And It Arose from the Deepest Black (John Black Book 2) (18 page)

9

Saturday. Late morning. Mom and Holly had gone out, so I was doing what you do when no one bothers you late morning on a Saturday. I was sleeping.

The phone rang.

At first I tried to ignore it, but after several rings, whoever was calling must have hung up and tried again. As it began to ring a second time, I went to the kitchen and answered. “Hello?”

“John Black, I assume.”

Oh crap. I knew the voice. “Jake? How the hell did you get my number?” Jake knew how to reach me. He must know how to find me.
How did I screw up?
This was even worse than monsters 2,000 miles away, potentially coming toward my house. This was a direct connection to
me
. Not Black Sword, or some other silly attempt at anonymity. There were no more grey areas.

“Hello, John,” he said. Just
hello.
Like we were friends. “My father used to tell me,
You learn something new every day
.”

“Fascinating,” I said. “So you somehow found my phone number, and you called to say that?”

“No, no, of course not.” Jake chuckled, and an icy shiver went through me, toes first, then creeping upward. “I just mean that all of us — you, me — are capable of learning. I
learned
from you, John.”

“Very sweet of you to say so, and thanks for calling, but if that’s all, I’ll just be going —”

“I read your dreams,” Jake said.

No.

No way. That’s what
I
do!
I was in denial for just a moment, then immediately had to contradict myself.
Well, why not? How could that be only my thing? Still… read
my
dreams?
I took a moment to compose myself. “And what exactly did you learn?”

“Oh, many interesting things, John. The town where you live looks very nice. So does your house. Bobby’s is a little fuzzier. But I got to see some of your…
friends
. The redheaded girl. Your mother. Your sister. Holly, I believe her name is?”

“Son of a
bitch
,” I muttered.

“Sorry, John? Were you referring to me?”

“If the shoe fits. That’s something
my
dad used to say.” But there were more important things to do than throw barbs back and forth. I realized that it might be useful to know something about Jake, so I found a piece of paper and a pencil, and wrote down the number on caller ID. “Okay, so you know where I am. Just what do you plan to do about it, Jake?”

“Well, I have really good news there, John. We’re coming to see you! You and Bobby.”

“
We
?”

“Don’t play dumb, John. You don’t live in a cave. You know that I’m with the Gorgols now, and that we’re traveling.”

“Sure, right, I’ve heard some things.”

“As have I.” Suddenly, Jake spoke more deliberately, like he wanted to choose his words, his phrasings, in a special sort of way. “I understand that one of the larger questions people have about myself and the Gorgols is,
Where are they going
? And so now you get to be the very first to know.”

“You’re controlling them. With your mind,” I said, spitting the words out. “And you talk about
nature
. What you’re doing is unnatural.”

“Well, yes, we do have a connection. A close one. After I last saw you, I was able to position myself close enough to start a… shall we say,
conversation
? Of course, they don’t speak, or at least not in our language. But through our minds, I’ve found that we have mutual needs. And of course, in the interest of self-preservation, a few pushes — once I found the right place to push — were necessary.”

“And now you’re pushing them toward me!”

“Hardly, John. They
want
to find you.”

“Me? Just me?” Now it was my turn to be coy. To see if Jake had any idea about Holly and her connection to the Gorgols.

“Just you, John? I should say yes. Aren’t you
deserving
of their attention? I can’t really understand all of their motivations, but a mother’s revenge seems fairly likely.” No mention of Holly. That was good. “John, do you know the poet Rainer Maria Rilke?”

Awkward silence.

“Do
I
know a
poet
?” I replied. “Um, no. Do you?”

“Yes, of course,” Jake said. As if that really qualified as an appropriate use of the words
of cours
e
.

“You’re into poetry?” I asked.

Awkward silence.

“Your time is short, John Black, so I’ll skip all this trivial bickering. Rilke, yes, a poet, said it best, I think.
Everything in Nature grows and defends itself any way it can
.”

“And that means?”

“The Gorgols, John. They are nature’s response to
us
. Well, at least to most of us. The humans who are actively destroying the natural world, every single day.”

“You’re telling me that 200-foot-tall monsters are here to teach us to be eco-friendly? Maybe recycle?”

I don’t think Jake appreciated my humor. “Of course not! It’s too late to make
amends
. They’re here to
erase
the problem.
Nature tries to be itself at all costs and against all opposition.
” Another quote, I assumed, based on Jake’s tone.

“Let me get this straight,” I said. “You were able to figure out where I live directly from my mind, from my dreams?”

“Yes, with a little bit of online research to fill in the gaps. Once I knew
where
you were, looking up your phone number was surprisingly easy.”

“And so you’re helping the Gorgols find me?”

