Wicked resurrection 5, p.8
Wicked: Resurrection 5, page 8
As the limo drew toward the curb, a young guy on a bicycle wearing a faded long-sleeved green T-shirt and a pair of khaki trousers sneered and deliberately slowed his pedaling. Eli flicked his fingers, and the bicycle slammed to the ground, rider and all.
Smiling thinly, he said to his driver, "I'll get out here. You find a place to park and wait for me."
"Very well, sir."
The driver waited as Eli hopped out, sauntering around the bicycle and the rider, who was grunting and trying to get up. Eli made a show of stepping around him. He saw several Indians do the same. Then a girl with long hair bent at the man's side and started speaking to him in a language Eli didn't understand. She whipped out a cell phone. Then she saw Eli.
"Excuse me, sir," she said in English. "I noted that you have a car. Would it be possible to transport this man to hospital? He has broken his leg."
Eli paused. If I do it, maybe she'll have dinner with me. Or more.
But he didn't want to have dinner with her. He wanted to find Nicole.
Sweat beaded on his brow. I'm losing it. This is not who I am.
He responded in French, telling her that the car was unavailable, and suggesting, in addition, that she and the bicyclist both go to hell.
Then he walked off, feeling a little better.
Dover: Jer and Eve
Darklightdarklightdarklight, the revolving prism of the white lighthouse warned the ships at sea to beware of the bone-shattering rocks tossed upon the coastline, encrusting the shallows beneath the tides. The buoys clanged; the gulls screamed; the purple swells peaked, collapsed, and hid the evidence.
Beneath their crusted veils of ice, Holly wrapped her arms around Jer and put her mouth over his. He did the same. Their legs tangled, untangled, like mermaid tails. Warm air from her body blew into his mouth, his throat, his lungs. It was too hot; fire swam through his bloodstream and ignited every cell. Too hot; he moaned and tried to pull away. Then he realized that his arms were tied together, by the traditional black silk cords of warlock handfasting. He tried to tell her, but her mouth was clamped over his.
Like a killing undine, a water elemental, she began to suck the breath out of him. It whooshed out like oxygen in a blaze; creating a suction. He pounded gently on her back, and a shudder went through her.
Then she pulled back and he realized she was laughing. Her dark eyes were half-closed as she shook silently, laughing. She threw back her head and opened her mouth, and the life-giving air she had drawn out of his body bubbled toward the surface----the surface, so far away.
The moon rippled above the black water, and grew smaller and dimmer as Jer and Holly sank toward the endless bottom of the sea. He jerked his arms, straining to free himself He kept his mouth clamped shut and shook his head, trying to signal to her that it was not a game. They were in danger, great danger. He stared at her hard, kicking his legs. A stalk of kelp thrashed behind Holly, rising above her like a monster. It had two yellow reptilian eyes; as it unfolded, they focused on her. Two leaves became a mouth, with fangs--Still she laughed; still they sank.
The kelp monster began to lower its head toward her; the mouth opened, revealed teeth of sharply honed abalone shells. They glistened like pearls. A skull gleamed on its long, slimy green tongue.
Eli. Here he was at last, stripped of all life, like their father. The skull tumbled out of the monster's mouth and swirled end over end.
"Holly!" Jer shouted. The sound carried, vibrating through the stormy ocean until it hit the rocks and shattered. Sparks flicked toward the moon.
He knew, then, that he was going to die. He had no breath left in his body. He had. used the last of it to warn her.
And still she laughed. She laughed as he squirmed in her embrace; then she tugged once, twice, and let go of him. Clinging gracefully to the kelp monster with her left hand, she reached forward and pushed his shoulder with her right. He flailed, trying to grab her. It was clear that she didn't understand.
Why doesn't she need any air?
Then she pushed him again; he sank farther; and she pulled back her right foot and kicked him as hard as she could in the face. He heard a crack; it was his nose, breaking. His blood mushroomed in front of him, creating a crimson barrier that obscured her face. He gasped, sucking in water.
