One Way Fare Page 5

  Gaby closed the door behind Mrs. Allen and pulled her parents’ battered suitcases out of the hall closet. In an exercise perfected since their deaths, she swept through their small house in a well-choreographed ballet. When Carey and Connor came home from school twenty minutes later, three packed cases waited by the back door as Gaby threw sandwiches and fruit into a bag. She finished dumping the milk and eggs from the refrigerator and tossed out the remaining food.

  Despite years of practicing for this moment, Carey still teared up when Gaby said simply it was time to leave. Connor put his arms around both of them. Gaby caught her breath as she felt his gift for the first time, a flicker of serenity passing through the three siblings.

  She was following the twins out the back door toward Gus, her little yellow Volkswagen, when they heard Mrs. Allen’s cry. Gaby froze, torn between getting the twins out safely and helping the friend they loved. Carey didn’t hesitate. She tossed her suitcase into Gus’ backseat and melted back toward the house. Gaby hadn’t known which of the harmonia gifts Connor might manifest, but she’d always suspected Carey’s gift would make her a warrior.

  Connor blinked at her and started after his twin. Gaby picked up the baseball bat from the back porch and slipped around the other side of the house. When she peeked cautiously around the front, she caught her breath. A man stood over Mrs. Allen, who was sprawled across the porch. She wasn’t moving.

  In the yard, a woman whirled her weapon to cover Connor as he yelled a warning. Under cover of his shout, Carey swung around silently from behind with the roundhouse kick/punch combination that was fast propelling her toward becoming the youngest black belt at their studio. The woman heading for Connor dropped where she stood.

  Gaby swung her bat at the other assailant’s knees. He stumbled back against the doorway, so she only caught him a glancing blow. Straightening, he steadied the gun he held, aiming directly at Carey. Gaby lunged for him, knowing she would never be able to get there before he pulled the trigger.

  A shot rang out. The gunman on the porch looked startled as red bloomed across his chest. He raised the hand holding the gun and tried to steady it with his other arm before he fell forward across Mrs. Allen’s legs.

  Gaby and the twins stared as Harry raced toward them, gun in hand. As the woman felled by Carey rose, he dropped her with a respectable kick of his own and headed for the man on the porch. He felt for a pulse, grunted, and shoved the man off to reach for Mrs. Allen. This time he looked happier.

  “Her pulse is weak, but she’s alive.” He looked at the wide-eyed Parkers. “I’m Gaby’s friend, Harry.” Connor and Carey looked to her and Gaby found herself nodding confirmation. Connor ran inside to call the fire department, the Island’s main emergency team. When the boy returned, Harry warned all three of them to stick as close to the truth as possible. They had come on housebreakers attacking Mrs. Allen. Gaby’s friend Harry grappled with the woman for her gun. The gun went off, and the bullet struck her partner.

  As he fired off instructions, Harry removed all but one of his remaining bullets from his own gun and wiped it carefully. He pressed the unconscious woman’s hand around the handle and pulled the trigger, discharging the bullet into the ground. Then he picked up her gun and tossed it deep into the woods behind them. By the time he finished, the siren of the Island’s fire truck sounded in the lane below.

  Harry looked at them. “I don’t suppose one of you could have hysterics?”

  Carey nodded, already starting to tremble in the aftermath. “N-no problem. I’m an expert.” Connor nodded in shaky agreement.

  When the ambulance and police arrived, Gaby was trying to comfort a hysterically sobbing Carey. Connor was sitting next to Mrs. Allen holding her hand, while Harry—armed with Gaby’s baseball bat—stood guard over the unconscious woman. The twins were convincingly in shock—Carey in top form gasping and sobbing, Connor retreating into his customary silence.

  Mrs. Allen was quickly loaded onto the ambulance for the ferry trip and ride to the hospital in Bremerton. The unknown man shot by Harry was zipped into a bag and carried off. Visibly overwhelmed with caring for her brother and sister, Gaby left Harry to answer most of the questions. Danger, Gaby’s thoughts screamed helplessly. What if they send more gunmen? This is taking way too long, and every moment we stay here means the twins are in danger. She tried to place herself between Carey and the road and flashed Harry a grateful look as she realized he was doing the same for Connor.

