FIFTEEN
HENRY AND I TROMPED into the camp around ten, after dropping off Malachi and Jim near one of the winter homeless shelters. We’d said our terse good-byes and good huntings, and I drove away, silently determined to prove myself to all of them—especially my Lieutenant. Now my head buzzed with a heavily caffeinated and highly explosive mixture of anticipation and anxiety.
Our boots crunched in the stiff, overgrown grass as we hiked off the sidewalk. We swung our stuff over a useless chain-link fence and wiggled through the ragged man-sized hole that had been cut through it. The traffic of I-95 roared above us, even at this time of night. It echoed in the chill, punctuated by gusts of wind that knifed right through my three layers of clothes. I’d straightened my hair and knotted it tight, and then pulled that thick woolen hat over it. Henry had a bright-red ski mask shoved up on his forehead, which made him look a little like a demented garden gnome. In addition to his own backpack, he’d insisted on carrying our tent, which Raphael had had to bring at the last minute to replace the one Malachi and I had killed.
“Heyheyhey,” called a rough voice gouged away by what sounded like decades of heavy smoking, “get the fuck out.” A head popped out of one of the bedraggled tents nestled behind a crumbling rock wall at the base of the overpass. The person climbed out of the tent, holding a baseball bat.
I held my hands up in the air, and Henry dropped the tent and did the same. “Looking for a safe place to bed down,” Henry called. “My girl and I won’t cause no trouble. We just need a place to sleep.”
The individual with the baseball bat stepped into the light from a highway lamp far above us. He looked like an Eskimo, completely bundled up except for his eyes, nose, and mouth. He put the bat to his shoulder, his gloved fists tight around its base.
I stepped forward. This guy would back down easily; I could tell by the twitch of his eyes between me and Henry. He was scared. “Dude, we’re not going to hurt you,” I said as Henry edged up close next to me. He’d probably sensed the same fear in the guy. “And this isn’t private property. We can be here same as you.”
The guy let out a harsh, hoarse laugh. “Guess that’s true, as long as you keep yourselves to yourselves. You heard about the attacks?”
“Yeah,” said Henry. “We were at another camp when they came through the other night. Tried the shelters, but they won’t let us stay together, so we came here.” He put his arm around my shoulders, and I leaned against his wiry frame, trying to look romantically inclined.
The bundled guy pointed with the tip of his bat. “There’s a good space over there by the water if you want it. Don’t make too much noise, though. Harriet won’t like it. She likes folks to keep it clean.”
I muscled down a shudder. “Harriet?”
Bundled Guy grunted. “Ex-nun. She’s got a bat, too.”
Henry laughed. “We’ll try not to offend Sister Harriet. And we got supplies we’ll share.” He pointed to our discarded backpack.
Bundled Guy’s eyes shone softly. “We keep collective supplies over there. Thanks for that.”
He left us alone while we set up camp on a rocky patch of gravel near the slap and splash of the bay just a few yards and a thin strip of grass away. When we got it up, we added our cans and a loaf of bread to the strange collection of supplies on a dirty white table set up under one of the lights. As we did, a few more people came out to introduce themselves.
There was one couple, Mike and Liz, who said they were just passing through, trying to get to Georgia from Maine. There was a skinny unemployed waitress who’d lost her home, and a guy who seriously resembled a walrus and said he did drywall. He was the only one without a tent, and had built himself a lean-to from corrugated metal and cardboard. He also reeked of booze and kept giving the waitress hungry looks until she fled back to her tent and zipped it up tight.
Two of the camp residents were kids, lanky teenage boys with loose, stretched-out cuffs on their sleeves and a hollow look in their eyes, making me wonder how many tricks they’d turned today and how recently they’d shot up their earnings. I thought of Nick and wondered if they knew him, if he’d shared a mattress or a needle with them. These boys, these people, were perfect targets for the Mazikin. No one would know or care if they were missing. Hell, they were already missing and no one cared. When they died, people would cluck their tongues and say what a waste it was. They wouldn’t look too hard for a cause, for a killer. And if a Mazikin possessed them, no one would know the difference.