As he looked up at her, she started laughing again. "Adieu," she said, "mon Jean, mon homme, ma vie…" Her smiled faded, and her face contorted with hatred. And he knew she wasn't Holly; she was Holly's dead ancestress Isabeau, who had sworn to kill her husband, Jean, six hundred years before.
"Holly," he said, "it's me. It's Jer. I'm not…Je suis Jean, et tu est ma femme, Isabeau."
I am Jean, and you are my woman. You are my wife, Isabeau.
"Then you'll die, tool" he screamed, grabbing her ankle. "Die with me!"
"Jer, wake up," Eve said, shaking his shoulders. "It's okay. It's a dream."
He opened his eyes. They were in their attic room in their Dover bed and breakfast. The slanted ceiling dropped at a sharp angle behind her, and the mirror bolted to the wall showed his disfigured face, twisted in a grimace.
She was bending over him, wearing a white silk long-sleeved nightgown that looked like a medieval shift. Beneath his blankets he wore a long thermal T-shirt and a pair of sweatpants. A foghorn broke the silence as he fought to bring himself under control. He heard himself panting.
Wind batted the leaded diamond panes. He smelled Eve's floral shampoo, and her body heat diffused the room's chill… but not his unease.
"Don't be an idiot," he snapped at her. "We're warlocks. We can kill people in dreams."
"Did you dream that Holly killed you?" she asked. "Again?"
Jer didn't answer. Stonily he lifted the covers off himself, forcing her to straighten and step back.
He didn't want Eve comforting him. Or pretending to.
There were two single beds in the rustic wood-and-plaster room; at his request they had pushed them apart, placing a nightstand between them. He noted her laptop on her bed, and the blue glow of the screen. He wondered if she had contacted the Supreme Coven to tell them that they were on the move again. She had sworn not to reveal their location while they traveled together, but when had the word of a warlock ever meant anything?
"Would you like some tea?" she asked him, gesturing to the electric kettle the B&B had provided.
"You Brits. You think you can solve everything with tea." He didn't care that she looked hurt.
"I've left the Coven," she said, gesturing to the laptop.He laughed harshly. "What did you do, send them a letter of resignation?"
"Now who's being an idiot? Do you think I want an assassin coming after me?"
She led him over to the computer and turned it around so that he could see the screen. An e-mail message was open, front and center over a few other windows, including a picture of a black cat.
Warlocks didn't have familiars. Maybe it was just a pet. The message read:If you find either of the Deveraux brothers, assure them they are welcome. The Moore regime has ended, and they did us a favor in ridding us of their father, Michael Deveraux, as well.--Bryson Saracenz, for the Supreme Coven.
Jer read without comment. He didn't know what to think. He had spent many long months leading his own coven, the Rebel Coven, and he was sure he had operated beneath the Supreme Coven's radar. If they had even heard of the Rebel Coven's existence, they probably (and rightly) had assumed he had formed the Circle to rebel against his father.Now he was the only survivor.
His heart spared a moment for Kari Hardwicke, who had died in the attack on the Supreme Coven. She should never have been a covenate. He'd known it all along, but she'd dazzled him.
She'd been a sexy "older woman"--a grad student---as brilliant as she was tenacious. He'd let go of her way before Holly, but he knew Kari had thought that Holly had stolen him away.
"Maybe I should look for Holly," he said. "Instead of Eli."
"No," Eve said quickly. "You should find your brother. She's nothing but trouble. You need to be with your own."
I could have been in thrall with Holly, he thought, staring through the leaded panes. The moon threw nets of silver over the crashing waves far below. Those who were loved by the Cathers witches were doomed to die by drowning.
Maybe my dreams are wishful thinking.
He watched the water and wished he were free of all this. And free of her."Tea's ready," Eve announced. "You drink it black"
"And as hot as possible," he replied. "So it burns as it goes down."
Her hand trembled as she poured the boiling water into a white china cup.
Seattle: Dr. Temar
"Oh, my God," Dr. Temar murmured as he watched the EKG blips on the monitor attached to Kari Hardwicke, who had been dead for months. She's coming back online, he thought giddily, because he couldn't make his mind say the real words: It's finally happening. She's coming back to life.
