Seraph of Sorrow (21 page)

Logic is accurate and ruthless,
Edmund Slider liked to say.
It destroys lies.

This was one lie, Skip admitted to himself as he pushed aside some low-hanging birch branches, he would have preferred to leave intact.
Because if Jennifer’s mom is a beaststalker, that means Jennifer’s one, too. And that means either one of them could have killed Dad. Or they could have batted him back and forth, like a pinball.

Did that bother him? Why should he care? Otto Saltin had certainly never been anything like a loving father to Skip.

That’s not the point. They’re dangerous, and they lie, and
—

Go back and finish the job.

He shook his head and pulled his ear. Who had said that? And how had the voice gotten into his head? No one had been able to do that since . . . since . . .

Something lay ahead in the deepening darkness, beyond two fungus-infected maple trees. Skip thought first of a wild animal. Were bears this large? And did they have scales . . . ?

The words from this thing continued, as if it were talking to itself:

No. Now. Go back. Finish it. Now.

The reality of who this was struck Skip—
Evangelos!—
and he felt a thrill of discovery and fear. He was enormous, and he could obviously keep shape outside of a crescent moon, and—

Suddenly aware of Skip, the creature reared up with spread wings.

Away, enemy, away!

Evangelos was the most magnificent werachnid Skip had ever seen.
Or almost seen,
he corrected himself as he tried to catch a glimpse of the head. As Jennifer had described, their half-brother was a writhing mass of legs, wings, and tail. He radiated power. He . . .

Another one. Another spider. Like Mother.

. . . was a she? The tone of the inner voice was hard to interpret. Was this thing male or female? Young or old? One or many?

Whatever it was, it waited, inside Skip’s head, the initial alarm fading. A slow wind crept over Skip’s ankles, and he idly remembered that he had forgotten to wear socks with his sneakers today. The thought came unbidden:
Mom would be annoyed at me. She’d tell me it was too cold.
He could see her now in his mind, scolding him with firm patience.

Like Mother.

Another image of his mother overwhelmed the first. This was not Skip’s own memory—it was an otherworldly cracked-stone landscape, where rifts sliced the air with harsh sizzles. The world was far darker than Skip’s, darker than anything he could have imagined, made far more frightening by his mother’s shouts of pain, and another woman there frozen in terror—

This is when you were born,
Skip realized.
This is your only memory of our mother . . .

The image shifted to this creature’s view of Dianna Wilson through a shimmering portal leading into a cold, dark place. As the portal closed, the last thing Skip could hear was the anguished cry of a mother who realized an awful mistake.

Mother! Not here!

Then the monster was shimmering in fear and sorrow, wings twitching.

No mother. No father. No love. No daughter . . .

Images of the Scales family flitted through Skip’s vision. Then, as quickly as they had come, they disappeared, and Evangelos was up on his hind legs again.

You know them. Are friends with them.

“I—I’m . . . I’m . . .” Skip sputtered at the accusing tone. What was the right thing to say? Plainly this thing hated the Scales family. He could not make a connection here as a friend of that family. “I’m your brother. That’s all that matters.”

The unseen head hissed, the wings curled, and the voice inside his head boiled.

No friends! No brother! Get away! GET AWAY! GET AWAY, GET AWAY . . .

His skull throbbing, Skip pushed back.

Out of my head, get out of my head, get OUT OF MY HEAD!

As if burned, the voice withdrew and the creature skipped back three steps.

They stared at each other. Finally, he heard its voice again.

You’re an annoying boy. Stay away, annoying boy. Stay OUT of my way. No annoying boy. Stay out of my way. Or else.

The cloak over its head expanded and filled the forest. By the time the darkness was withdrawn, the creature had vanished.

Skip explored the area for some time before he finally gave up. Nobody was going to show up here again. The only way he would ever find this link to his mother again would be to stay close to the Scales family.

“I don’t need a babysitter, Dr. Georges-Scales.”

His babysitter offered him a plate of packaged cookies. Scowling, he took one. It was a Pepperidge Farm Mint Milano—his favorite.

