Dying Breath Page 8

  “Beliefs don’t have to be religious.” I prop my head in my hand. “I believe BBQ potato chips are the best. Jesse believes plain potato chips are the best. Ally voted for cheddar and sour cream.”

  Azrael flashes a smile. “A belief then. Those who are part of the Reliance, we hold a shared belief.”

  She doesn’t say anything else. The chair squeaks and I realize I’m leaning forward, straining with anticipation to hear what she’ll say next.

  “A belief about…?” I encourage her with a wave of my hand. “Potato chips?”

  “No.”

  I make a serious guess. “Humans?”

  “Yes.”

  Whew. We’re getting somewhere. I wonder if Jesse’s ever this frustrated with Gabriel.

  “What do you believe about humans?”

  She doesn’t answer. And she won’t. She has that faraway look in her eyes again. I’m not ready to give up.

  “Are all the angels part of the Reliance?”

  “No.” Her gaze sharpens. “We war with one another.”

  “And here I was hoping there was a civilization out there that existed without war. I should’ve known better.”

  “You created us,” she whispers, her gaze distant. “We are no better.”

  Chapter 12

  Jesse

  Two more patrol cars fly through the neighborhood. They plan to search every single house I bet. Who knew a tiny town like Cochise could afford such a well-staffed police department. Hell, at this point, every citizen in this county must be a police officer. I’ve seen more uniformed cops than civilians today. Maybe even Donnie himself was a cop. Good thing I knocked him out, or he would have been more trouble than he was worth.

  Another disturbing possibility, and a more probable reason for all the cops whizzing down the streets and bombarding all the houses is this:

  Reinforcements.

  Either the news story broke, and the wanted terrorists have been found, or Georgia herself has called for help. It’s crossed my mind. I mean, I wouldn’t go crying like a little girl if I was stranded in the desert—but I imagine some people would.

  I run up the carpeted stairs in the house to find a front-facing window in one of the bedrooms. I crouch down and crawl past a queen-sized mattress and storage ottoman. Slowly, I pull myself up and peek over the sill into the street below.

  I have a much better view from here. The height of the house allows me to see in all three directions, not to mention through the spaces between houses.

  I gulp. Shit.

  Gabriel materializes beside me and gazes through the window in full view. Sure, if I was an invisible man I could stand in front of windows too, instead of hunkering down and looking ridiculous like I am now.

  “There are many officers,” Gabriel says.

  “You think.” I roll my eyes.

  Every fiber in my body’s screaming, get down!

  “They can’t see me,” Gabriel says, blinking those green cat eyes at me.

  “I know,” I grumble. It’s stupid to worry since no one can see him. But he’s real to me and instincts are hard to override.

  I scan the streets and see the cops everywhere. They give the distinct impression of an ant hill, restless at dusk, devouring the lawns and houses now the birds have gone to sleep.

  I slide down the wall facing the door. The mattress is higher than my head. I stare down the hallway, at the cold light illuminating the carpeted floor from some window I can’t see.

  “You are stronger,” Gabriel says, standing beside me.

  I reach out and place a palm on the back of Gabriel’s calf. The fabric is soft like cotton. The calf firm as any boy’s calf I’ve ever touched.

  I sigh.

  “You can easily destroy them all. You are untouchable within your shield.”

  “I know,” I say because I want him to stop talking.

  “What troubles you?” He kneels beside me, his face close to mine. If he were a real boy, I’d expect him to kiss me. But he isn’t a boy, so he only stares at me.

  “She’s going to wake up,” I whisper, searching those green eyes for answers he doesn’t have. Green, the color of expansive fields running along the highway. Green, like untilled land in spring. Bright with rain.

  “That should please you.”

  I cover my face. “It does! I want Ally to wake up. I’m glad Maisie was there to save her.”

  So fucking glad.

  He places a cool hand on my leg in turn. Here we are, holding each other’s legs. Me and my imaginary friend. Weird.