He was wearing a pale blue scrub cap, scrubs, booties over his shoes, and gloves, and he glanced from the monitor to the small, still form beneath the sheet on the hospital bed, then back again.
The heartbeat was stronger. Should he do a quick EEG scan? He wanted to see her brain wave activity.
He licked his lips and took a step toward her bed. In the dead of night, during a rainstorm, he had moved her shipping crate to the basement of his Queen Anne home. He couldn't guarantee enough privacy at the university. Experimenting on cats was one thing, but if someone had discovered a human body in his lab, how could he have explained it?His house had been left basically intact during the fires and floods--a few windows had cracked; the attic was destroyed.
He put up tarps, and continued his quest.
Sweat broke across his forehead. He was ecstatic, and terrified. For centuries, millennia, science had tried to do what he had done.
And practitioners of magic, too, he thought. Rose and her people are waiting to hear my results.
And then, it was done.
She's alive.
His fear evaporated and he raced to her side. Her face was dead white, with slight blue lines running beneath the skin. Her veins. She had never turned the dark purplish black associated with livor mortis. But she wasn't rosy-hued, like a living person.
Maybe she's not going to make it all the way back, he thought anxiously, remembering the cats he hadn't succeeded in resurrecting. He'd named his one success Osiris, after the Egyptian God who'd risen from the dead.
He didn't want her to be frightened by the five electrodes attached to her body, so he gently pried the two off her shoulders, shifting the layers of gauze to get at the ones on her sides and midsternal areas. He felt her cold skin through his surgical gloves. He had kept the room temperature low to stave off infection.
There, done. He wanted to clean off the jelly and adhesive necessary to make the electrodes work, but he didn't want to startle her. He placed the green, brown, and white discs on the gunmetal gray equipment cart and pulled the sheet back over her body.
Her eyelids fluttered, but her eyes stayed closed. He dropped down to one knee and reached beneath the sheet for her hand. Her fingers jerked and she grabbed him, squeezing hard.
"Kari, it's Nigel.'' His voice caught. "You were… you've been sick. You're in Seattle. You're--
you're safe."
She grimaced."Are you in pain? I "can give you something."
"Headache. Bad. And my… heart." Her hand moved in his grasp. He blanched. He didn't want her to find out what had happened to her, not quite yet. He was worried about what the shock would do to her. All his prepared speeches evaporated from his memory.
"Oh, Kari," he murmured, so in love and filled with joy that he thought he would faint. "Kari, it's all right now." He pulled down his surgical mask so that his face would be the first thing she saw.
"Nightmares," she went on. "Hell." A tear ran across her temple."Are you hungry? Thirsty?"
She turned her head and looked at him. He was chilled to the bone. Her eyes looked… dead.
Robotic, or like a bad computer graphic. There was no spark of life in them. Had he done something incorrect? The cats…There's a lot wrong with the cats, his inner voice whispered at him. And you knew there might be something wrong with her.
"You're tired," he said.
Her hand caught in the sheet and pulled it down over her collarbones, and halfway down her chest. Thank God he had bandaged her, wrapping layer after layer of gauze over her torso after he had pieced her heart back together---and tried to rebuild her rib cage, gluing the pieces back together like a jigsaw puzzle.
"You had some terrible injuries," he said, remembering his prepared statement. "A friend of yours summoned me. Rose."Her expression changed. Her mouth smiled.
But her eyes did not. "Rose, in London. And she helped me bring you back here, to get well…
We thought it for the best. And you had some severe wounds," he continued.
"You had to have heart surgery. And… a few other things."He wouldn't tell her. Ever. If any of her old friends came looking for her, he would tell them there had been a mistake. She hadn't died.
"I'm free." It was her first sentence. Her smile grew, and he quaked. Her eyes--"Yes. You're free.
Go back to sleep," he urged.
"I… nightmare." A shudder went through her."It's all right," he said. "I'll be here." He turned around and grabbed the chair he'd placed by her bedside. He'd been so nervous he'd forgotten it was there. He made a show of bringing it near her bed and sitting in it. He smiled at her. "There, you see?"She said nothing. She glanced down at her chest, then slowly lay back down. He pulled the sheet up to her neck."Good?" he asked her."Cold," she whispered.
