Shimmer: A Novel (36 page)

“Punch drunk.”

“That’s me,” she said, smiling, “psychic punching bag.”

“Run the water hot,” he said. “It’ll work out the kinks.”

“Right,” she said, taking a step into the hall before pausing to turn back. “She’s gone, right?”

For a moment, Logan thought she was referring to Liana, as if the crisis of two missing Walkers had almost slipped her mind. But then he realized who she was talking about and felt a rush of relief. Where his oldest sister was concerned, he was seeing danger signs everywhere.
Get a grip,
he told himself. “Fallon, yes, she’s gone,” he said. “We dropped her off at home last night.”

“I could tell,” Thalia said. “That she wasn’t here.”

“Oh?”

Thalia nodded thoughtfully. “When she’s close, I sense it. But now there’s just this…void. Strange, right?”

“Nothing strange in this family. Or everything. Depending on your point of view.”

She chuckled. “How could I forget?” Crossing her arms under her breasts, she arched her back and stretched her neck from side to side. Then she heaved a sigh.

“Something wrong, Thalia?”

“She’s okay, right? Fallon, I mean. Because, I don’t really remember what happened after the trap sprung, or during the ride home. I was in some kind of daze until… I remember sitting in Ambrose’s office feeling extravagantly tired.”

“Everything was rushed after you and Fallon fell,” Logan said. “Fallon was tired—wiped out actually. Sure she’ll have a few bruises today. Otherwise, okay, I think. Grainger wanted to take you both to the hospital, but you talked him out of it.”

“I did?”

“You and Fallon. Both refused to go.”

“Not a big fan of hospitals.”

“Apparently neither is Fallon.”

“Good,” Thalia said, nodding. “Good that she’s okay. That we’re both okay. Could have been worse, right?”

“We’re alive, so yeah, definitely could have been worse.”

Thalia rubbed her arm as if for warmth. “I owe her a lot,” she said. “She brought me back. She’s special.”

“Yeah,” Logan said, grinning a little foolishly, but he couldn’t help it. “She is.”

“Don’t let that one get away.”

“Not if I have any say in the matter.”

Thalia walked down the hall shaking her head. “It’s like I said, Logan.”

“What?” he called after her.

“You don’t give yourself enough credit.”

Logan passed the dark war room with its humming computers and large Hadenford map, descended the stairs with a spring in his step, and followed the sounds of conversation to Ambrose’s office. He knocked once on the partially open door, then slipped inside. The old man sat behind his desk, examining tattered sheets of dark parchment encased in what were probably acid free plastic sheet protectors. Sheets so old Logan doubted Ambrose had ever scanned them into the Walker database. Gideon stood on the other side of the desk, knuckles braced against its surface as he too glanced over the ancient Walker records.

“Good morning, Logan,” Ambrose said absently. He met Logan’s gaze for a moment, long enough for Logan to see the abundance of red in his eyes and the deep pouches under them.

“Good morning,” Logan said. “Have you slept at all?”

“I’ll nap later,” Ambrose said. “Understanding these pages must come before sleep.”

Gideon looked at Logan and frowned slightly. “What are you so happy about?”

“Oh, nothing,” Logan said. “New morning, fresh start kinda feeling.”

Gideon arched an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

Logan shrugged, and dropped into the wingchair nearest the desk. “So what are these records? They look old. Carbon dating old.”

“Quite so. And they tell a tale even older. They are fourth or fifth generation transcripts of oral records dating back over two thousand years.” He shook his head and chuckled. “Well before my time.”

“They’re copies?”

Ambrose nodded. “Our oldest information comes from transcripts of oral records. Millennia ago, Walkers passed down oral histories of our battles from one generation to the next. At some point, an industrious Walker—a scholar or cleric perhaps—committed these oral records to parchment. And whenever the written accounts were in danger of deteriorating beyond usefulness—”

“Before they crumbled to dust, in other words,” Gideon said.

“—another Walker, sometimes generations later, transcribed them. The process was repeated as needed.”

“And we have all those records?”

“Not all, certainly,” Ambrose said. “Some were lost in floods, fires, and wars. But many have survived. I had come across mentions of Carnifex in some of the Walker journals, but those were scholarly mentions, for the most part. Some of the entries almost have the flavor of legends and myths.”