  “When she wakes up, she’s going to see what I’ve done. If I leave this enormous body count…”

  I can’t even finish out loud. She’s going to think I’m a monster.

  She’s well on her way to believing that already. But there’s more. I know Ally. I know if she wakes up and I’ve exploded a whole town, she’s going to blame herself. She’s going to think she should’ve been alive. She should’ve been awake to stop me.

  If I succeed in this mission, if I finish Caldwell and save Maisie, that means I will have absorbed his power.

  I’m not stupid.

  Rachel lost her freaking mind when she absorbed one power. One. What do I think is going to happen when I absorb all of Caldwell’s powers? And then let’s throw Georgia’s abilities on top of those.

  Once I absorb all the power, I don’t know who I’ll be, what I’ll be.

  By the time this day’s over, I might very well be the monster of Ally’s dreams.

  Do I want Ally to wake up to a world where I’m out of my mind, and all Ally has to remember me by is a heap of corpses in the desert?

  Gabriel squeezes my leg. “You are stronger than you believe you are.”

  “She won’t understand.” My voice cracks.

  “You must focus on the task at hand,” Gabriel says.

  He’s right. If I get myself killed by doing something stupid, that won’t make Ally happy either.

  I huff and pull myself up to look out the window again. They keep shouting something to each other. Here? Here. What kind of game is this?

  They rush in the houses, guns drawn, sticking to a formation recognizable in any action movie.

  “Clear,” an officer says. Clear! That makes more sense. Clear, as in no one is in the house. I watch them do the work for me. If they find Maisie, they’ll drag her out. But they don’t. House after house. Clear. Clear.

  Where are you, kiddo? I close my eyes and reach for the connection inside me, the power tethering me to Maisie.

  Ping. It’s like echolocation. I get a sense of the general direction, but nothing specific. No exact I’m here! No signs appear in my mind. I’m not psychic like Gloria. I’m not getting any information but the echolocation.

  I tilt my head and push again.

  Ping.

  I do it for the third time.

  I open my eyes and look at the wall straight ahead. But it’s a closet. Beyond that is east. Further east of all these houses. Perhaps on the edge of town. If that’s true, the cops aren’t going to find her right away. If they keep sweeping town the way they are now, it will be one of the last places they look.

  If I were Georgia, I’d want a place out of the way to hole up while Caldwell recuperates. Further east it is. Now I need to get out of this house and make my way to that side of town without getting caught.

  A door bangs open downstairs.

  The rush of feet makes me suck in a breath. Fuck.

  Of course, they’re going to check my hideout now.

  Who said it would be easy?

  I leap up from the floor and duck into the dark closet. I shut the door behind me and turn on the light. I search the closet for an exit. Nada.

  A door in the ceiling looks promising. I reach up and pull the cord. A ladder slides down, and I start climbing without wondering where the hell I’m going. Halfway up, I realize I left on the light. Fuck.

  I clamber down, turn off the light, making sure the door is
pulled closed and start up again.

  The air above is hot. It’s worse than stepping out into the desert afternoon again. Immediately sweat begins to bead on the back of my neck as I lift the ladder as carefully as possible, pulling it back into place slowly. Quiet-as-a-mouse slow. That’s all I need. To bang a door shut and let the cops hot on my ass know exactly where I am.

  I tiptoe across the attic looking for a place to hide.

  Use the shield, Gabriel advises.

  My heart pounds in my chest. He’s warning me the cops are about to wrench me out of the attic space until I realize what he means. The shield would soften any footfall. Probably not eliminate all sound completely, but it would help. Can sound be trapped inside a shield too?

  I’d totally be set in a horror movie. No madman would hear me breathing in the closet.

  I shield myself, making my way toward the back of the attic.

  Cardboard boxes sit to the left and right of the space, and even as short as I am, I have to hunch, or I’ll hit my head on one of the crossbeams. I’m at the very back wall when I spot another door. If you can call a square cut out of the wood a door. I stick my fingers inside and work it apart. There’s a 3x3 crawlspace behind it.

