frantically how to escape. She knew enough from her encounter with the animal old lady to realize folks here were dangerous. She didn’t want to step into plain sight or make enough noise to draw attention to herself, so she was stuck until these people went away. I would have told her that was a good plan, but I knew she was deaf to me, even though I could hear her thoughts like they were my own.
In front of us, two men and one woman advanced on their prey, wielding curved swords that looked exactly like the ones carried by the Guards who patrolled the city. The man in the center was tan with raven hair and wore dingy white robes, like some sheik from the Middle East. The man to his left was tall and blond, like a modern Viking. On the right stood a middle-aged woman wearing a tracksuit and running shoes. Suburban housewife. The group looked exactly like all the other poor, oblivious suicides who roamed the streets of the city, except these folks were the opposite of aimless. They had a purpose: kill somebody.
As the sheik took a single step forward, the others took two, creating a V formation around their adversary. Their faces carried identical expressions of hatred mixed with anticipation. I recognized the look. I’d seen it on the detention officers in the RITS—they thought they were going to win, but they didn’t expect it to be easy.
Nadia shifted, finally giving me a view of the opposing side. Which consisted of…one guy. He was sort of dressed like one of those giant Guards but didn’t look anything like them. He was fairly tall, but not bulky and huge like the others. His chest was covered not with metal armor but with molded leather, buckled together at the shoulders and sides like a medieval bulletproof vest, with a ridged collar that was higher at the back. The same kind of leather covered his forearms and surrounded his legs below the knees. He didn’t wear a helmet or visor like the other Guards did, so I could see that he was young, not much older than I was. He had olive skin and closely cut black hair, and the hint of a killer smile played at the corners of his lips while his dark eyes swept back and forth, assessing.
“You Mazikin have been busy lately, Ibram. I just wanted to ask you some questions about it,” said the Guard in a clipped, hard sort of accent. He sounded so calm for a guy who wasn’t even holding a weapon. The sheath at his hip was empty, and his sword lay several feet away. Then my gaze drifted down to the twin circles of leather surrounding his thighs—each one held two double-edged knives, and he had a police baton clipped to his belt. Didn’t seem like much against three people armed with swords, though.
The sheik, Ibram, laughed. “If all you wanted to do was talk, you wouldn’t have killed Frank.” He glanced over at the dead man. “Good thing I brought plenty of backup.”
“And more stolen scimitars.” The Guard took a few more steps back, moving with complete precision and control. There was no hesitation in his movements, but no rush, either.
Ibram eyed the elegant curve of the blade in his hand, then gave the Guard a meaningful once-over. A grin lit his golden face. “Yes, the only things worth keeping in this city. Beautiful and effective.” His teeth flashed sharp and white under the light of a streetlamp. “A nice extension of our natural weaponry, don’t you think?”
The Guard didn’t answer. A muscle in his jaw jumped rhythmically. His backtracking had brought him into a pool of lamplight, and with a shock I noticed he was bleeding; the fabric of his fitted shirt gaped at the shoulder, showing just how effective the scimitar was. The gash was so deep I swear I saw muscle and bone. Blood fell in steady drops from the fingertips of his left hand. I suddenly felt sympathy for the guy. As much as I despised those enormous Guards at the Gates, I didn’t want to watch this one die.
I got totally distracted looking at him, but then I heard Nadia wondering hysterically if she was about to watch this outnumbered, injured guy get slaughtered right in front of her. At first glance he did seem trapped and hopelessly overmatched. But as he shifted his weight to his rear leg and drew the police baton from his hip in a smooth, unhurried motion, I knew he wasn’t. I could see how dangerous he was.
The housewife and the Viking lunged forward, attacking from both sides. The Guard was in motion instantly. His baton extended, tripling in length to become a long, narrow staff. Before it reached its full length, it arced in a blurring motion. The Guard was the axis, the eye of the storm, as the staff rocketed around and struck the blade from the housewife’s hands, then reversed its motion and crunched into the Viking’s face. The Guard pulled the staff back and jabbed it into the neck of the Viking, who crumpled to the ground. A millisecond later, the housewife was on the ground, too, clutching at her throat.
