Midnight Blue-Light Special
Page 56
I was so lost in thought that I misjudged the drop as I leaped from one roof to another. I landed harder than I intended to. I caught myself with my hands before I could face-plant on the roof. The gesture cost me a lot of momentum, and rather than trying to get started again, I let myself skid to a stop, turning my feet to the side to increase my friction. Once the last of my inertia had bled off I straightened, looking around.
I was near the Freakshow, in one of those weird New York neighborhoods that mixes commercial and residential buildings in a patchwork of brownstone, concrete, and glass. I walked to the edge of the roof, looking down. There were a few people on the street, and the ubiquitous taxis slid endlessly by, but everything was silent, or as close to silent as New York ever gets. It was a real cinematic moment, the sort of thing that normally only exists in movies.
The sound of a gun being cocked somehow managed to fit right in. I stiffened. “Hello,” said Margaret from behind me, her sharp British accent somehow turning that single word into a threat. “I was wondering when you’d arrive.”
Then her gun caught me across the back of the head. I had just enough time to realize that I’d done something completely stupid—and that wasn’t like me, what the hell was I doing?—before I fell. The last thing I heard was the sound of my own body hitting the rooftop, a heavy, wet thud, like a sack of cement being dropped. Then there was nothing.
Sixteen
“Damn.”
—Alice Healy
A converted slaughterhouse in the Meatpacking District, resuming narration with the assistance of Sarah Zellaby
THE CEILING in my temporary room was water stained enough that it sort of looked like a Magic Eye puzzle, one of those pictures that’s supposed to resolve into three dimensions if you stare at it long enough. It was a far cry from the kind of hotel where I usually stayed. It was even a far cry from the Port Hope, where I could probably have found a few water stains if I’d been willing to look hard enough.
It was better than being dead. I stretched out on the air mattress with my hands folded behind my head, squinting up at the ceiling. Maybe it would be a sailboat. Or a functional solution for the Riemann Hypothesis. Either one would be fine with me.
I was starting to relax when pain flared into sudden life at the back of my skull, as intense as if I’d somehow slammed my head into the concrete floor. Only I hadn’t moved. I cried out, too startled to do anything else, and sat up, clapping a hand over the spot. The pain got worse . . .
. . . and then it was gone, disappearing as suddenly as it had come. One second, pain, the next second, no pain. I lowered my hand slowly, waiting for the pain to come back. It didn’t. Everything was silent.
That was when I realized that the sense of Verity’s presence—a low constant, as long as we were within a few miles of each other, even if I normally couldn’t “hear” her when we weren’t in the same building—was gone. Verity? I thought, as hard as I could. At this distance, she shouldn’t have been able to answer me, but there should have been something.
There was nothing.
I staggered to my feet, trying to make sense of the silence. It was the loudest thing I’d ever heard. I’ve had family around me for as long as I can remember, people I was so telepathically attuned to that I could hear them without trying. It was disorienting, like blowing out the last candle in the middle of a blackout. It was also terrifying, because I didn’t know what it meant . . . but I suspected.
“Uncle Mike!” The words came out in a wail as I turned and bolted for the door.
The main room of the slaughterhouse was empty. I practically flew down the stairs, following the vague sense of “people this way” to the kitchen where Istas and the Madhura were sitting around a table. I grabbed the edge of the doorframe to keep myself upright, aware that I had to look half insane with worry, and not really giving a damn. “Where’s Mike?” I demanded.
Istas blinked. “You are distressed,” she said. “Why? Are we under attack?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Where’s Mike? I need him. Tell me where he is.” I couldn’t resist giving a telepathic “push” at the end, trying to make her tell me. I encountered nothing—no resistance, no response. Istas might as well have been a rock for all the effect that I had on her mind. That was what I got for trying to push someone who wasn’t human. I’m more attuned to humans than I am to any other species, even my own. Istas was the only waheela I’d ever met, and I had no idea how to make her do what I wanted. I couldn’t even pick up on her thoughts, just her emotions, and even those were blurry, like I was reading them through thick fog.
Luckily for me, she felt like playing along. “He is in what was originally the foreman’s office,” she said. “I believe he is attempting to make the Internet function, so you can communicate with the outside world, and I can go shopping.” A brief scowl crossed her face. “I hope this is resolved soon. Verity will not allow me to have things shipped here, and Kitty becomes annoyed if I receive more than one package per day.”
I stared at her. The Covenant was in town and Verity had gone silent in my head, but Istas was worried about the mail. Verity would probably have called that proof that trivial desire endures no matter what, allowing our minds to find stability under the most chaotic conditions. Then she would have made a bad dance pun. All it made me do was want to scream.
I swallowed my first three responses before asking, “Where is the foreman’s office?”
“He said that he would be in the office in the leftmost corner,” said the younger Madhura. I could feel him at the edge of my mind, a little static melody against the louder, less delicate noise generated by Istas. I couldn’t feel his brother at all. If I hadn’t been looking at the table, I would have assumed that only two people were there. “Are you well, lady Johrlac?”
The older Madhura hissed, “Sunil! Do not insult her.”
“I’m sorry.” Waves of stricken embarrassment that I didn’t understand washed off the younger Madhura. “I meant no offense.”
Exhaustion swept over me, washing the Madhura’s incomprehensible embarrassment away. I shook my head. “It’s fine. I need to go talk to Uncle Mike.” He would know what to do. He would know what to tell me. Standing in this kitchen with three relative strangers, the only thing I could think to do was crawl back into my bed and wait until all this blew over, and I knew that wouldn’t help anyone. “Thanks for your help,” I said. Then I turned and left the kitchen.