I sent Henry back to the tent and patrolled around the edge of the camp, getting a sense of its layout and where it would be most vulnerable to an attack. It would be difficult to hear the approach of footsteps because of the highway noise, and that was a major disadvantage. The tents nearest the water were likely to get hit first, seeing as the others were against a wall. The easiest escape was along the grass, which extended up into a park area, or back toward the neighborhood we’d just walked through. We’d parked about four blocks away in a neighborhood full of people who didn’t raise their eyes from the sidewalk as they passed, but I knew they were watching us all the same. Not the safest place to leave a vehicle. Our Guard car was a twelve-year-old Taurus, though, and I doubted anyone would want to jack it.
Around midnight, I joined Henry in the tent, keeping the flashlight aimed at his feet and not his face. He was sitting there in the dark, casually fitting iron-tipped bolts to the long, narrow crossbow he’d assembled from a jumble of components he’d carried in his backpack. “I can’t hear anything with this noise,” he complained. “I hate this noise.”
“I know. Me too. I need to go back out there to keep an eye out, but …” I hated to admit it, but I was freezing.
“Oh, I forgot,” he said. He pulled a pair of heavy black gloves from his pack, and then chuckled as he handed them to me. “‘Make sure you give these to the Captain,’ he said to me.” His imitation of Malachi’s accent was hilariously bad. “‘She will not remember them herself.’” He nodded at my bare, red-fingered hands clutching the flashlight. “Guess he was right.”
I sat down heavily, set the flashlight between us, and took the gloves from him. They were leather, lined with soft, thick fleece. I slid them over my hands and sighed. They fit perfectly. I wasn’t sure what made me feel warmer—the gloves themselves or the fact that Malachi had thought about me being out here in the cold. I just wished he’d given them to me in person.
“Captain, have you talked to him about what happened? At the nest, I mean.”
I peered at Henry, trying to read his expression in the mostly dark. “Not since the day it happened.” Right before he tore my heart out.
Henry scratched at a spot on his neck. “Well … I think he took it kinda hard. I don’t think he’s sleeping well. He’s up all hours after we get home from patrols, training in the basement. And when he does sleep …” He shook his head. “Maybe I shouldn’t be telling you this.”
I kept my expression neutral, even though my chest was aching fiercely. “It’s my job to help him, Henry.”
He nodded and gave me a cautious look. “I think he’s been having nightmares, is all.”
I wrapped my arms around my knees, curling into a ball around the hurt caused by Malachi’s pain. “I’ll try to talk to him.” Try being the operative word.
Henry shrugged and pulled a musty blanket from his pack. “It’s my turn to patrol.”
“Where will you be?”
“Concealed spot with a clear shot at the path leading to this tent. How we used to do in the Wasteland.” His brow creased like a memory had hit him sideways. “It wasn’t ever safe, but we could protect each other.”
“We?” I met his gaze. “You had a partner.”
“I did,” he said in a strained voice. “And we were good together. I didn’t want to leave him.”
The way he said it, the pain in his eyes … I could tell the partnership was more than professional. “Did you have a choice? To come here, I mean.”
Henry bowed his head. “There’s always a choice, I suppose, but it seemed like a chance I shouldn’t turn down. When I’m done here, though, I’m going back for him.”
“You want to go back to the Wasteland?”
“If I have to. I guess I hoped that doing good on this mission would give me some credit with the Judge, maybe enough to get Sascha out, even if it means I have to stay.” He gave me a sheepish look. “That probably sounds dumb to you.”
“Not at all. It makes total sense.” I spoke past the lump in my throat. “Let’s get this done so that you can find him again.”
His flickering smile whispered his gratitude. He tugged his ski mask down over his face, tucked the crossbow against his body, and pulled the blanket around him like a cape. “You can rest. I won’t be far.”
