Out of This World (13 page)

“If you don't like it here, why do you stay?”

His laughter has no humour in it.

“Good one,” he says.

“It wasn't a joke.”

He studies me for a long moment. “You have no idea, do you?” he finally says.

I shake my head.

“Dainnan's a midden. A refuse heap. It's the place they send the undesirables and leave us to rot. There are a thousand ways in and only one way out, and that way is guarded by the chief of the hounds.”

“Whoa, whoa. Back up a bit. What do you mean, ‘there's only one way out'?”

“Exactly what it sounds like.”

The bread and cheese feels heavy in my stomach.

“So, how do I get to this place that the chief guards?” I ask.

“It's not a place. I've been told that it's a token—something the chief carries on his person. I've never actually seen it. I've only spied him once, and that was from a distance, mind you. It's not something I'd care to repeat.”

“Why not?”

“He's rather formidable.”

Is there anything
not
crappy about this place?

“You've never tried to get out?” I ask.

“I did at first, before I knew about the token. It was a pointless endeavour. I soon realized that ours is not the power in this ruin of a city. The hounds rule it. They chase us to this world—to this city—and we can't get out. And then, if the fancy strikes, they hunt us, and when they catch us, they string us up.”

“But you've managed to stay free.”

He shakes his head. “They've caught me twice. The first time, one of the other prisoners climbed up and sawed through the ropes with a sharpened stone. The second, I had to free myself. It took a week.”

He pushes up his sleeves and shows me the white scar tissue encircling each of his wrists.

“It was not an easy escape,” he says.

What is he saying? He was strung up with no food or water for a week and he still managed to free himself? How's that even possible?

All I can do is stare at the scars until he finally pushes his sleeves back down.

“Nobody sent me here,” I say after a long moment. “I mean, there was this pack of dog cousins on my heels at the start, and they were like the hounds, but I'm the one who picked this place to hide out.”

“Unless they only want you to think that. Perhaps chasing you here was their plan all along.”

“But I didn't
do
anything.”

“That you know of.”

“What got you sent here?” I ask.

He doesn't move, but it still feels as though he withdraws from me.

“That's not a question we ask each other in Dainnan,” he says, his voice stiff.

“Sorry, sorry,” I say quickly. “New girl, remember? I don't know the ropes. And I don't want to be here long enough to have to know them.”

“I'm afraid that's not up to you,” he says.

I nod. That's beginning to sink in now.

“The hounds that I fought back in my world,” I say. “They had a mark on them. It was a brand when they were in their dog shapes and a tattoo when they looked human.”

I draw it out in the dirt: the circle with a lightning bolt stamped across it. Thorn frowns.

“That's how I've heard it described,” he says. “The symbol of the chief 's token.”

“What did you mean about waking a map in your head?” Manuel asks. He and Lara sit side by side on a wide flat rock facing a smaller one where I'm seated.

I tell them about that moment in the skatepark when I suddenly got this 3-D image of the landscape in my head with every living thing placed on it, exactly to scale.

“I had to learn how to tone it down really fast,” I say, “but once I had it under control, it was really cool. And useful. But it disappeared when I came here, and I'm trying to get it back.”

“Lara has something like that,” Manuel says, “though not nearly so complex.”

She nods. “Once I've been somewhere, I can return any time. It's how I navigate my way through the worlds. Otherwise, the choices would be too bewildering and I'd be lost in moments. But I can't see everything around me, only the route I need to take.”

“How does it work?” I ask. “Did you just always have it, or did someone teach it to you?”

“I was born with the raw ability, but my grandparents taught me how to use it.” She smiles and looks up at the sky and the
trees. “The first time, they brought me here because it was one of their favourite places.”

“It is beautiful,” I say, following her gaze while discreetly scanning our surroundings. There are no hawks in view. I wonder where and why Tío Goyo's hiding.

“I could try to teach you what my grandparents taught me,” Lara offers, “but it sounds very different from what you described.”

“Maybe you can help. I'm looking for a friend of mine who's in danger. I need some directions.”

“Do you think we might know him?” Manuel says. “She's a her, and it seems doubtful. She hasn't been in the otherworld very long. Her name's Elzie—she's a jaguarundi.”

Lara shakes her head, a rueful look on her face. “We don't know her, or even what that is,” she says.

“It's a kind of a big cat, but that doesn't matter. She was captured by a member of the Condor Clan named Vincenzo. Do you know anything about him? Where he might have been camped or where they'd hold a captive?”

Manuel sighs. When he replies his voice resumes a more formal tone. “You must understand, young lord, that Lara and I, we are simple people. We don't involve ourselves in the affairs of the greater clans.”

“No, sure. I get that. I'm not asking you to be involved. Like I said, I was just hoping you could point me in the right direction.”

“Had I the knowledge you require,” he says, “I would happily give it to you. But alas, I do not. The Condor Clan have nests in the great mountains of La Vendyr. Perhaps Lara could tell you how to get there, but you won't find Vincenzo or his brothers
there now. We've heard that they left to carry out other … plans, but we don't know where they are now.”

He glances at her and she nods.

