I reached for the ropes that had held my feet and wound them loosely back into place, then did likewise to my hands—not actually restraining myself, but giving the appearance that I was still tied.
The driver's door opened, then closed. Squishy footsteps worked their way alongside the car. They paused. Another vehicle was coming. I heard the distant roar and rush as it approached and slowed down.
"Do you need any help there, buddy?"
"No, no, I'm okay. I just pulled off to make a phone call."
"Oh—all right. Have a good day."
"You too."
The other car drove away. Malachi did not move for a moment. His heart must have been beating as hard as mine, but I had little sympathy for him. In a moment he was going to open the trunk and then . . . and then what?
The key clicked and twitched in the lock. The trunk lifted. I held as still as I could, facedown with my hair spilled across my shoulders, trying to look as helpless and unconscious as I possibly could. My hands were tucked beneath me, so he might not notice they were not tied with his original handiwork.
He must have been staring down at me, for he did not touch me for a minute. Then he worked one arm underneath me, and I heard him grunting, breathing shallowly. Oh yes. I'd hurt him badly a couple of days before. I don't weigh that much, but it must have nearly killed him to hoist me inside the trunk to begin with. Even Harry had complained about it. Heavier than I look. Ha.
Malachi hesitated, and withdrew. He was thinking hard, watching me. I kept my breath faint and resisted the temptation to groan. He made another try with the other arm, and he achieved similarly lackluster results. He grunted again, whimpered slightly, and pulled away.
Ah, I understood.
He was holding something in one hand. Something he didn't want to put down in order to pick me up. I fought the urge to peer out through my hair. There was really no need. I knew it must be a gun. All the more reason for me to be as cumbersome as I could. If I could make him put it down, I could overpower him without too much trouble.
Clunk.
He did it. He set it down—on the bumper, I'd bet. Keep it close at hand.
Just to make sure, I waited until I felt both of his arms worming their way beneath me. He was pulling me up, lifting me slowly, laboriously, from the trunk; he was holding me pressed awkwardly against his chest. His face was close enough to kiss.
Where was it I'd stabbed him? Which side of his chest? Or was it more his shoulder? I must not have gotten him as good as I'd thought. Still, he was bound to be sore. My left arm is weaker than my right, but it was the one that was dangling free. My right one was pinned between our chests, and although I could have wiggled it loose it would have taken too much time. I needed to surprise him.
He'd hoisted me out nearly to my hips when I swung.
His groin was not my first pick of targets at such an angle, but anything else would have gone wild. As it was, I didn't come up from underneath—it was more of a flat punch—but I must say, he wassurprised when my fist nailed his crotch. He was so surprised, in fact, that he dropped me and jerked his head up, smacking himself on the raised lid of the trunk. I couldn't have planned it any better even if I'd had time and the foresight to try.
I fell halfway out and down, catching myself on my hands before I could do a face-plant in the dirt. I flipped forward, landing in a crouch behind the car. Meanwhile, Malachi instinctively brought a hand to the back of his head and one to his balls.
We recovered at about the same time, and we both went for the gun.
Neither of us found it; he must have knocked it off the bumper when he slid me out of the trunk. Yes, there it was—under the car beside the back tire. Since I was closest to the ground, I saw it first. I ducked beneath the car in its pursuit.
Malachi grabbed my foot and began to tug. I started to kick out with the other leg, but he caught that one in his free hand. I let him have it. I even let him drag me out from under the wheels, feeling the dirt and rocks crawl up my shirt and scrape my stomach. No, no more struggling from me.
I let him extract me because I had the gun.
I pivoted in his grasp. He held on to my feet, but his arms were now crossed, elbows bent at uncomfortable angles. Malachi had pulled me into the sunlight only to stare down the barrel of his own pistol.
"Hey there, Sunshine." I smiled.
He let go of my legs and his body sagged forward a little. A dark spot was spreading below his right collarbone; he must have split a few stitches. He backed a step or two away, out of my personal space. I kept the gun trained on him with one hand and used the other to pull myself up against the vehicle.
Above us, the sky was blue, going on gray. I could swear it was about to rain, or perhaps it was getting dark. The day could not be as late as it looked unless I'd been out of it longer than I thought. I heard a rumble somewhere distant—an oncoming car, I hoped, but it was more likely thunder.