I tucked the smelly sleeping bag around me, leaving it unzipped in case I needed to get out in a hurry. I switched off the flashlight and lay there in the dark, thinking about Henry. His situation reminded me of Ana and Takeshi, who had dared to fall in love in the dark city, and who had been separated tragically when Takeshi had been possessed by a Mazikin. Hopefully, Ana was in the Countryside now, and they’d found each other again, but I knew well enough now that giving one’s heart to another Guard was just asking to have it crushed.
To get my mind back on track, I practiced drawing the knives from their sheaths and striking at an invisible attacker. This afternoon, I hadn’t been wearing gloves, so it took me awhile to get used to the feel of my fingers being thicker and less sensitive, protected but not as nimble. As I worked, I couldn’t help the little spark of pride as I thought about what I’d learned, and how fast I’d learned it.
I rolled over, wincing at the feel of gravel through our thin, moldy pad, still fingering the handles of the knives holstered against my body. I flinched at a distant sound, sudden and high. A shout? Or was that just more traffic noise? Before I figured it out, a hooting laugh only a few feet from the tent brought me out of the sleeping bag. I crouched low in the inky darkness, sniffing at the air, straining to hear anything but the white noise of traffic. A few seconds later, I heard it again.
And then someone screamed.
Suddenly, the camp was full of screeches and clangs and heavy thuds and ripping fabric. I shot out of the tent and into the night, knife in one hand and flashlight in the other, and was immediately tackled by a hissing ball of rags reeking of incense. I hit the ground, rolled, and kicked the thing toward the water. I shoved myself to my feet. The camp was a battleground, sheer chaos. Someone was shouting to call 911. Someone else was sobbing. I couldn’t tell what the hell was going on because it was all bobbing flashlights and running, screaming people.
A figure on all fours ran into the beam of my flashlight and looked in my direction. It had white, scraggly hair, broad shoulders, and shockingly long arms. The Mazikin rose up on its feet and came toward me on bowed legs. It had a severe underbite, revealing chipped and broken bottom teeth. “Perfect!” it snarled, and then leaped at me.
I knocked its jagged fingernails away with my coat sleeve and bashed it across the face with my flashlight. Its head tilted to the side with the impact, but then it steadied itself with its thick legs. It lunged toward me with a low growl, and in that moment I realized how hard it was going to be to actually capture one of these things. I pivoted around and plunged the knife into its side, driving it through bone and muscle as an animalistic cry rolled from my throat. As the creature doubled over, its face met my waiting knee with a wet crunch. The Mazikin’s eyes bugged out and a string of bloody saliva flew from its mouth as it fell to the ground.
Another Mazikin jumped on my back, making me gag with the stench. It bit my shoulder, but its teeth didn’t penetrate all the layers of clothing. I bent over sharply, and it flew off my back and hit the gravel. Before it could get up, I landed on its chest with both my knees and cut its throat; then I scrambled up, grateful I’d dropped my flashlight and couldn’t see what I’d done. Grateful I couldn’t see the blood soaking my new gloves.
As I was turning to get my bearings, a shock of pain blasted my upper arm, and I couldn’t hold the scream inside. White-red pinpricks glittered in front of my eyes as I fell to my side and used my legs to push my attacker away from me, straight into the light from the highway lamps.
“You can’t have my camp,” the bat-wielding, white-haired woman screeched. Sister Harriet to the rescue.
“I don’t want your camp, lady!” I clutched at my left arm, which was pulsing with agony and felt like it had already swelled to the approximate size and weight of a baby hippo. I turned on my stomach and retched from the pain. “I’m trying to protect it!”
Gravel shrapnel hit the embankment over my head, and Harriet the nun let out a shriek and stumbled back, which kept her from swinging at me again. One of the street boys screamed in pain or fear, and he sounded so much like Nick that I actually called out his name. But my voice was only one among many, drowned in the chaos. Where was Henry? Had they already gotten him?