“Yes.”

“So they can come here and kill me because I killed Omicron?”

“Well, that’s a little blunt. But I suppose I should give you at least the dignity of knowing.
Yes
.”

“And then the Gorgols will wipe out humanity — or at least a good portion of it — to even the scales between us and nature?”

“Something like that.”

A silence hung between us for a moment. I wasn’t sure there was much else to be said.

Until a thought — no, a belief — came to mind. “But, Jake?”

“Yes?”

“I have to tell you. I know I was wrong. Killing Omicron was wrong.”

Another long silence. Then a sudden burst of laughter. “You know, John, it never ceases to amaze me the lengths that people will go to save their own skin. That’s a clever ploy, but it won’t work. The Gorgols will come, and they’ll repay you for what you’ve done.”

“I’m serious. This isn’t a ploy. Come or don’t come, that’s up to you.” I felt like I had to say it, get it off my chest, to someone who might understand. Even if that someone was trying to engineer my death. “But I mean it. Before I killed Omicron, I
felt
his mind. I know what you mean, that they don’t speak the same language. But they have feelings, and I could sense things from him. Omicron was lost.”

“He’s lost forever now, thanks to you.” Jake spat the words.

I couldn’t disagree. “You’re right about that. I killed Omicron. And now I regret it. But about the rest? You’re wrong.”

“How so, John?”

“The feelings I felt within Omicron. They had nothing to do with killing people, or revenge on behalf of nature. They were, I don’t know,
personal
. Anger and fear, but also confusion. When I felt those things, I tried to stop. I tried to understand, but it was too late. He was dead.”

“You’re lying,” Jake said, but his tone lacked conviction.

“No, I’m not. I felt those things, and I tried to stop. I don’t want to fight the Gorgols, even if you come here. I don’t want to kill them anymore. And I don’t think they really want to fight me, or any of us people. They may have an agenda, but nature’s revenge isn’t it.”

A huff on the line. A mutter. Jake said something, but he was shifting the phone and his voice was unclear. He seemed, for a moment, to be talking to himself. Finally, almost like he was waking up, he spoke again. “I need to think.”

The line went dead.

10

I was still standing in the kitchen, holding the loudly complaining phone, when someone knocked on the front door.

My entire body tensed.
My God
.
He’s here already
.

I peeked through the small kitchen window above our sink, expecting to see a giant Gorgol toe in my front yard, but of course there was none. Realizing they couldn’t exactly sneak up on me like that, I let out a sigh of relief, and hung up the phone.

Then, once more, my breath caught as I noticed movement.

A man was standing at my front door.

I looked him up and down. Dark hair, short and stocky. Long pants and sneakers — a bit of a weird look for an adult, if you ask me. And something like a little pouch sat atop one shoe, interwoven into the shoelaces. I decided I didn’t need to deal with some sort of door-to-door sales pitch, so I went to my room and pretended no one was home. The man knocked two or three more times before he gave up.

Well, he
sort of
gave up. Nearly ten minutes went by before he knocked again.
Seriously, dude?
Figuring the guy must be desperate and would keep coming back and knocking all day, I decided to answer the door and play the dumb kid. You know,
sorry my mom’s not home right now. Come again never.
That sort of thing.

Just before I opened the door, I caught a glimpse of something through the side window. A flash of color. Curls of red hair tossed over a shoulder.

It wasn’t the man this time. Carrie McGregor was standing on my front step.

She wore a black skirt and a green top, and looked like a dream. Hell, who am I kidding? Carrie McGregor could’ve worn used trash bags and I still would’ve thought she looked like a dream. I felt my hand slightly shake as I reached for the knob to open the door.

Then I froze. I was in my pajamas.

Or, more correctly, the clothes that I
used
for pajamas, which were a ratty t-shirt and shorts that I’d probably worn more nights in a row than I cared to remember. “Be right there!” I shouted, then raced to my bedroom and quickly changed. The end product? T-shirt and shorts, but less ratty, and I did stop to slap a little deodorant under the pits for good measure.

I ran back and flung the door open. At which point I realized that flinging the door open was decidedly uncool. So I leaned against the doorframe, trying to look at ease but coming off like a mannequin propped in a display window. “Carrie? Oh, uh, Carrie. Hi! I thought you were… um, my mom, uh, with the groceries. So I ran to help out.” Making things up on the fly here, people.

“Oh. Well, that was nice of you,” she said, smiling.

I smiled back. And seconds passed. Suddenly it became an awkward silence.
Oh crap
, I thought.
Say something
. “So, how are you?”
Excellent. Such banter.

She looked at her shoes. “John, I wanted to apologize.”

“For what?”

“Yesterday, in school. I got you in a lot of trouble.”