The Guard’s dark gaze returned to Ibram, who smiled and shrugged. “They were new” was all Ibram said before he attacked. He was forced to a halt as he blocked two throwing knives with the whirling motion of his sword. I hadn’t even seen the Guard throw them. Ibram blocked the other two just as easily. The Guard was out of throwing knives.
“Damn,” the Guard said as he shifted the staff to his right hand. “You’ve been practicing.”
Ibram darted forward, taking full advantage of his opponent’s wound, which obviously slowed him down. The Guard looked like he was fighting purely in self-defense, using the staff to create a circle of protection to prevent the wicked blade from finding its mark. Twice Ibram almost got him, striping the Guard’s breastplate with deep gashes. But the Guard wasted no opportunity, and the first time Ibram left himself open, the staff smashed into the side of the sheik’s face. Ibram slashed his sword down sharply, splintering the staff. Both men stumbled back.
The Guard’s eyes scanned the street, mapping the distance to every weapon in the area. Then he was running, but not toward any of the blades I could see. He ran straight toward Ibram, hurling the remnant of his broken staff at the sheik’s blade arm and forcing him to raise his weapon to block it. Ibram recovered instantly and swung the blade back toward his attacker, but the Guard was too close and too fast. He jabbed the edge of his hand against Ibram’s wrist, sending the weapon clattering to the ground, then shot a vicious punch to Ibram’s groin before nailing him with a final elbow strike. Ibram fell to the ground like a sack of cement. I was glad Nadia couldn’t hear my thoughts at that moment…because I couldn’t help but admire the Guard’s style.
He looked down at Ibram for a moment, then, apparently satisfied with the sheik’s comatose state, walked quickly to the Viking, who had begun to reach for his sword. The Guard knelt next to him and pulled a knife from his ankle sheath.
“Don’t take me to that awful place,” the Viking begged.
“You don’t have to worry. I have no intention of doing that,” the Guard said as he stroked a long hand over the Viking’s head. At first I thought he might be comforting the guy. But when he rose and walked away, I saw he’d cut the man’s throat, ear to ear.
Holy crap.
The Guard approached the trembling housewife. “My name is Lucy Stein,” the woman said in a high-pitched, childlike voice as she tried to scoot away.
The Guard dropped to his knees beside her, a mixture of sadness and determination on his face. “Your name was Lucy Stein.”
He cut her throat before she had a chance to reply.
Oh, shit, Nadia, stay where you are. Don’t move.
The Guard got up slowly and swayed in place. He bowed his head as he bent over, bracing his hands against his thighs. I wondered if he was about to collapse from his injuries. I hoped he would, so Nadia could get the hell out of there. He was breathing hard, but I wasn’t sure it was from the fight. His eyes were on the dead housewife as her blood haloed around her face. The Guard winced and closed his eyes, his lips moving in a silent chant. Was he praying? Blood from his shoulder joined the puddle on the concrete, mingling with his victim’s.
Nadia shifted, ready to bolt. My thoughts went into overdrive. Don’t move don’t breathe don’t scream don’t run. Her heartbeat roared in my ears—she was convinced this man would cut her throat, too, if he knew she’d witnessed his crimes. She stumbled back and collided with a bunch of overflowing garbage cans. They hit the ground with a deafening clang. When Nadia raised her head from the pile of trash she’d tumbled into, both of us gasped. The Guard’s leather-armored shins were right in front of her face.
A squeak of terror burst from Nadia as the Guard tugged her to her feet and pushed her against a wall. His right hand wrapped firmly around her neck. I found myself looking straight into his black-brown eyes. I felt the heat of his breath on Nadia’s face, smelled the scent of leather on his skin. He tilted his head and inhaled deeply, his nose grazing Nadia’s cheek, before stepping back and releasing her.
“Deutsch?” he asked. Nadia stared at him helplessly. He sighed. “English?”
Nadia nodded.