I shrug. “Well, it was worth a shot. Thanks, anyway.”

Manuel puts a hand on my arm. “You are, of course, a member of the great clans yourself, young lord, and it is not my place to advise you, yet my conscience would not let me rest if I didn't warn you against involving yourself with such as the Medinas. They are dangerous and make formidable enemies. Especially Vincenzo and Stephano.”

“Vincenzo's dead.”

They look at me as though I've just told them that Elvis is not only alive, but has recorded a rap album.

“How is this possible?” Manuel says.

“He finally ran into someone who could stand up to him,”

I say.

“You
saw
it?”

“I saw what was left of him.”

Lara gives me a considering look. If she's guessing what I'm not saying, she keeps it to herself.

Manuel shakes his head in wonder. “That is really something,” he says. “I can tell you this. No one among the cousins but his brothers will mourn his death.”

Whoops. I should have kept my mouth shut. If this place is like any other, gossip is the main entertainment.

“I'd prefer you kept this to yourself for now,” I say. “I still need to rescue my friend.”

“Of course, of course,” Manuel assures me. “We will tell no one.”

“And we should let you resume your search,” Lara adds, standing up. Manuel rises, too, and I follow suit.

“Thank you for your kind hospitality,” Manuel says.

He embraces me and gives me a kiss on either cheek. I don't quite know what to do—I mean, I hardly know them—but I return the hug and give him a couple of awkward pats on the back. Then Lara takes his place.

“Be careful,” she whispers as she kisses my cheeks as well.

I nod and watch them go, walking hand in hand again between the big trees. They're no sooner out of sight than Tío Goyo comes sauntering back into our camp. I can't believe this guy.

By the time I pull off the Pacific Coast Highway into our compound, eight or nine of the dogs are following me. I rev my bike through the yard beside the gang's clubhouse, peel past my crib into the junkyard behind it, then spin to a stop so that I'm facing the way I came. I don't see J-Dog and the boys. I can't smell them, either, through the dust the Harley kicked up.

That's okay. I trust they're here.

It doesn't take long for the dogs to come loping in after me. I know what they're thinking: I've done their work for them. Got myself someplace where there's no one around and nowhere to run.

Suckers.

The dust that keeps me from smelling J-Dog and the others is hiding them, too. I kill the engine and put my bike on its kickstand. Pulling my crowbar from its holster, I step away from the bike.

The dogs fan out, snarling and snapping, eager to take me down. I don't know why they've got a hard-on for me. Truth is, I don't care. I've been so worried about Marina that I need to hit something.

“Okay, girls,” I say. “Bring it on.”

The dogs think I'm talking to them, but that's my signal to J-Dog. The pack charges me. Two in the lead, the rest moving to flank me on either side. That's when J-Dog stands up from where he's been hiding behind a rusted beater of a '67 Chevy with that big Glock of his in his hand.

His first bullet hits the front dog and pretty much shears off its head. The other one's startled, but stays committed to its attack. I figure he plans to bowl me over with the force of his charge. I brace myself and yell to J-Dog, “This one's mine!”

Killing it would be easier, but I need one of the pack alive to answer some questions.

But only one.

I hear J-Dog's Glock fire again, then a flurry of other shots as the rest of the gang takes out the pack. I'm half aware—as you are in a fight like this—of everything going on around me. My Ocean Aver brothers standing on either side of the junkyard, weapons still ready. The dogs all shot to pieces. But my main focus is on the one coming straight for me, still intent on taking me out. There's no give in his flashing eyes.

I move forward to meet his attack, then step to one side, bringing the tire iron down on his shoulder.

I hear bones snap.

I hear J-Dog yell: “Put down your goddamn guns.”

I'm guessing one or more of the boys was ready to help

me out.

But I don't need help.

The dog's game—I'll give him that. His right leg gives way under him and he sprawls in the dirt. But he's up on three legs, snapping at me as soon as I close in on him.

Man, you have to admire his determination. He's hurting bad, yet still not backing down.

But this is a done deal now.

I kick him in the head and the blow sends him sprawling. Before he can get up I've got my boot on his neck and he can't move. He can barely breathe. But I hold the position, our gazes locked until he finally gives up and looks away. Under my boot I feel all the tightness in his muscles go limp.

I ease up on the pressure. Just enough to let him breathe.

“Grab yourself a shape with a face that can talk to me,” I tell him, “or this is going to get a lot messier.”

He doesn't respond, so I let the end of the tire iron brush against his bloody shoulder. It catches on a piece of bone that's sticking out of the matted fur. I know that had to hurt like a sonofabitch, but all he does is hate me with his gaze.

“Yeah,” I tell him. “Everybody knows you're tough. And you want to rip out my throat. I get it.” I push down with my foot. “But your friends are history and nobody's coming to save your ass.”

The other Avers are gathering in the dirt, checking out the dead dogs. I've gotta tell you, I'm a little surprised that the pack members are still in the shape of dogs. I thought we returned to our true shapes when we died—like both Lenny and the rat girl, Laura, did. But maybe that's only Wildlings. Maybe cousins don't. Or maybe these are their true shapes and they only borrow human forms.