Gateway (The Gateway Trilogy, Book 1) (9 page)

“Why do you want Kat to think I have a birthmark? And why can't she know about my tattoo?”

“Because you are in serious danger.” His tone was hushed but urgent. “I'm trying to protect you. Not from Kat, but from things you don't understand and are worse than you can imagine. Please, just trust me for a little while longer. When Callie wakes up I'm taking you both to the Institute and then I promise you will get the answers you need.”

We had a brief standoff before I nodded in acquiescence. 

“Thanks, I owe you,” he said. “And while I'm racking up debts, I have another request. Callie's state of mind is still very fragile, and she doesn't remember much of last night. She's younger and not as strong as you. It's important we don't talk about any of this in front of her.”

I agreed, pleased with the knowledge he found me strong. Then Kat entered the room and instantly I felt invisible again.

“Look who was up,” Kat said, smiling.

Callie yawned. “You woke—“

“Well, the important thing is that you're awake,” Kat said quickly, “which means we can leave sooner than we expected and don't have to eat here.”

Kat turned a dubious eye to the meal Taren was putting together for us. He’d placed a box of dried cereal and a tin of sugar cookies next to a half eaten jar of applesauce.

“Not much for cooking?” I asked, the corners of my mouth twitching into a smirk.

“It's not like I've been home in the past few weeks,” he said defensively. “And my folks… travel.”

I wondered whether Taren's parents knew he was some sort of demon fighter, or if they really thought he was a pyro. I added it to my growing list of questions.

He surveyed the spread and sighed. “Alright, let's go.”

Kat brightened. “Great! Come on girls, I'll loan you some clothes.”

She grabbed both Callie and me by the hand and led us down a short flight of stairs. The lower level couldn't have contrasted more with the upper. Where upstairs was sleek, with clean lines and a place for everything, the downstairs bedroom was chaotic and painted in bright colors. The walls were covered in pop art, the shelves adorned with kitsch. Kat went to a large closet and flung open the door to reveal rows and rows of stylish clothes.
 

So she lived here. It was a mark in the “they're dating” column. But they didn't share a room, which was a mark in the “what the hell is up with them?” column.

She reached all the way into the back and pulled out a bag, tossing it to Callie.

“Here, take what you like. All that stuff is from when I was your age—I could barely squeeze a toe in it now. Lucky for you, I'm terrible at throwing things away.”

She looked me up and down. “So, I'm guessing you've got an alternative vibe going, right? Nothing too girly, nothing to make you fit in except with all the other people who don't want to fit in?”

I was flustered by the accuracy of her assessment, especially given I was wearing a bathrobe. “Um, yeah.”

She pulled a T-shirt from its hanger. “Here, my older cousin gave this to me as some kind of joke. You probably know who it is.”

She tossed me the shirt. It bore the logo of an indie trip-hop band I'd seen more than once. A camisole flew my way and I snagged it, grateful. I didn't want to wear the bra I'd discarded last night; it was filthy and reeked of perspiration. Not that I was pleased my breasts could be kept under control by such a thin sheath of fabric, but it did have its advantages.
 
A pair of jeans sailed my way. I was surprised that they fit even reasonably well, though they were tight in the waist and loose in the hips, reflecting how much more of an hourglass her figure was. I rolled up the bottom a good three inches to make up for our difference in height.

“Not bad,” Kat said, appraising Callie and me. She eyed my rolled up hem and shook her head. “Except for that.”

She reached into a drawer and pulled out a pair of scissors, cutting off the excess fabric and fraying the ends. I protested—didn't we have more important things to worry about? But I looked in the mirror and had to admit, if only to myself, it was an improvement. I used one of the brushes laid out on the dresser to work out some tangles.

Taren was waiting for us upstairs, keys in hand. Instead of leading us to the car we'd all but wrecked the night before, we piled into an SUV parked in the garage.

We rode mostly in silence. Anything I wanted to talk about was off-limits for now. Occasionally I would glance at Callie out of the corner of my eye, noticing her right wrist, or more to the point, the marking on it. It was a pinkish brown line about two inches in length that curved at both ends. To most people it would seem an inconsequential birthmark or scar. I thought of my tattoo and how if you shrunk the dimensions just enough, it would overlay perfectly, a complete match of one section.

Partway through the drive I remembered my mother, and immediately felt guilty for having forgotten her for so long. I knew my disappearance would send her into a spiral. I imagined her insisting on being brought to the police station, staying all night to make sure everything was being done to find me and bring me home safely. I thought of her exhausted by her histrionics, but refusing to go home.
 

Taren indulged my request to call her, but with precautions. We pulled over to a convenient store where he bought three disposable cell phones, each loaded with only small amounts of money. He ripped open the package on one and handed it to me.

“Send a text first. Tell her you're fine and are going to call her in three minutes, but she has to make sure she’s alone. If your suspicions are right, she’s probably surrounded by cops right now and that’s the last thing we need.”

I struggled with texting on the archaic keypad—who wasn’t using QWERTY by now—but eventually pulled it off. I waited the three minutes and dialed, Taren sitting on the curb next to me. I knew he was afraid I’d say something wrong, something to lead the police right to us, but it was the furthest thing from my mind. I wanted answers more than I wanted safety, and I wasn’t so sure even the LAPD could protect me if I’d been marked for death by some alternate demon universe. The absurdity of that thought was not lost on me, even then.

“Baby? Is that you?” My mother’s voice was frantic.

“Yeah, Mom, it’s me. I’m fine.” I answered. “Please don’t worry.”

“Where are you? Why haven’t you come home?”

“Because there’s something going on right now and I just… can’t yet.” I thought about the demon I’d seen, thought about its gaping mouth and shuddered. I knew that even if I didn’t need answers, going home would only put my mother in danger.

