Read Mercury Retrograde Online
Authors: Laura Bickle
Mercury Retrograde (25 page)
Eventually, she forced herself to her feet. This would be the last time she would come here. It would be too dangerous to return, since someone would eventually come searching for Sal's body. She plodded down the tunnel that she knew led to the Stella Camera. She wanted to see it, one last time, and putting one foot in front of the other was all she could do now, this numb shuffling.
She wound her way to the Stella Camera, wiping her drippy nose. The mist from the ground had soaked deeply in here, and she could make out only the faintest glimmer of the salts in the filtered grey light from above.
This place. Once upon a time, it had churned with possibility. She wondered if anyone would ever find it again.
Sweeping the flashlight beam around the room, salt glittered, and the black lake lapped at the shore. A lone figure stood at the edge of the lake. Her heart slammed against her sternum.
“Gabe?”
He turned. His eyes did not gleam in the dark as they usually did.
She dropped the flashlight and rushed to him, lifting her hands to his face. His flesh felt solid under her fingers, unmarked, and warm. But there was no pulse of sunshine beneath his cheek. “You're alive.”
He kissed the tips of her fingers. “I am.”
“I went to the Lunaria, and when I didn't see you there, I thought you were dead. Like the others.”
“I . . .” he began, looked away at the water, and back at her with dark eyes. There was something confused and helpless in them. “There was only enough magic to restore the tree, and me. Just me. I don't know why. Maybe because I was the oldest and the strongest. The rest . . .” He rubbed his hand over his face, and it remained over his mouth, his eyes glistening with tears. “They're gone.”
She grabbed his face fiercely, pulling his forehead down to meet hers. “You are alive. That's miraculous. And I'm so glad for that.” Her gaze fell on his neck, exposed by the undone last buttons of his shirt. She trailed her hand down his neck. The scar around his throat was gone, obliterated, as if it had never been there.
“You don't understand. I'm alive.” He grabbed her hands. “But that's all. I'm not . . . magical anymore. There are no more ravens. No glowing blood. No blocking bullets.” He held up his hand, and it bled dull red from a scratch. “I scraped my hand climbing out of the roots. I . . .” he faltered, staring at it with an expression of horror and wonder.
She breathed it in, the totality of that knowledge. “You're human.”
“Yes.”
She kissed him hard, wanting to drink in every bit of him. He responded by tangling his fingers in her hair, cradling the back of her head in his wounded palm and sliding his other arm around her waist, pressing her body to him. She felt his heart pounding against her chest, a real, aching pulse.
He was alive. She was certain.
And, for now, for this partitioned moment in time, so was she.
C
al rolled over, feeling for all the world like someone had whacked him in the head with a baseball bat and hit a homer with his skull. He groaned and retched, feeling the mercury sliding over his skin, cold against the bruises. Plastic stuck against his skin, and the world was dark around him.
Bel. Bel had shot him. In the face. And he was still alive.
What the hell?
He reached up to his face with shaking fingers, tracing the lines of metal around his chin and cheekbones. The mercury had formed a helmet over his head, he realized. It was dissolving now, retracting back under his skin.
Despair lanced through him. Bel was his last hope, and she was done with him. He lifted his head. Plastic stuck to his arms and nose. He tried to pull at it, but it wouldn't give. It was sticky and . . . oh, my God. He felt a zipper.
He was in a body bag. A fucking body bag.
Whimpering, he wriggled right and left, clawing at the zipper. One of his broken fingernails caught the top of the zipper, and he worked it down enough to get his pinky finger into the gap. He was able to draw it open enough to get some cooler air in his face.
And light. He lifted his head out of the bag.
Oh, Jeez.
He was in the back of what looked like a refrigerated restaurant truck, the air conditioning humming as the refrigerant dribbled out of the blower. A fluorescent light shone overhead, and it illuminated at least a dozen other body bags, stacked haphazardly in the space. A full bag had been thrown over Cal's legs, and he jerked free of it, curling up in a ball. He was alone with the dead.
He had to get out of here.
He crept to the back of the truck, pressed his ear to the cold metal. No voices outside. Maybe he had a shot at running.
There was a red release button on the inside of the door. Sucking in his breath, he hit it and thrust his shoulder at the door.