Did she?
Well, maybe. She did tell Mrs. Rice that I was the one who had punched Lawrence Blatnik. But she’d been
explaining
, not really turning me in. “Oh, don’t worry about it.” I smiled again, this time awkwardly. Carrie had walked all the way to my house to apologize to me. That fluttering, deep inside, kicked up a notch.

“But I
am
worried about it. You got suspended, and all you were trying to do was stick up for me.”

“Well, sort of,” I said.

“What do you mean?”

“I just mean, yeah, I was sticking up for you. But I have other reasons for wanting to punch Lawrence Blatnik.” I shrugged, and smiled yet again, because what else was there to do?

And she returned the smile, batting her lashes.

My heart leapt. I know, that sort of thing was pretty much automatic. If she rang a bell, I guess I’d drool. Call me Pavlov. Or, wait. He was the scientist, right? Ah, crap, what was his dog’s name? Sorry, I digress.

“I think a lot of people have a lot of reasons for wanting to punch Lawrence Blatnik. Me included,” Carrie said. Then we both laughed out loud. When it passed, she did the most unexpected thing.
She
asked
me
out. “John, do you want to go to the coffee shop with me?”

I was flustered. Flabbergasted. Flummoxed. And other descriptive words beginning with
fl
. Flax-seeded? Flailing? Probably those, too. “Um, sure, yeah. That would be nice, uh, whenever you want to do that. Sure.” I tilted my head down so she wouldn’t see exactly how red my cheeks were becoming.

“I mean now,” she said.

“Oh,” I said, raising my eyebrows.

And that’s how I ended up at the coffee shop with Carrie McGregor around noon on Saturday.

Carrie was apparently quite familiar with the place, stepping right up to the counter and ordering a double macciamericanofrappalatte. I had no idea what that was, nor did I understand virtually any other word on the menu. I scanned it nonchalantly, trying to look like I belonged there. In the coffee shop. In Carrie’s world.

“Know what you want, John? I’m buying.” She waved a gift card and smiled.

Wow, not only was it our second date, it was a sort of
equalizer
, too. I did all the work for date one, she did everything for date two.

I realized at that moment how happy that made me. This wasn’t about fictitious expectations. It wasn’t about cool. It wasn’t even about smart. And most importantly, it wasn’t about power. I was so used to thinking about Sol and Jake and Pip and Bobby and even the Gorgols — which one of us could top the other? Who had more strength or power or ability? And this was just two people, treating each other equally.

I must have stood there, sappily smiling at Carrie, for too long.

“John?” She snapped her fingers twice in front of my eyes, not a rude gesture, but a silly one. Still, equals.

I came back to reality and focused again on the menu. Still, all those damn words. What did they mean? I ordered an
espresso macchiato
. How do I remember the name? Because once I took a sip, I vowed to never forget it.

I hated it that much.

When our order arrived, Carrie received a tall glass filled with swirls of whipped cream and sprinkled with something probably delicious on top. Mine came in a tiny glass, a dark bit of liquid topped with a small dab of something frothy.

Did I mention the glass was tiny?

I mean, I couldn’t really figure out how I was supposed to hold the thing, much less start drinking it.

We got a small table, in a corner by the window. It was, well, it was kind of romantic, or at least what I thought romantic was supposed to be like. Carrie sat across from me, pulling the paper off a straw and slipping it into her drink. She leaned forward to take her first sip, her red hair falling around her face, framing it on both sides. “
Yummy
. I love this drink,” she said, licking whipped cream from the corner of her mouth.

So that wasn’t too distracting, right?

Then it was my turn.

I pinched the small glass handle between my thumb and index finger, raising and tilting it toward my mouth. Have you ever tried this particular move? It’s basically impossible to do such a thing and
not
stick out your pinky like a froufrou snob.

Still, I sipped.

It was hot — that was the first thing I noticed. Thankfully, not
too
hot. I could only imagine the embarrassment if my powers had kicked in and my mouth tried to sluice around the hot coffee, making me dribble it all over the floor. So, small victory, I suppose. But the taste?

My face puckered. Involuntarily, I swear. It was so bitter and just flat out
awful
. Like I said, I hated it.

Quickly, I tried to smooth my features, pretend it was good.

Carrie chuckled. But it wasn’t a derisive laugh, it was sweet. “Not your favorite?” she asked.

I couldn’t help but smile back. “It’s a little, um… bitter,” I said.

She rolled her eyes. “Well, did you put any sweetener in it?”

“No?” It was a question. It meant that I didn’t even know that was a thing you could do. My coffee-shop inexperience was showing.

Carrie got up, grabbed a packet of something from the counter, and came back. “Try it with this.”

I did.

I still hated it.