“But you will? Soon?” The pleading in her voice almost broke me.

“Yes, Mom, I promise. But I have to go now.” I didn’t have to see Taren’s face to know he was growing impatient.

“Alright,” she said, resigned, “but wait—one more question. When you come home, will you bring some tartar sauce? I’ll make fish sticks, your favorite.”

What the
…?
It took a moment before I recovered, remembering the obscure reference. “No, Mom, I hate fish sticks. Will you make something else?”

“Oh, yes,” she said, overjoyed. “Yes, I’ll make anything you want. Be safe and hurry home.”

“I will,” I promised, not sure I would make good on either.

I flipped the phone shut and handed it to Taren. He tossed it in the trash.

“Hey, there was still money left on that. What if I want to call her again?”

“That’s what these are for,” he answered, holding up the two extras. “Burners are hard to trace, but no sense taking chances. Use a new phone for each call.”

I was comforted by the extra phones, but less so by the fact that he held onto them, a clear indication that wherever we were going, my communication with the outside world would not be up to me.

“What was that bit about fish sticks?” he asked, climbing back into the SUV.

“Oh, pretty clever of her actually, though I thought it ridiculous at the time. Sometimes Mom gets paranoid, thinks people might be out to get her, out to get me.” I laughed nervously at how close that hit to home. “Anyway, one night she was really freaked out and came up with a code. If I was ever kidnapped or something, she would say something about me liking fish sticks. If I said I wanted fish sticks, that meant I was in danger and needed help, no matter what else I’d said to her that I was fine.”

“So by you saying you hate fish sticks…”

“She knows I’m fine and she doesn’t need to further involve the police. Who says bipolar disorder can’t be useful?”

If anyone in the car was uncomfortable with the admission that my mother was mentally ill, they didn’t let on. Although I guess Callie battled mental problems of her own and therefore not likely to throw stones, and if Taren and Kat’s jobs entailed bringing people back from the brink of crazy they probably weren’t easily shocked.
 

We had passed through the heart of Hollywood and were making our way toward the Sunset Strip when Taren made a right, heading up the mountain that served as a boundary between the rest of Los Angeles and the dreaded Valley—where aging movie stars who had run out of residual checks went to die. Where club-going poseurs, who worked as production assistants, lived because they were spending all of their money to lease a BMW Z-4. Where I lived. Even my city didn’t fit in.

This border town, known as Laurel Canyon, was an elite colony nestled between both worlds. One of the few places in Los Angeles where trees hadn’t been torn down to accommodate housing needs. The roads were narrow, houses perched precariously on hillsides, and deer were not an uncommon site. As with most places, the higher you went, the more expensive it got. Having seen Taren’s place in the Hollywood Hills, I was unsurprised that we kept winding up, up until my stomach lurched and it was all I could do to not give into car sickness.

We came to a stop in front of a gated driveway. A guard stepped out of the small shack and gave Taren a polite wave. The gate slid open and we eased through. The narrow driveway curved its way through a canopy of trees that filtered out all but the softest rays of sunshine, then opened to reveal a sprawling estate. Fruit trees dotted the landscape, as did the occasional marble bench. The beautiful scenery did nothing to calm me, however. Instead, my pulse quickened and bile rose in my throat.

“Thank God we're here,” I said. “I don't usually get motion sick but I'll be very glad to get out of this car.”

Taren and Kat exchanged glances.

“No, not again…” Callie moaned softly.

“Hold on, Callie. We're almost to the safe place I told you about,” Taren said, easing to a stop.

“What’s bringing this on?” I was concerned for my safety as well as hers. If she was hearing voices, they might be telling her to attack me again.

“It’s being this near to the Gateway. The voices will be louder and more controlling,” Taren answered. “It's also why you feel sick. Aren't you hearing anything?”

“Not a thing.” I was glad for yet another distinction between the Voice I heard and the ones that had a hold of Callie. “So, you both feel nauseous, too?”

“No,” Kat said. “Only Marked ones are connected to the Gateway like that.”

Taren locked eyes with me in the rear view mirror.

We piled out of the car and Taren brought us not to the mansion set atop the gently sloping hill, but toward a path that led to a dormitory-style building. My stomach continued to roil while Callie clutched her temples and muttered non-sensically.

The moment my foot touched the packed earth of the trail, I felt better. Still queasy, but noticeably improved. I looked at Taren who gave me a comforting smile. With each step, my stomach calmed even more. Callie looked around with wide eyes. I'd never seen her smile before, but now she wore a wide grin.

“They're quiet. I can tell they're still there, but they're not talking anymore.” Her voice was filled with awe. “What is this place?”

“This part of the property holds a special protection against the demons,” Taren said.

“I'm never leaving…” Callie was transforming before my eyes. It was like a switch had been flipped. Her eyes were bright with excitement, her skin already losing its grey cast.

As for me, I was just happy to back from the verge of vomiting. Other than that, I didn't feel particularly different.

We reached the front door of the building and stepped inside.

The entry way led to a large common area. It was like the upscale version of the rec room at Windsor. A half dozen comfortable chairs faced a flat screen television. The walls were lined floor to ceiling with bookshelves. I marveled at the diverse collection. 

A plump woman in her forties walked out of an office to greet us.

“Young Mr. Hart, I've been expecting you,” she said.

Taren's last name was Hart? I wasn't sure which struck me funnier: his last name, or that I'd spent half the night running for my life with a guy whose last name I hadn't even known.

The woman eyed the rest of us. “I knew we had one new student, but I didn't know you were bringing one as well, Katrina.” Her tone held a hint of reproach.

“I'm sorry, Mae, that's my fault,” Taren said, “This is Callie, whom you know about, and this is Ember. She's here to meet with Annys and Master Dogan. They should be on their way down.”