The door popped open easily, sending Cal sprawling on the ground with the wind knocked out of him. It was brighter here than in the truckâÂhe registered that it was daylight, but not much else. Scrambling to his feet, he fled into the nearest coverâÂforest. He wheezed and waded into the underbrush, praying that nobody had seen him.
He ran until his breath finally seized up, driving him to his knees. His stomach cramped, and a string of silver slipped out of his mouth, forming a puddle in the yellow leaves. He panted, staring at his reflection in the quicksilver. The mercury moved under his skin. His nose got longer, cheekbones grew more pronounced, his cheeks thinned, as the mercury slid under his bones and moved the contours of his face. His skin ached and pulled over the swelling.
His own face disappeared. He saw another familiar face in its place: Stroud's.
He jerked back. It had to be a trick of the light. Had to.
Hello, Cal. It's been a long time.
Stroud's voice echoed in his skull.
Cal pressed his fist to his forehead. “You're not real. You're dead. This can't be happening.”
Look at me.
Cal peered into the quicksilver mirror. Stroud's unmistakable visage looked back at him, under the filthy shock of Cal's own black hair, all sharp angles and the prominent brow. Silver flecks crept into his irises, metal sliding into soft tissue.
I am here. Within you.
Cal whimpered. He rubbed at his face with his palms. The mercury dented under the pressure of his hands, but sprang back and reorganized in Stroud's image, like a candle melting and being remolded.
Behind him, he could hear Âpeople walking in the woods, the crackle of radios. Cal scuttled around in panic.
Run. Don't let them catch us.
“Well, maybe they'd shoot us, and this would be over,” he whispered back at the voice.
No. They'll take us apart, molecule by molecule. They'll keep us alive, tortured. Is that what you want? Or do you want to be free?
Cal climbed to his feet. He leaned forward and backward. Part of him wanted to run to the Âpeople, relinquish control over his own life. He'd been in charge of his young life for years, and he had to admit that he'd done a pretty shitty job of it. Maybe it was time to let someone else be in charge, someone with a badge and some legit authority.
Cal. You will never see sunlight again if they catch us. And I will fight them. Their blood will be on your hands.
No. No more killing. He couldn't face that. He fled. He tried to run away from the voice in his head, the horrible memory of Stroud he wanted to forget. Weeds slashed at his pant legs.
He'd struck his head. He must have. Or else had a schizophrenic break. ÂPeople just didn't hear voices. It wasn't real, couldn't be. Maybe when his concussion faded, the voice and the hallucinations would, too. That was his most rational hope, and he clung to it.
I'm real, Cal. I'm in youâÂin your cells and your DNA. And I'm not leaving you, ever again.
Cal sobbed.
Â
T
hank you to my amazing editor, Rebecca Lucash, for the opportunity to let Sig romp and stomp around Yellowstone. I'm very grateful for your invaluable editorial magic and insight.
Heartfelt gratitude to my awesome agent, Becca Stumpf, for always holding the door open for new ideas. Thank you for your support and advice throughout these many creative processes.
Special thanks to Caro Perny, Publicity Guru, for all of your amazing promo work for this series.
Many thanks to all the motorcycle gurus for sharing their awesome knowledge: Stephanie Hoover, Aaron Mezger, Bill Tardy, Samantha Groom, Justin Reed, Colin Blain, Brad Lenk, Jay Hobbs, and all of Spite. Thank you, road warriors!
Much gratitude to Marcella Burnard for all the beta reading. I owe you a whole bunch of catnip.
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Laura Bickle
grew up in rural Ohio, reading entirely too many comic books out loud to her favorite Wonder Woman doll. After graduating with an MA in Sociology-ÂCriminology from Ohio State University and an MLIS in Library Science from the University of Wisconsin-ÂMilwaukee, she patrolled the stacks at the public library and worked with data systems in criminal justice. She now dreams up stories about the monsters under the stairs. Her work has been included in the ALA's Amelia Bloomer Project 2013 reading list and the State Library of Ohio's Choose to Read Ohio reading list for 2015â2016. More information about Laura's work can be found at
www.laurabickle.com.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cover art © by Shutterstock Images.
MERCURY RETROGRADE. Copyright © 2015 by Laura Bickle. All rights reserved under International and Pan-ÂAmerican Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-Âbook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-Âengineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperÂCollins e-Âbooks.
EPub Edition OCTOBER 2015 ISBN: 9780062437617
Print Edition ISBN: 9780062437624
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