I wiped a stray tangle of hair out of my face.
"I'm not who you think I am," I said, just for the record. My voice was only barely quaking, so it came off well. "You've never understood—not even for a second."
He didn't reply. He stood there patiently, waiting for me to shoot him. Making peace with his God, or something like that. Bleeding profusely, at any rate. If there was one thing Malachi knew how to do besides pray, it was bleed."What do I have to do, Malachi?" I think it was the first time I'd ever called him by his name. "Do I honestly have to kill you?"
"Yes, Avery—"
"I'm not Avery!" I yelled, and the coming thunder gave me an echo. "I'm not Avery, you insane son of a bitch! I'm your sister!"
"That can't matter. You're here," he retorted. I couldn't tell if I'd told him anything new or not. Had he known all along that we shared a father? Had he cared?
"What? What's that got to do with anything?"
"You're here to start the summoning. You're here to bring Gray back." His lower lip was set in a stubborn line. I found the expression distractingly familiar, but then I remembered it was one I'd seen in the mirror. That realization enraged me all the more.
"I'm here to stop the . . . the summoning! Don't you get it? If I don't stop it, my aunt Lu is going to die—and then I'm going to die—and I don't particularly want to die, dammit, so I'm here to put an end to this whole thing!"
"I don't believe you."
"I don't care!" My voice had climbed to a higher, frustrated pitch. "It's God's own truth! And if I have to shoot you in order to see this out, you can bet your sweet ass I will."
"Don't you swear before God."
"Why not? He knows I'm not lying, and if you two were really on such magnificent speaking terms, He'd tell you that!" More thunder, closer now. Or was it thunder at all? It wasn't rolling in crashing peals, rather it seemed to come in one rushing wave.
Closer. Definitely closer.
But what to do with Malachi? The weight of the gun was deeply tempting, but I knew myself better than he did, and I knew that I wasn't going to fire it. I did want to put it down, though, because the thought of standing in a thunderstorm while holding a raised hunk of metal didn't much appeal to me.
"Forget it." I waved the gun at the car. "Just forget it, and get in the trunk."
"What?"
"I'm not going to kill you—even though I bloody well should. But since I can't have you following me, either, get in the trunk before I start using your less vital body parts for target practice. Do it!"
His internal debate was written all over his face, but I never had time to learn whether or not he would have eventually obeyed, for it was then that the thunder hit us. The wave struck us both, shaking the swamp and leaving the air smelling of sizzled ozone, so there might have been some lightning too. Then, after it had run us over, it was gone, except for a residual rumble and the ringing in our ears.
At least my ears were ringing again when I picked myself back up.
No part of Malachi was doing much of anything, except lying in a loose pile, the whites of his eyes peeking out as pale as boiled eggs. His tongue lolled past his teeth at the corner of his mouth. A trickle of blood dampened the base of his nose.
If he wasn't really unconscious, he was way better at faking it than I was.
Funny, I almost wished he was awake. I needed to ask someone—even just to hear the question aloud—what was that? I needed to hear that it wasn't just me, and that someone else was confused and frightened too.
But no, it was definitely better this way, better to have him lying there beside the road where someone might find him. I thought about tossing him in the trunk anyway, just to be on the safe side, but it seemed like overkill. He needed medical attention too badly to pose any real threat, and furthermore, I had his gun. Let someone find him and take him to the hospital, or better yet, call the cops.
I checked the safety, then stuffed the gun down the back of my jeans, wincing when the cool metal touched my warm back. I didn't really think that a gun would be any use against whatever energy had bowled us over, but I may as well hang on to it all the same.
You never know. Someone human was doing this, and someone human might need to get shot at.
And then I heard the voice, calling from the trees.
He's coming. He's coming, baby. You get yourself gone.
11
The Death of the Sisters
I
"No," I said, to myself or to whoever could hear me. "No, of course I won't. Mae, is that you? Mae?" I scanned the tree line for some grand sign, or for a glimpse of a ghost who must be there. I saw nothing but endless rows of knobby trees and wet green leaves. For another moment, all was still except for the distant, incessant trickling of water and a choir of insects.
Just when I thought I might have imagined it, the voice came again.