“You need to find shelter,” he advised in a tired voice. “The Mazikin are out recruiting tonight, so you shouldn’t be on the street.” There was a noise behind him, and he turned abruptly. Nadia looked in time to see Ibram disappearing around a corner. The Guard cursed loudly. Well, it was in a foreign language, but I could guess at the translation from the sheer aggravation in his voice. He sheathed his knife and took two steps toward the mouth of the alley before turning back to Nadia. He pointed in the direction she had tried to run. “Don’t go that way. It’s not safe.” He pointed across the road to a high-rise. “There are empty apartments in that building. You’ll know which ones are available. The doors are open. You can make your bed in any of them. Do you understand me?”
When Nadia nodded again, he sprinted after Ibram. We sank to the ground, sobbing.
“Lela! Snap out of it!”
I jerked my head up to see the gas lamps sprouting leafy tendrils that unfurled toward the ground. The cobblestones beneath my feet flattened into bricks again. Fingers curled around my shoulders and shook me.
Diane’s face swam in front of mine, her eyes bright with panic. “I’m calling an ambulance!”
I shook my head, half surprised to be in control of my own body again. “Don’t.” My voice was hoarse. I squirmed away from Diane’s grasping hands and struggled to my feet. I had been sitting on the ground, crouched against the side of the house. The overturned grill lay in front of me, dull, papery ashes strewn across the brick patio.
“You were screaming Nadia’s name. You were telling her not to move, not to run. I couldn’t get you to talk to me. You could have burned yourself,” Diane panted, pulling her phone from her pocket and waving it in the air. “I know you’re grieving, baby, but that’s not normal.”
I almost laughed at her understatement. “I just got a little…overwhelmed. It won’t happen again.” My hands trembled as I dusted off my pants, so I grabbed a broom leaning against a bench near the sliding glass door and gripped the handle. “See? I’m fine. I’ll clean this up and come inside.”
Diane eyed me as she fingered the buttons on the phone.
“Diane, if you call now, they’re going to come, see that I’m totally fine, and be kinda irritated with you for the false alarm.”
She put her hands on her hips, and I almost took a step back. Diane worked down at the medium-security lockup, and she had a better game face than any thug I’d ever met. “We’re going to the doctor tomorrow, and that’s the end of this,” she snapped.
“Fine,” I muttered as I swept. “Whatever.”
As soon as she disappeared into the house, I let myself collapse back onto the ground. I stared at the little pile of ashes in the dustpan, at the gray smears across the patio. Two possibilities. One: I was going utterly insane. My best friend’s death had driven me over the edge, and if this continued, I’d be headed for the psych ward sometime very soon. Two: I was actually connecting with Nadia, and I knew where she was. But it was so much worse than the place that had haunted me over the last two years. It was dangerous. People bled there. They died there, even though they were already dead. For all I knew, one of those sword-wielding freaks might be attacking her right now.
I finished sweeping up as quickly as I could and waved cheerfully as Diane gave me a concerned look. I headed back to my room, the smile sliding off my face as soon as I turned away. I lay on my bed and held my hands up in front of me, trying to recall the exact sensation of being in Nadia’s head. Of being Nadia. Nothing. I closed my eyes and tried to sleep. Maybe I could dream about her. Maybe I could see if she’d gotten into one of those apartments. Maybe she would hear me this time. Maybe I could talk to her. Maybe I could be with her again.
Of course, the only time I’d ever wished for one of those nightmares, I couldn’t even get myself to sleep. My tattoo itched and ached, sending spikes of pain up and down my arm, but it didn’t draw me into her head again. I stared at it, the dark ink on my reddened, raw skin. It had been meant as a good-bye—but what if it had drilled her deeper into my heart? Before, I’d wanted the dreams to stop. Now, I wanted more. That vision had felt so real. Not like a shadow over the real world; it had been the real world. Like what I’d seen was really happening. And if it was, Nadia was in deep trouble. I lay there for hours, trying to coax a vision into my brain. My heart ticked in time with the blinking light on my alarm clock, each second winding me tighter. What if she didn’t make it into one of those apartments?
What if you really do belong in the psych ward?
I threw the covers back, unwilling to think about that possibility, too focused on Nadia to worry about it anyway.
If I couldn’t get a vision of Nadia to come to me, maybe I could go find one.