  Then a long limo pulled up outside and Luic got out with a bottle of wine in his hand. Not enough time for Harry to have called him, she realized. Was he coming for me? He started toward Gaby, and for a moment she had to fight against the need to feel his arms around her. He spotted Harry, froze, and carefully put the bottle back into the car. Harry muttered explanations to Luic before leading him over to shake hands with the police and emergency personnel.

  Gaby’s eyes narrowed as Luic came over with a satisfied look on his face and announced that, since Mrs. Allen was in good hands, they would all be coming back to Seattle with him. She met Harry’s eyes and he nodded slightly. “Our suitcases are in my car—out back,” she told him. Her chin went up as she added, “We were going on a little … trip.”

  Reassured about their beloved Mrs. Allen, the twins were looking around the limo like they’d just boarded their favorite ride at Disneyland. As Gaby slid in next to them, Carey turned to her. “It’s Luic leMuir! Gaby, you have all of his…” She shushed Carey, but Luic had already stepped in behind her. A quick look at the raised eyebrow showed he had heard, and she slumped in defeat. Even Carey didn’t say a word on the quiet trip back to Seattle.

  “Can you believe this place?” Carey marveled, her power of speech fully restored by the news Mrs. Allen had arrived safely at the hospital and regained consciousness. She followed Harry around the suite, chattering nonstop as he pointed out the bedroom she would share with Gaby and Connor. Carey was delighted with the phone in the bathroom and the color television in the bedroom. Both twins stared in awe as the NBC Peacock spread its color-filled tail. But it was Connor whose eyes lit up with the news they could order anything they wanted from room service.

  Gaby came out from rearranging the toiletries and towels in the bathroom. Neither Connor nor Harry commented when Gaby had them center the hastily ordered cot precisely between the two beds.

  “In your dreams, shrimp,” Connor told Carey as he switched her case from the outside bed to the shorter cot.

  Leaving the two dark heads bent over the room service menu, Gaby followed Harry back to the living room. Luic had disappeared. Avoiding Harry’s eyes, she organized the scrawled music sheets littering the piano and bench into neat piles.

  “Gaby,” Harry said urgently, “Luic realizes I was there with you on the Island. I have to tell you what’s going on, but then you need to decide how much you want to tell him. I have experienced bodyguards outside the suite, so the twins will be fine. Come down to the Grill with me, and I’ll tell you anything I can.”

  “I can’t.” Gaby sat down on the piano bench and folded her hands in her lap. “Right now, you’re the only person he cares about. I’ve already told him I’m suspicious of you. If he realizes we’ve gone out after finding us on the Island together, he won’t have faith in anything I tell him. I don’t care so much about that,” she lied, “but I’m not going to be the one who destroys his friendship with you. Harry, you have to talk to both of us. Now.”

  Night came early to Seattle in November, and the sky outside had been dark for hours. Harry crossed the room to gaze out the large windows. For a moment, his profile was outlined in frozen stillness against the dark window, and Gaby was again reminded of the remote beauty of a medieval saint. He saw her staring and drew the drapes. Suddenly he was a man again, frowning as he reached for a difficult decision. “You might be right,” he finally admitted, “but I have to talk to … someone … first. Stay here and don’t let anyone in but me or Luic. I’ve got bodyguard
s right outside, and I want you to meet them before I leave. But don’t even let them in. If the twins order food, the guards can accept it and hand it in to you, but nobody leaves. Understand?”

  “I understand. But Harry? It’s bad, isn’t it?”

  He looked back at her. “It would have to get a whole lot better to be just bad.”

  LEILA, Chapter Four

  2012, Metro Train

  “Thomas?” No answer. “You’d better not be thinking of dying,” Leila told him. “Because I really don’t like blood.”

  Nothing.

  “Great. Now you can’t hear me,” she said.

  “Don’t talk … anyone … hide…” Thomas’ words were barely audible.

  “Are you nuts? You have blood—did I mention I don’t do blood?—all over your shoulder. I’m going to get help. Be right back.”

