34
I STAYED WITH HIM till dawn. Sitting with him like he sat with me in the old farmhouse. He brought me to that place against my will and then my will brought him to this place, and maybe that meant we sort of owned each other. Or owed each other. Anyway, no debt is ever fully repaid, not really, not the ones that really matter. You saved me, he said, and back then I didn’t understand what I had saved him from. That was before he told me the truth about who he was, and afterward I thought he meant I had saved him from that whole human genocide, mass-murderer thing. Now I was thinking he didn’t mean I saved him from anything, but for something. The tricky part, the unanswerable part, the part that scared the crap out of me, was what that something might be.
He moaned in his sleep. His fingers clawed at the covers. Delirious. Been there and done that, too, Evan. I took his hand. Burned and bruised and broken, and I had wondered what took him so long to find me? He must have crawled here. His hand was hot; his face shone with sweat. For the first time it occurred to me that Evan Walker might die—so soon, too, after rising from the dead.
“You’re going to live,” I told him. “You have to live. Promise, Evan. Promise me you’re going to live. Promise me.”
I slipped a little. Tried not to. Couldn’t help it:
“That’ll complete the circle, then we’re done; we’re both done, me and you. You shot me and I lived. I shot you and you live. See? That’s how it works. Ask anybody. Plus the fact that you’re Mr. Ten-Centuries-Old Superbeing destined to save us pitiful humans from the intergalactic swarm. That’s your job. What you were born to do. Or bred to. Whatever. You know, as plans to conquer the world go, yours has been pretty sucky. Almost a year into it and we’re still here, and who’s the one flat on his back like a bug with drool on his chin?”
Actually, he did have some drool on his chin. I dabbed it up with a corner of the blanket.
The door opened and big ol’ Poundcake stepped into the room. Then Dumbo, grinning from big ear to big ear, then Ben, and finally Sam. Finally as in no Teacup.
“How is he?” Ben asked.
“Burning up,” I answered. “Delirious. He keeps talking about grace.”
Ben frowned. “Like ‘Amazing Grace’?”
“Maybe saying grace, like before a meal,” Dumbo suggested. “He’s probably starving.”
Poundcake lumbered over to the window and stared down at the icy parking lot. I watched him Eeyore-walk across the room, then turned to Ben. “What happened?”
“He won’t say.”
“Then make him say. You’re the sarge, right?”
“I don’t think he can.”
“So Teacup’s vanished and we don’t know where or why.”
“She caught up with Ringer,” Dumbo guessed. “And Ringer decided to take her to the caverns, not waste any time bringing her back.”
I jerked my head toward Poundcake. “Where was he?”
“Found him outside,” Ben said.
“Doing what?”
“Just . . . hanging out.”
“Just hanging out? Really? You guys ever wonder which team Poundcake might be playing for?”
Ben shook his head wearily. “Sullivan, don’t start—”
“Seriously. The mute act could be just an act. Keeps you from having to answer any awkward questions. Plus the fact that it makes a lot of sense planting one of your own into each brainwashed squad, in case anybody starts to wise—”
“Right, and before Poundcake it was Ringer.” Ben was losing it. “Next it’ll be Dumbo. Or me. When the guy who admitted he was the enemy is lying right there, holding your hand.”
“Actually, I’m holding his hand. And he isn’t the enemy, Parish. I thought we covered this.”
“How do we know he didn’t kill Teacup? Or Ringer? How do we know that?”
“Oh, Christ, look at him. He couldn’t kill a . . . a . . .” I tried to think of the proper thing he had the strength to kill, but the only thing my hungry, sleep-deprived brain could come up with was mayfly, which would have been a really, really bad choice of words. Like an inadvertent omen, if an omen can be inadvertent.
Ben whipped around to Dumbo, who flinched. I think he preferred Ben’s wrath be directed at anybody but him. “Will he live?”
Dumbo shook his head, the tips of his ears growing bright pink. “It’s bad.”
“That’s my question. How bad? How soon before he can travel?”
“Not for a while.”
“Damn it, Dumbo, when?”
“A couple weeks? A month? His ankle’s broke, but that’s not the worst. The infection, then you’ve got the risk of gangrene . . .”
“A month? A month!” Ben laughed humorlessly. “He storms this place, takes you out, beats the crap out of me, and a couple hours later he can’t move for a month!”