“But now we know better,” Logan said.

“Quite right,” Ambrose said. “I spent the night digging into the oldest archives, boxes that haven’t been unpacked in several moves!” Logan wasn’t surprised. After so many relocations, he’d grown weary of unpacking his scant few boxes of personal items, so he could imagine the daunting task Ambrose faced with each change of address. In addition, Ambrose refused to let anyone else handle the ancient records. He blamed ‘an old man’s superstition’ but whatever the cause, he guarded those boxes jealously. “And that’s how I came across these pages. No real organization. I simply began to look for references to this particular demon and his particular hell dimension.”

“How bad is it?”

After a moment’s hesitation, Ambrose said, “Cautionary.”

“Is that the politically correct way of saying ‘we’re screwed’?”

“Not at all! Carnifex was driven back into his dimension. The rift was sealed. A successful outcome.”

“He’s leaving out a minor detail,” Gideon said.

“What?” Logan asked. The dread he felt at that moment was purely of the common sense variety. “What minor detail?”

“Yes, the Walkers won, but there were twenty-two of them.”

“Quantity is not indicative of quality,” Ambrose said, maintaining a glass-half-full approach to the conversation.

“In that battle, thirteen Walkers died.”

“Ah, but nine survived,” Ambrose countered.

“And so did Carnifex,” Gideon muttered to Logan.

Ambrose stood abruptly. “This discovery necessitates a change in plans, Logan. Until we have a chance to digest this new information, it would be unwise to attempt a preemptive strike against an enemy as powerful as Carnifex. These pages may contain valuable information regarding vulnerabilities, battle tendencies, and so on. Thirteen Walkers died to gain this information. We ignore it at our own peril, and those Walkers will have died in vain.”

Logan looked at Gideon, “You agree?”

Gideon nodded. “Know your enemy.”

“I will translate the relevant information,” Ambrose said. “You should take some time away. Clear your head.”

“Like a walk in the park?” Logan asked skeptically.

“Your choice,” Ambrose said, smiling and nodding.

“Take your cell phone, Logan,” Gideon said. “We’ll call when we need you.”

“O-kay,” Logan said, a bit perplexed but willing to play along. But rather than a walk in the park, he had something else in mind. He grabbed the keys to Liana’s white conversion van and left the house. “Happy translating!” he called back over his shoulder as he pulled the door closed.

His first thought was that they were trying to get rid of him for some reason. Since he hadn’t screwed up lately, he didn’t believe his suggested departure was merit based. Of course, Ambrose had said “clear your head” which could have been a not so subtle way of suggesting that Logan put his dousing ability on automatic pilot.
Maybe he thought I was trying too hard last night,
Logan thought. Then another idea occurred to him. The pages Ambrose was translating told a horrific tale. If Carnifex had killed thirteen Walkers, that was a given. Ambrose and Gideon would need to review all those gruesome details, after which they would distill the relevant information for Logan and Thalia. If that was the reason for shoving him out the door, Logan considered it a wasted effort. He had witnessed enough violence and destruction that his imagination was more than capable of filling in the gory little details. Not that he was complaining. Their overprotective nature gave him an excuse to take the short drive to Fallon’s house. He wanted to talk to her on neutral ground, away from the charged atmosphere of Walker Manor.

As he pulled up to the curb outside her red brick house, she was climbing out of the driver’s seat of the rusty old blue Ford pickup. She wore a clingy, white top with neon green piping around the V-neck and quarter sleeves, and baggy green cargo pants over hiking boots.

Logan slipped the sheathed dagger into his jeans pocket, taking a moment to adjust his shirttail to cover the exposed portion of the scabbard. Then he walked toward her, pausing as she circled around to the passenger side. “Got a few minutes?” he asked.

“Sure. Help me unload first.” She reached into the passenger side of the pickup and plucked out white plastic bags. Looking over her shoulder, Logan spotted a dozen more. “You caught me grocery shopping.”

“You’re up early.”

“Slept like a log until about six in the morning,” she said. “Then I couldn’t get back to sleep. Felt wired.” She shrugged. “Figured I’d get something done. Cleaned the house, filled out the grocery list, and… well, here we are.”

Logan indicated her forehead, near her hairline. “You have a scrape.”