  The bedroom door squeals beneath me as the cops open the bedroom. Heart pounding furiously, I duck into the space without another thought. I drop my shield long enough to push a couple of the boxes closer, hoping to better block this door. Then I pull the door closed on me. I have no idea if it’s making an audible noise. For all I know, it sounds like I’m murdering a cat up here.

  The light from the closet comes on, shining through the floor. I freeze in the darkness. On impulse, I cover my face and nose and steady my breath, as if they’re going to hear me huffing and come up here. I open my eyes to make sure my purple shield is shimmering safely around me.

  Hangers screech on a metal pole.

  The clatter of the stairs tumbling down freezes my blood. I shrink deeper into the shadows with only the purple glow of my shield visible in the dark.

  Boots mount the stairs. They groan under the weight of what I imagine is a big man.

  Take a look. See nothing. Move on, I pray.

  I don’t want to kill anyone today. If they yank open the door to my crawlspace, I’ll have no choice. My back is against the wall. Literally. What can I do if they burst in? Explode through the roof? I imagine the wood splintering and chunks hurling themselves in all directions as I tumble down. If I keep the shield up, it’ll be like I’m in a hamster ball, a hamster wrecking ball.

  Then I remember the cute pictures in the hallway downstairs and the bread loaf downstairs.

  I renew my promise not to destroy their home.

  Boxes slide along the attic floor, and I hold my breath. My flames are close. It’s as if they’re crawling under my skin, ready for me to call them up.

  I hold my breath.

  A shadow passes, darkening the trim of the crawlspace. I raise a hand, ready to throw flames into the face of whoever opens the door.

  One moment stretches into two. My heart pounds hard. I’m certain I’ll pass out from lightheadedness.

  “Clear!” someone shouts, and I jump, startled by the proximity. Right there. The man’s right there on the other side of the door. But not crouched down, peering into my nook. His voice travels right over my head.

  Boots sound on the creaky ladder as the men, and maybe women, cops file back into the closet.

  I don’t move. I don’t dare.

  Even after I hear the door snap closed, I keep every muscle still. I breathe as quietly as possible as I strain to listen in the dark.

  That’s the thing about having a father like Caldwell. Deception. Mindfuckery. It can happen at any time. I can’t shake the image of some cop waiting on the other side of the door with a boo, a pair of handcuffs, and a bullet to the brain. I’d have to drop my shield to open the door.

  Despite the awful heat, and the sweat dripping down my neck, and the hairs matting themselves to my forehead and temples, I don’t move.

  I’ll wait a little while longer. Let them search all the houses. Let them think I got away.

  Then I’ll head east, house by house, until I find Maisie.

  They are watching the house, Gabriel whispers. He can’t materialize in this nook, and that’s fine. That’s what our awesome mindphone is for. One man believes he saw you in the window.

  I’ll have to wait them out. See who has the better attention span.

  There is not much time.

  I huff, unable to help myself. Does he think I want to stay in this cramped, hot as hell attic? Does this look like my idea of a good time? I know we are out of time. I don’t need you to keep reminding me we’re out of time.

  Every second we waste is a second closer to Caldwell waking up. Waking up and jumping halfway across the country, destroying any chance I’ll have of finishing him off.

  But he’s right. No matter how I slice this, he’s right.

  We’re running out of time.

  Chapter 13

  Maisie

  I search the desk drawers. It’s something dumb to do to keep my mind and hands busy.

  One drawer is full of photographs. The kind printed on paper. It’s weird. They’re relics, what with everyone using digital cameras or their phones now. When you can upload photos to the Internet, who has time to make paper copies? But here they are, honest to goodness paper pictures.

  I shuffle through them, enjoying the sound of the glossy squares rubbing against one another. Several pictures are of a very cute beagle. Big brown eyes like Winnie Pug and large floppy ears. I didn’t see a dog dish, bed, or toys in the house when we came in. Even Winnie Pug, who’s a fugitive, has a stuffed moose and a food dish. This puppy is probably dead. The fact the photos range from puppyhood to a muzzle full of gray tells me his whole puppy life has come and gone.