Through a haze of pain, I staggered to my feet and drew another knife, letting my broken left arm dangle uselessly at my side. I pointed the blade at Harriet, and the look on my face made her hug the bat to her chest. “If it smells like incense, hit it hard,” I ordered, “and don’t let them drag you away, no matter what.”
Her face was as white as her hair. She nodded.
“Now get your back against a wall!” I did the same as I squinted into the darkness. Harriet pressed her stout little body to the concrete embankment behind us, and I scooted to give her a wider berth for fear of getting smacked upside the head. A movement in the grass and a low moan near the water drew my attention. Keeping my shoulder to the wall and Harriet at my back, I crept toward it.
Footsteps pounded and skidded in the darkness a few feet away, and I whirled around to meet the attack, adrenaline numbing my white-hot arm. Before it reached me, the oncoming Mazikin let out an airless yip and fell at my feet, a crossbow bolt protruding from the center of its back. Relief flowed through me. Henry was here. He was shooting in the dark.
And I couldn’t argue with the results. Now if only we could corner one and take it alive.
Eager and unhinged laughter to my left drew my eyes back toward the waterfront. It was coming from the bundle of hair and rags that had tackled me when I first came from the tent. It was a woman, with a wild mass of dark curls tangled every which way around her. Her hair must have been at least two feet long, full of braids and beads and leaves and twigs. The light from the high moon revealed she was trying to drag the skinny waitress along the narrow patch of grass by the water.
“Hey there.” I stepped out from the darkness of the overpass, shoving the pain from my arm into the deep recesses of my mind. “Let her go, and you can have me.”
The waitress, whose neck was bleeding all over her pink flannel shirt, whimpered and struggled, but the small female Mazikin jerked her close.
“No, ella es perfecta,” the thing snapped, her hair obscuring her face and making her seem more animal than human.
“She’s kinda skinny,” I commented, stalking closer. Behind me, Harriet grunted, and someone’s growl turned into a shriek as the bat hit its mark. The female Mazikin’s head shot up, looking toward the sound. I ran for her, hoping this would be a short fight. She dropped the waitress and stood up straight, revealing she was actually about as tall as I was. With long, broken fingernails, she clawed her hair away from her face and met my eyes.
I stopped dead, swaying in place, and stared at her.
She did the same. Her expression melted, from bared teeth to parted lips, from eyes full of fury to full of tears.
“Tú has crecido,” she said, her voice trembling and high. She took a step closer to me and blinked, sending tears spilling down her face. “Oh oh oh. So … pretty.”
I took a step back, stomach twisting, skull caving in, vision sparking. “No.” I raised the knife. She flinched but kept moving, closing the distance between us with tiny, shuffling steps.
“Mija,” she crooned, reaching for me with those filthy, jagged nails grasping.
I couldn’t move. I was paralyzed with pain from inside and out, making me see red and black and soft hands and curly hair and sad smile and golden-brown eyes now dull with someone else’s soul.
“No, nononono,” I babbled, stumbling back.
“Lela,” the Mazikin whispered.
“No!” I screamed, leaping at her. “You don’t know me!”
I hit her hard, but I was desperate and off-balance. She shoved me to the side, and I crashed into the trunk of a tree, crying out as my broken arm caught my weight. The knife fell from my hands as my whole body spasmed with pain. Hunched over, I pivoted around to see her backing up quickly, looking behind her, toward her escape route.
She beckoned to me. “Come,” she said. “Come. Ven conmigo. Lela.”
A gust of wind lifted her hair from her face again, revealing hollow cheeks, skin wrinkled and sagging, tired and used. But those golden-brown eyes … I knew them.
I saw them every day. Whenever I looked in the mirror.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw another figure step onto the grass, lit up by the bright moon.
Henry raised his crossbow and took aim.
At my mother.