“From kissing the pavement last night,” she said wryly and shrugged again. “No big. So, what’s up?”

“Look, I’m sorry about last—”

“Grab some bags by way of apology,” she said. “Save me a trip or two.”

He reached around her and grabbed several bags.

She led the way into the house. “You came to apologize?”

“Partly,” he said. “And we didn’t really get to talk after the incident, so I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“Aside from a sore hip and a scrape on my forehead, I’m dandy.”  With her hands full, she struggled a moment with the doorknob, but opened it on her third attempt. “No need to worry. How’s Thalia?”

“A little worse for wear,” he said. “No permanent harm.”

“What about the darkness?”

“She seems a little… ragged around the edges. Jittery.”

“Might be from last night,” she said, nodding slowly, almost as if she wanted to convince herself that was true.

“Anyway, I’m glad you feel fine, all things considered. I guess I was worried because of the unusual nature of the injuries.”

“I bumped into something and fell. Not so unusual. Clumsy, maybe, but not unusual.” She walked into the kitchen and placed the bags on the table, indicating for him to do the same. “One more trip should do it.”

As they walked back to the pickup, Logan pressed the issue. “I was referring to your connection to Thalia when the attack occurred. Did you sense anything?”

Fallon stopped abruptly; Logan almost ran into her. “She believes she was attacked?”

“Yes.”

“Interesting,” Fallon said before she resumed walking. “Suppose it’s possible. Whatever it was, I got it secondhand. Like an electric jolt, but without electricity. Suppose it was some kind of psychic shock. But I didn’t sense any kind of presence, if that’s what you mean.”

They each grabbed two bags. Fallon bumped her hip against the door to close it, then winced in pain. “Ouch! That’s the sore hip.”

“I was wondering,” Logan said hesitantly, “if the attack—assuming it was an attack—was part of the darkness you sensed in Thalia earlier.”

Fallon stopped again. “Ah! You think maybe the darkness interfered.”

“Maybe,” Logan said. “Thalia thinks she sprung a trap. I started wondering about the origin of the trap.”

“Interesting theory,” Fallon said and led the way back to the kitchen. “But it doesn’t change anything. I mean, we know the darkness inside her is malevolent and it’s not passive. Right?”

Logan nodded, but with a frown creasing his forehead. They emptied the grocery bags in silence. Fallon sorted the contents onto shelves in the cupboards and refrigerator. Logan concentrated on frozen goods, figuring there was only one place to store them. “It does matter, though,” he said.

With everything packed away, she opened the refrigerator door one last time and removed two cans. “Diet Coke?” He nodded and took the offered can. They sat opposite each other at the kitchen table. After her first sip, she said, “How so?”

“If something on the other side of the rift set the trap,” Logan said. “It blocks all of us. But if the darkness inside Thalia stopped her from accessing the rift, the trap only affects her.”

“But she’s your only magic user, right? She’s the key.”

“Not necessarily.”

“Who—wait—you?”

“Not necessarily.”

“You keep saying that. What’s it mean?”

“I don’t know any spells to open a rift,” Logan said quickly. “But I…sometimes my dousing ability allows me to find a rift. One theory is that they are always there, but inaccessible unless you have the right spell—or key, as you say. Or the ability to perceive what most people can’t.”

“Sounds dangerous.”

“In my family’s business, what isn’t?”

She quirked a grin. “That reminds me,” she said. “I forgot something.”

“What’s that?”

She walked around to his side of the table, stood beside his chair, and indicated with a curled index finger that he should rise. He complied, raising his eyebrows curiously. “I forgot to thank you.”

“For what?”

“For saving me last night,” she said. “I heard you shout that warning.”

“Well, Thalia thinks I may have helped.”

“She does?”

“Said I saved her.” He spoke with an attempt at modesty, an effect spoiled by the grin he couldn’t keep off his face.

“You see? And by extension, you saved me.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I haven’t thanked you yet, brave sir,” she said mischievously.

“But I thought—?”

“You wanted to know if I was all right,” Fallon said, drawing closer with each word she uttered. “Naturally I should check to make sure I haven’t
broken
anything.”

“Broken?” Logan said softly. He was trying not to become mesmerized by her jade green eyes again but wondered why he was putting up a fight.