  Leila ran to the end of the car and pushed the button to open the door between the cars. The next car was empty. And the one after that. She looked out the window and saw … nothing. The night was completely dark. Shouldn’t there be lights from towns or at least the occasional farmhouse?

  “Trust me. There isn’t anybody,” she told the unconscious Thomas. “I looked through the whole train, and we’re the only ones here.”

  Mom always said when you don’t know what to do, you just do the first thing and then the next thing after that. “Mom never said there would be blood, though,” Leila complained to the silent Thomas. She took a breath and pulled up his shirt to expose the wound above and to the right of his left nipple. At the sight of the reddish-brown rimmed hole leaking blood with each of his slight breaths, she gave some serious consideration to throwing up. Instead she recited her next-thing-to-do list in between counting his shallow breaths.

  “1, 2, get the shirt off, 4,5, something about putting pressure on the bleeding, 7,8, so I need to bandage him, 9, oh, crap, what do I use for bandages, 11, okay I can use my T-shirt, 12, 13, what number was I on?”

  Looking again at the sluggishly oozing wound, Leila tried to remember her first-aid class back in freshman year of high school. She’d spent most of the class texting Marnie, but she was pretty sure they hadn’t mentioned gunshot wounds. All she could think of was Marnie’s big brother, an aspiring actor who summed up his day job as an emergency medical technician: “Air goes in and out, blood goes round and round, any variation on this is bad.” Leila’s anxious glance showed Thomas’ chest rising with each slight breath, so that was a check in the air in/out column.

  But the blood was still going out instead of round and round. What if the bullet was still in there? Or parts of his shirt? Was she supposed to get it out? Apparently, her next-thing-to-do was to see if the bullet had gone straight through. Leila pulled Thomas forward and dragged his shirt over his head to expose his shoulder.

  This time she did throw up. Helpfully, the seat pocket held bags sporting a decal advising “Mind the Gap.” She was too profoundly thankful at finding them to even wonder what that meant.

  Splayed out on the bench seat opposite Thomas, Leila stared blankly at the empty luggage racks overhead. Her eyes followed them down the car and stopped. Score! Nausea forgotten, she climbed onto the seat at the far end of the car, scooped an armful of orange blankets and pillows from the overhead racks, and raced back to Thomas. Now she just had to rip a blanket into strips. Apologizing to her parents for the years of orthodontia about to go to waste, she put the blanket between her teeth and tried to tear. It didn’t even fray.

  Maybe Thomas had something on him she could use to cut whatever space-age fiber they put in Metro blankets. This had to be the best—or maybe the worst—excuse ever to feel up a guy, Leila thought as she went briskly through Thomas’ jeans. Not even a wallet. Her hands went around to his back pockets and paused at the lump in his waistband. She pulled out a knife encased in a beautifully tooled leather sheath.

  Leila stared at the odd lettering covering the hilt, which warmed at her touch. Okay, she could work with this. She said a sad farewell to her cheerful pink Wronging Rights T-shirt as she cut it in half and folded each half into a pad and then cut one of the orange blankets into strips. She put her sweatshirt back on over her camisole. Then she sat back and sighed. Mom would never approve. Blood or no blood, she had to clean him up first.

  Racing to the tiny train lavatory, Leila emptied the box of tissues and soaked two handfuls in the liquid soap. Returning to Thomas, she wiped the dime-sized edges of the front wound with one wad of soapy tissues. Pressing the pink T-shirt pad against the sluggishly seeping injury, she managed to tie it on with blanket strips.

  Gritting her teeth, she pulled Thomas forward again to expose that nightmare exit wound high on the back of his left shoulder. It looked enormous, with blood seeping over jagged, uneven edges already surrounded by discolored skin. She wiped the wound, covered it with another handful of tissues, and pressed hard. Breathing through her nose and counting the seconds, she ignored the black spots dancing before her eyes as dizziness battled with nausea. When blood soaked through the tissues, she replaced it with another pile. After about five minutes, the bleeding trickled off. She remembered him saying his family lived for centuries and never got ill. Hoping that included resistance to whatever germs were hanging out on her T-shirt, she pressed the remaining pink pad over the wound and wound orange blanket strips around it.

