“Run.”
I picked up Boy Dog and we ran back through the people on the sidewalk, shocked commuters interrupted on their way to work, hearing the sounds of the accident and trying to catch a glimpse. How many of them had seen that I was the cause of it? Half a dozen, at least. I heard a few shouts behind us, calling out for us to stop, but no one tried to restrain us, and we ran for two blocks before Marci started slowing, clutching her abdomen and limping to a stop.
“You hurt?”
“Cramps,” she said, and she grunted through clenched teeth. I looked behind me, but no one seemed to be chasing us. She nodded at a coffee shop nearby. “Can we just lay low for a bit?”
“I want to get out of the area.”
“Then that’s what they’ll assume we’ll do,” she said, trying to straighten up. She winced and stayed slightly bent.
“Actually running is safer than trying to second-guess the people we’re running from,” I said. “Let’s just make it to the next bus stop.”
“Easy for you to say.” She took another pained breath, then loped forward as fast as she could. I set down Boy Dog and let him waddle along behind us, and took Marci’s arm to try to help her.
“Don’t touch me,” she hissed, and when I backed away she shook her head, still plowing forward. “Sorry, I’m not mad, I’m just…”
“There’s a stop right up there,” I said, pointing. “It leads away from the accident, and we’ll be able to relax.”
“Good.”
We made it to the stop as quickly as we could, but still had to wait three minutes for a bus. Nobody followed us. We flashed our transfer tickets and dropped onto a rear bench, exhausted. Boy Dog was panting like I’d never seen him before, and I wished I had some water to give him. “Don’t worry,” I told him, between pants of my own, “we’ll get you a drink as soon as we can.”
“Angels in heaven,” gasped Marci, practically doubled over. “I haven’t hurt like this since the baby was born.”
My eyes went wide. “You had a baby?” I hadn’t known Marci well until we were sixteen—had she gotten pregnant in middle school? Is that why she was so … but no. Of course it wasn’t Marci anymore.
“What do you mean, ‘you had a baby?’” she grunted. “He’s right here—” She stopped abruptly. “Where’s the baby? Where am I?” She looked at me with haunted eyes. “You’re not Anton.”
“My name is John,” I said softly. Marci was gone again, and this was a new personality, with no idea where she was or what was going on. Some of them shared memories, and some of them didn’t. I took a deep breath. “I’m afraid I have very bad news for you.”
“I was attacked,” she whispered. She shuddered at the memory. “Some kind of … black thing. Like swamp water, but thicker, and it … moved on its own.” She started to cry. “What’s happening to me?”
“The black thing is gone,” I said. I wanted to help her but I didn’t know what to do besides just telling her the truth. I put my arm around Brooke’s shoulders, hoping to keep the new personality calm and far away from a suicide episode. “Now someone else is chasing us, and I’m trying to keep you safe. We are safe, for now.” I hoped it was true.
“Where’s my baby?”
“Tell me your name,” I whispered.
She hesitated a moment. “Regina,” she said at last. “Why … why do I feel like I know you? Why do I trust you so much?”
“Because I am your best and only friend in the entire world, Regina.” I closed my eyes, trying to convince myself that everything would be okay. “Do you remember what year it is?”
“The year of our Lord 1528.”
I took another deep breath. “Regina, your baby lived a long and happy life and died more than four hundred years ago.”
She broke down in tears again, and cried into my shoulder while the bus trundled across the city.
12
The great thing about fire is that it doesn’t come from anywhere else—you light a piece of wood on fire, and the fire comes from the wood. Light a piece of paper, and fire comes from the paper. It’s like the inner soul of an object is trapped in a physical form, and when you set it free as a flame it roars to life, reaching for the sky as its old husk shrivels and disappears behind it.
A piece of paper without a soul looks like a twisted, poison leaf, curled and warped and blackened, so thin it might fall to pieces when you touch it.
I flicked my lighter and lit another piece, watching the flame leap out while the paper retreated, recoiling and empty.
“What are you doing?” asked Regina.
I dropped the paper as the fire crept too close to my fingers, watching the bright orange flames drift slowly to the ground, weighed down by the ashy paper, still heavier than air. The orange tendrils reached up, flickering into the orange sky, tiny sparks drifting in their wake.