I was near the Freakshow, in one of those weird New York neighborhoods that mixes commercial and residential buildings in a patchwork of brownstone, concrete, and glass. I walked to the edge of the roof, looking down. There were a few people on the street, and the ubiquitous taxis slid endlessly by, but everything was silent, or as close to silent as New York ever gets. It was a real cinematic moment, the sort of thing that normally only exists in movies.
The sound of a gun being cocked somehow managed to fit right in. I stiffened. “Hello,” said Margaret from behind me, her sharp British accent somehow turning that single word into a threat. “I was wondering when you’d arrive.”
Then her gun caught me across the back of the head. I had just enough time to realize that I’d done something completely stupid—and that wasn’t like me, what the hell was I doing?—before I fell. The last thing I heard was the sound of my own body hitting the rooftop, a heavy, wet thud, like a sack of cement being dropped. Then there was nothing.
Sixteen
“Damn.”
—Alice Healy
A converted slaughterhouse in the Meatpacking District, resuming narration with the assistance of Sarah Zellaby
THE CEILING in my temporary room was water stained enough that it sort of looked like a Magic Eye puzzle, one of those pictures that’s supposed to resolve into three dimensions if you stare at it long enough. It was a far cry from the kind of hotel where I usually stayed. It was even a far cry from the Port Hope, where I could probably have found a few water stains if I’d been willing to look hard enough.
It was better than being dead. I stretched out on the air mattress with my hands folded behind my head, squinting up at the ceiling. Maybe it would be a sailboat. Or a functional solution for the Riemann Hypothesis. Either one would be fine with me.
I was starting to relax when pain flared into sudden life at the back of my skull, as intense as if I’d somehow slammed my head into the concrete floor. Only I hadn’t moved. I cried out, too startled to do anything else, and sat up, clapping a hand over the spot. The pain got worse . . .
. . . and then it was gone, disappearing as suddenly as it had come. One second, pain, the next second, no pain. I lowered my hand slowly, waiting for the pain to come back. It didn’t. Everything was silent.
That was when I realized that the sense of Verity’s presence—a low constant, as long as we were within a few miles of each other, even if I normally couldn’t “hear” her when we weren’t in the same building—was gone. Verity? I thought, as hard as I could. At this distance, she shouldn’t have been able to answer me, but there should have been something.
There was nothing.
I staggered to my feet, trying to make sense of the silence. It was the loudest thing I’d ever heard. I’ve had family around me for as long as I can remember, people I was so telepathically attuned to that I could hear them without trying. It was disorienting, like blowing out the last candle in the middle of a blackout. It was also terrifying, because I didn’t know what it meant . . . but I suspected.
“Uncle Mike!” The words came out in a wail as I turned and bolted for the door.
The main room of the slaughterhouse was empty. I practically flew down the stairs, following the vague sense of “people this way” to the kitchen where Istas and the Madhura were sitting around a table. I grabbed the edge of the doorframe to keep myself upright, aware that I had to look half insane with worry, and not really giving a damn. “Where’s Mike?” I demanded.
Istas blinked. “You are distressed,” she said. “Why? Are we under attack?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Where’s Mike? I need him. Tell me where he is.” I couldn’t resist giving a telepathic “push” at the end, trying to make her tell me. I encountered nothing—no resistance, no response. Istas might as well have been a rock for all the effect that I had on her mind. That was what I got for trying to push someone who wasn’t human. I’m more attuned to humans than I am to any other species, even my own. Istas was the only waheela I’d ever met, and I had no idea how to make her do what I wanted. I couldn’t even pick up on her thoughts, just her emotions, and even those were blurry, like I was reading them through thick fog.
Luckily for me, she felt like playing along. “He is in what was originally the foreman’s office,” she said. “I believe he is attempting to make the Internet function, so you can communicate with the outside world, and I can go shopping.” A brief scowl crossed her face. “I hope this is resolved soon. Verity will not allow me to have things shipped here, and Kitty becomes annoyed if I receive more than one package per day.”
I stared at her. The Covenant was in town and Verity had gone silent in my head, but Istas was worried about the mail. Verity would probably have called that proof that trivial desire endures no matter what, allowing our minds to find stability under the most chaotic conditions. Then she would have made a bad dance pun. All it made me do was want to scream.
I swallowed my first three responses before asking, “Where is the foreman’s office?”
“He said that he would be in the office in the leftmost corner,” said the younger Madhura. I could feel him at the edge of my mind, a little static melody against the louder, less delicate noise generated by Istas. I couldn’t feel his brother at all. If I hadn’t been looking at the table, I would have assumed that only two people were there. “Are you well, lady Johrlac?”
The older Madhura hissed, “Sunil! Do not insult her.”
“I’m sorry.” Waves of stricken embarrassment that I didn’t understand washed off the younger Madhura. “I meant no offense.”
Exhaustion swept over me, washing the Madhura’s incomprehensible embarrassment away. I shook my head. “It’s fine. I need to go talk to Uncle Mike.” He would know what to do. He would know what to tell me. Standing in this kitchen with three relative strangers, the only thing I could think to do was crawl back into my bed and wait until all this blew over, and I knew that wouldn’t help anyone. “Thanks for your help,” I said. Then I turned and left the kitchen.