"I'll get a blanket." He pushed back his chair and walked across the lab to an old-fashioned armoire. He heard a rumble of thunder, followed by a crash of lightning. He prayed the floods were really over. He didn't want to have to move her. He wanted her here, safe, warm, protected.
"This will do the trick," he said as he got the fluffy light blue blanket and turned around.She had gotten out of the bed--he didn't know how she'd done it so fast--and she was wedged in a corner with her arms pressed flat against the wall. She was naked, except for the heavy bandages that covered her from beneath her arms to the bottom of her rib cage.Hecate and Osiris sat facing her on the floor, gazing up at her. He had no idea how they'd gotten there."I died," she said. "I died."
Her voice was flat."No," he soothed. "That was a bad dream."
"I was in hell."She gazed down at her chest. "I want to see."
"Later. They're still healing."She pushed from the wall and staggered forward. He came to her side, still holding the blanket.
"Kari," he began, but she brushed past him, mummylike. As his grad student, she'd been to his house many times, and she knew the layout. He realized she was headed for the bathroom. He joined her.
"You've had a shock."She ignored him. She put her hand on the doorknob to the bathroom and stared down at it for a beat, then opened the door and flicked on the light. She turned to the left, staring at herself in the mirror over the sink. She stared at herself with her blank eyes."I died."
Her voice was flat, emotionless. "Kari," he began."I died." She leaned toward the mirror.
He cleared his throat. "You need to go back to--"
"And I'm still dead."
Scarborough: Tommy, Amanda, Nicole, Owen, and Richard
Tommy stood on the porch of Moore House as Nicole and Amanda built a snowman. Bundled up until he looked like a stuffed animal, Owen was snuggled on Nicole's back, waving his mittened fists.
The steam from Tommy's tea wafted into the gray, snowy air, and he listened to the two sisters laughing and chatting. But their conversation was forced, and the laughter was awkward. They were scared. Maybe even as scared as he was.
Things were not quiet in Moore House. Things were… walking. Or waking up.
Beneath bright pink earmuffs Amanda's hair streamed across her shoulders. His heart caught as the sun glinted off it. Then he shut the door and went in search of Richard, who was in the great room, checking his guns. Four Micro Uzis and at least a dozen pistols were arranged in four neat rows on a dark blue tarp that he had spread over the hardwood floor. Boxes of ammunition towered beside them. Tommy was supposed to memorize their makes and models, and which ammo went with which weapon. But ever since the birth of Owen, Tommy had developed a phobia about guns. Nicole herself had asked her father to put them someplace more secure.
Owen was no toddler; he wouldn't be able to get to the guns, much less accidentally shoot one, but Tommy agreed with her. He wished they didn't have them at all.
"Tommy," Richard said, smiling in greeting. He was preoccupied, worried. "I think we need to have another round of target practice. How about now?"In the months since the five of them had moved into House Moore, Richard had been drilling them on shooting. Tommy didn't like it, but he agreed with Richard that they had to be prepared for anything and stay on alert. But what he wanted most in the world was to take Amanda away from all this and find a tranquil place to grow old together. There had been too much death and mayhem in their lives, and he was done.
"First, sir," Tommy began. He took a deep breath. "Sir, you know that Amanda and I are in thrall. That means there's a special magical bond between us."Richard cocked his brow and laid down the gun. "Is there something wrong?"
"I think our bond would be strengthened if we got marri--"The floor beneath his feet vibrated, just a little. He blinked and looked down at his athletic shoes, then back up at Richard. The Vietnam vet set his jaw and rose silently from his chair. The floor vibrated again, a little harder, and Richard grabbed two of the four submachine guns. He was all business as he handed one to Tommy.
It might just he an earthquake, Tommy thought. Do they have earthquakes in England? Or a sonic boom. It had never ceased to amaze him that the normal world-- the world that knew nothing of witches, or covens, demons, or spells--continued on its path. He wished he were as ignorant.
"You two want to get married?" Richard asked, without looking at Tommy. He was scanning the floor, tracing a visual path with the tip of his gun. He began gliding across the floor, as silent as a snake.