  I hope I get to see Winnie Pug grow old. He’ll be cute with a wrinkly old man face and a stiff old man shuffle. I’ll give his little shoulders a massage at night for his doggie arthritis and everything.

  Here I go again, making promises to the universe. If I see my eighteenth birthday, I’ll be super busy for the next seventy years. I’ve promised the powers that be just about everything: If I survive this, I promise to build houses in poor countries. I’ll deworm orphans. I’ll invent a cure for cancer. I’ll raise money for some debilitating disease. I’ll discover some cool techno gadget that’ll purify drinking water for millions.

  I’ve heard bargaining is one of the stages. How pathetic.

  Kids starve to death before they’re five. Or get cancer. Or hell, they’re murdered. Don’t you think they wanted more time? And I’m begging for days like I deserve it. As if I’m special.

  I’m not.

  I swallow the lump in my throat and pick up another stack of photos.

  A few of the pictures focus on a group of kids in red jerseys. Basketball team pictures. Big surprise. Sam eats and breathes ball. He must be tall enough for it, given the length of the pants I’m wearing. I had to roll them up four times before I stopped stepping on them. I’m looking for Sam in the photos. I try to guess which of these kids are his friends. Are they still friends? Do they spend their mornings playing ball together before the desert gets too hot?

  I sit the pile of photos on the top of the desk and open another drawer.

  My breath hitches.

  Scissors, scotch tape and a shiny boxcutter with a yellow plastic sheath sits in the drawer. I pull out the cutter. An inch of the blade protrudes from the plastic. The metal catches the light from the open window. The plastic is cold and bright in my hand.

  I pivot in the desk chair toward Dad’s lifeless body.

  I should kill him. I couldn’t do anything super morbid like plunge the cutter through his eye. I have a weak stomach and a super vivid imagination. The thought of his eyeball oozing out of its socket makes me want to puke, and I’ve done enough vomiting today thanks.

&nb
sp; But maybe I can cut through the stitches, reopen the wound, and slow the healing. It would buy Jesse more time.

  Or woman up and plunge it into his heart. Then I’ll have his powers. And I won’t be a weakling anymore. I could help Jesse.

  But help her do what? Kill Mom?

  Like that’s going to happen. I can’t do that anymore than I can protect Mom from Jesse.

  I lean over the bed, and the mattress creaks under my palm.

  I climb onto Dad’s chest. He doesn’t smell as much anymore. It’s the NRD. It’s putting him back together from the inside out. Decomposition is reversing. His cheeks gain color.

  I put the edge of the shiny blade against one of the thick stitches and push. I don’t have to push hard. The blade slices right through with a POP. The stitch splits, popping open like a busted guitar string. The skin parts like a red mouth. No blood. No gristle and bone now. Most of his flesh has fused back together.

  I cut through another stitch. POP. The skin peels farther apart, revealing marbled meat like a cut of sirloin in the supermarket. I turn away and suck in a breath.

  Maybe if I’d had a normal adolescence with high school science classes, I’d have dissected a frog or something. Then I wouldn’t be so queasy and I could do this.

  Tears sting my eyes.

  Great. Now I’m crying. Not only am I too weak to kill a guy who totally deserves it, probably saving hundreds of thousands of lives in the process, but I’m going to sit here and wail about it like a big baby.

  Stupid.

  The cold spark of death flashes inside me. Ice chips spray across my skin. I look up, blinking until my vision clears. I don’t see anything outside the window except for the burning town. A layer of gray fog hangs in their air, blurring out the desert beyond that.

  Someone died.

  Not Jesse. I can feel her. Her adrenaline. Whatever she’s doing, she’s got her hands full.

  I wipe my eyes and a shadow darts past the window. I jolt upright. Through the glass, a bike sits in the yard. Overturned, one wheel spins in the air, the plastic reflector going around and around in the sunlight.

  It wasn’t there before.