“I know. All those violent deaths don’t scare
you
. Have another?”

He snapped up two more cookies. “Whatever.” Chewing rebelliously, he tilted back on the kitchen chair and opened his mouth to nail her—the perfect cutting comment,
le mot juste
—but a noise between a cough, a groan, and a belch came out instead. Mint milano cookie crumble sprayed the kitchen table. His chair crashed to the floor. He couldn’t be embarrassed; he was bent in half, wondering if his guts could actually come out of his mouth.

The doctor was at his side. “It’s all right, Skip,” she said in an
oh no, not now
tone of voice. “Let it happen. I’ve seen it before.”

“Appendicitis?” He groaned, feeling her breath on him while he writhed. For all he knew, the next stage was to wriggle up and down like a glowworm.

“You’re going to need that sense of humor.”

Cripes, the pain! Why didn’t anybody warn me about the bone-deep pain? All I ever hear is “You’ll be a prince among arachnids” and “Your power is imminent” and all this “I-see-the-song” crap from Aunt Tavia, and not once did any of them tell me, “You’ll hurt so bad you’ll shit your pants.” It hurts. It fucking hurts. This is the information I could have used.

He flopped over on his back and screamed. Elizabeth moved her hands over him.

“Don’t touch me!”

She backed off. “It might be helpful if you could let me help you out of your clothes. Otherwise, you’re about to ruin them.”

Like he cared about a pair of jeans and his T-shirt. No, it was much more important
not
to have his girlfriend’s mother undress him.

“Just . . . leave . . . alone . . .”

Her face flashed with hurt, which was equal parts upsetting and satisfying, when they both heard the thud, as if something large had landed on the house and wasn’t too careful about being heard. The impact was followed by skittering sounds—falling shingles, Skip guessed.

Skip felt his skin ripple underneath his shirt, which then tore as his ribs bloated into something else. Jennifer’s mom didn’t see this. She was staring at the ceiling and then her hands, almost as if she was wishing she was holding something. What?

He was afraid he knew the answer.

She dragged him by his torn collar across the kitchen, opened the door to the basement, and dragged him down the stairs. Then she was rummaging around some boxes—getting what, he couldn’t see immediately since his eyes felt like they were splitting into pairs.

“Stay down here!” He could see, as she darted back up the basement stairs to the kitchen, that she held a sword. A beaststalker sword.

Slam.

“No problem,” he managed, rolling over and crawling into the dark. It was typical of his kind, he supposed. Hiding. Skulking. He planned to be a world-champion skulker. He heard crashing and banging and all sorts of interesting noise coming from upstairs. The thought occurred to him that he ought to help.

Ha. Help which one?

Even if he knew whether to fight with or against Dr. Georges-Scales, he couldn’t. He was too busy getting bigger, and bloating, and pushing new appendages out of his belly.

There was a point shortly after he heard a ridiculously loud shout—
Can Jennifer do that, too?
he wondered—when his vision suddenly quadrupled, and he could take in everything around him. Light seemed brighter, and walls seemed thinner. The basement’s hidden corners and half-open boxes revealed their secrets, and he spotted a trapdoor behind the furnace.

What am I?
he wondered. From the legs and segmented tail, it looked like a thin variety of scorpion.
Hmmm. Nice. Unusual. Never seen a live scorpion before. Now I
am
one.

He stretched, and it was like no stretch he’d ever tried—it felt like he was spreading his body in all directions. The pain faded, and the stretch sort of replaced it, and he felt like he filled the entirety of the basement.

The scorpion shape was gone.
What, then—a tarantula? Legs look hairy enough. Geez, I don’t know. I guess I’ll have to do this in front of a mirror and a biology textbook . . .

He stretched again—and the scorpion legs and tail were back, though a bit leaner and lighter than before. Then he stretched again, and he was something spindly, perhaps a daddy longlegs. And again—almost certainly a wolf spider. And again—
Now this looks like Dad.
He shuddered and willed himself out of the form so quickly . . .