  Surveying her handiwork, she thought Thomas looked like he would be right at home in the teen slasher movie her life had become, assuming the movie featured tall, bloody, orange-wrapped mummies. His breathing was still shallow, his skin pasty white and sweaty. She had no idea what the next-thing to do was. Putting pillows under his head and piling blankets over him, Leila collapsed onto the opposite bench. She’d just rest her eyes for a minute.

  The moaning woke her. “Thomas?” His eyes stared blindly as he tried to reach the bandages with his good hand. Muttering in a language which didn’t sound like French and sure wasn’t English, he closed his eyes again. Leila pressed her hand to his forehead, which was cool to the touch, thank you very much, since she was fresh out of antibiotics. She was about to pull back when his good hand pulled her down. “Protect her,” he muttered. “Safe.”

  “Thomas! I’m okay. I’m right here,” she kept repeating. He seemed calmer as long as he could hold onto her, so Leila fell asleep bolt upright on the floor, wedged into the corner under the window with her hand clasped in his. My Donors, she thought as she dozed off, have some serious shit to answer for.

  “Ticket?” The voice was pleasant and sounded pretty good to Leila since the damn rooster had finally shut up. That was one hell of a bad dream. Might be a good morning to sleep in. Except—why was she so cold? And now that the train had stopped… Her eyes flew open. Train? Her hand twined with Thomas’—surprisingly warm—one. And a young woman in a uniform was saying something to her.

  “Please!” Leila begged. “You have to help us. Call the police. And Thomas needs a doctor. Thomas! Can you hear me?” No response, although it seemed to Leila he wasn’t quite as pale.

  The young conductor looked concerned but repeated, “Your tickets?”

  “Forget the friggin’ tickets,” Leila snarled. “We were chased onto the train. We need help, the police, an ambulance for Thomas…” To her disgust, she was sobbing. “I never cry,” she sniffled. “But I don’t know where we are or why you are just standing there. What part of help don’t you get?”

  The conductor held a cell phone to her ear.

  “This is the 1890, with a stopover at Null City,” she seemed to be telling Leila and someone else at the same time. “The Metro made an unscheduled stop and now has two passengers—one of them injured—who don’t have tickets.”

  She listened for a moment and then told the phone, “We’re on schedule. We can hold one more hour before we miss our routing. They’re Nephilim, I’m guessing. And she’s also … something else. I think we’ll need Poppy.”

  “Actually,” corrected Leila. “Th
omas is French-English, and I’m American. Where did you say we are?”

  “This is Null City Station,” said the conductor. “I’ve asked for help, but I can’t let you get off yet, because without tickets the Metro might not let you back on. Poppy is coming, and she’ll explain as much as we can.”

  Minutes later, the train doors flew open and a crowd of people in hospital scrubs surrounded Thomas. They lifted him onto a gurney, and a lot of comfortingly medical-sounding phrases were tersely exchanged.

  Minutes later, the Head Scrub met Leila’s eyes. “You did a good job patching him up.” She peeled off a pair of red-stained surgical gloves from which Leila carefully averted her eyes. “I’m Dr. Littleton. The bullet penetrated your friend’s left anterior chest and passed upward and to the left through the soft tissues. There is marked hemorrhage along the bullet track, but it exited at the outer aspect of the left upper extremity.” At Leila’s blank look, she smiled and translated. “It looks like the bullet must have been fired from far away, so it was mostly spent by the time it hit him, plus it missed his heart and just passed upward through soft tissue before exiting at the back of his shoulder. Since it missed a lot of important bones and joints, I’d say your friend was lucky.”

  “He’s not lucky.” Leila suspected that exit wound would be a regular visitor in her future nightmares. “He could have been more unlucky, but lucky people don’t get shot.”

  Dr. Littleton eyed her carefully but pressed on. “And of course, it’s lucky—er, it’s fortunate— he’s Nephilim because the wound is already healing. He probably won’t need it, but we gave him a big dose of antibiotics, and we trimmed the edges of the exit wound. We’re not going to stitch either wound closed to allow his natural healing to push out any contaminants. Do you want to take a look before we put on the dressings?”