. . . that he ended up a boy again.

Like Jennifer,
he realized.
I can take arachnid form, or not.

The thought that he was as powerful as Jennifer (at least!) was tantalizing.

I could go up there,
he told himself.
I could fight either one of them. I could fight both of them. I can do whatever I want.

As the sounds of tearing and smashing continued beyond the upstairs door, he finally decided he would stay out of it.
After all, if everything goes as planned, that fight upstairs will be moot. It will never have happened in our new universe. Why run a risk I don’t have to take?

Giddy, he shifted into something with black, spindly hairs, opened the trapdoor, and squeezed into the tunnel he found. It didn’t shock him to find this here—the Scaleses had hinted at some sort of tunnel under their place—but he was surprised at how neatly his bulbous form squeezed into the smallest of spaces.

The last thing he heard from the Scaleses’ house above was an odd sort of cry—it sounded like the doctor must have suffered a blow from the invader. The thought of Jennifer’s mother failing filled him with excitement at the thought of his sibling’s victory . . . and guilt at the thought that he could have helped. He kept running, until he could not hear it anymore.

“I need you to have that. Please.”

He kept his hand on the necklace around Jennifer’s throat. The wooden emblem of the Moon of Falling Leaves felt warm on his fingers, even with the snow drifting past the two of them. She was a remarkable girl—full of energy, full of passion, full of power. It was a shame for the two of them to break up like this. As he admitted to her himself, there was too much going on right now. He couldn’t handle her, and all she meant to him, so close to him right now.

That didn’t mean he wanted that necklace back.

“Why?” Her cool gray eyes regarded him with absolute trust.

It pained him to see that trust. He would have to betray her, he knew. Not today, perhaps, and not next week or next month. Someday, he would have to learn from her where Crescent Valley was. It would be easier to betray her, if she were not looking at him the way she was looking at him now. If she were only a friend, not kissing him each day, perhaps kissing someone else . . . Then, it would be easy to do what he had to do.

Once he had her alone in the new universe, they could resume where they left off. It was the best way through all this; he could see that. His one, great . . .

“Hope,” he whispered in her ear. Her face shone with new tears as he drew back, turned, and walked away. He was pretty sure he was crying, too.

The walk to his house was not long, though it was lonely. The house would be empty: His aunt Tavia was staying with her boyfriend at Winoka Hospital, where he received occasional physical therapy. He unlocked the side door with his key and wandered through the rooms.
Will they look the same after the change?
he wondered.
Will the pictures and furniture be the same? Will the wallpaper be different? Will there be more rooms or floors? Will we live in the same house?
He remembered how during travels together, his mother occasionally rented a villa for a week or so. It was a nice change from the cramped hotel rooms and apartments they usually stayed in, and so she would do it for his birthday, and hers, and sometimes Christmas.

Maybe she’d like a lakeside cabin,
he thought.
We could go there, and it would be like it was in those villas.
Jennifer could join them now and then—why not?—and Tavia, and Mr. Slider. They could go fishing on the lake, and clean and grill whatever they caught.

His stomach rumbled. He headed down the hall to the kitchen, then stopped in his tracks.

One of the traditional family photos in the hall, with a modest wooden frame, looked a little different. He could tell because it was his favorite: a portrait shot of Dianna Wilson against a generic smoky blue background. Her cascade of jet-black hair was close to her slim head and freckled shoulders. She had on a red dress that cut a shallow V over her bust-line, and her lipstick matched the fabric perfectly. Her mouth was closed, with a mysterious smile painted forever under freckled nose, cheeks, and forehead.

To Skip, the smile had always said:
Don’t fret. I’m coming back.
Her eyes, which in real life had continuously shifted color, had been caught by the photographer in a thoughtful brown. But that was not the color they were right now.

They were blue.

He examined her smile more closely.
It’s a little broader,
he thought. That was when he heard the whisper.

“Mom?!” He bent down and turned his ear toward the picture.