Soulstice (12 page)

The outdoor afternoon heat was a shock after the school’s frigid air-conditioning, and the humid air stuck to Reggie like
wet paper. There was some traffic on the roads, but not much, and it was an easy bike ride west toward Abernathy Flats. She
pedaled past Cutter’s Lake and turned onto the bike path that ran along the Wampassee River. Ahead she could see the train
trestle that crossed over the water. This was her destination.

Reggie hid her bike behind a bush by the side of the path, and crawled along the river’s edge until she was underneath the
trestle. Sun filtered through the track slats, crisscrossing the ground in light and shadow. These tracks were no longer in
use, having been decommissioned some seventy years earlier when the depot was relocated to downtown Cutter’s Wedge, and the
entire structure had fallen into disrepair. Pieces of rotted wood lay strewn about the ground, and gaps in the track above
Reggie’s head suggested that crossing it would be dangerous.

Still, Reggie had to admit, it was an excellent place to camp out in secret. No one except the occasional cyclist or runner
passed by, and the bridge’s foundation formed a makeshift shelter, hidden from sight from both the bike path and the train
tracks. And it was clear someone had been here: empty food cans littered the dirt, and a ripped tarp lay off to the side.
Rock chunks were arranged in a circle around scorched earth that Reggie guessed was a fire pit. She chewed at her lip: this
was a pitiful existence.

Reggie checked her watch. 3:45. Keech’s session with his probation officer was from 4–4:30. If she could get this over with
quickly, she still might be able to get back in time to help Aaron.

Quinn, however, was nowhere in sight, so Reggie sat down under the trestle to wait. Butterflies flitted around her stomach,
just as they used to do when she saw Quinn Waters by his locker or anticipated his arrival in study hall. She didn’t like
the feeling.

Her brain was split down the middle: half insisted she was an idiot for pursuing this alliance, but the other half conceded
that she didn’t have a whole lot of other places to turn. She refused to consider that she might actually be worried about
Quinn since she hadn’t heard from him in a few days.

Her reverie was interrupted by a noise across the water. She squinted, peering over the wide river. The sound was the revving
of a motorbike driving on the far bank. Ahead of it a figure half-ran, half-limped desperately forward. A backpack was slung
over his shoulder, and he turned back every so often to see the bike gaining. Black marks stood out against his pale skin—it
was Quinn, and someone was chasing him.

Neither of them had apparently seen Reggie, and she waited in the shadows, watching. Quinn reached the river and jumped in.
His body shuddered violently in the cool water, which came to his chest, and he tried to hold up his mutilated hand, still
wrapped in rags. Though the current was not terribly strong, he struggled to wade forward to the middle of the river, and
only then did he turn around to face his pursuer.

The biker had pulled up at the river’s edge and stared after Quinn. Then he reared his bike back and plowed onto the train
tracks, racing up onto the bridge. Clumps of dirt and rot plunked into the river as the bike rushed forward. The biker braked
again in the center of the bridge and looked at Quinn below, still hesitating in the water.

Was it Keech? Reggie wondered. Had he come to finish the job he’d been ordered to do?

The cold river was taking a toll on Quinn’s already weak body; the skin surrounding his many cuts and gashes was turning black.
His indecision was killing him. Even from her hiding place Reggie could see his teeth chattering.

Quinn continued on toward her side of the bank. He moved slowly, and at one point the river dipped so the water came up to
his neck. He wobbled and his hand fell into the water. Quinn shrieked with pain and stumbled forward. He’d be far too weak
to fight off the biker once he reached the bank.

The biker seemed to be thinking the same thing, and he didn’t move until Quinn was within fifteen feet of the shore. Then
he gunned his motorbike and charged the rest of the way across the bridge.

Reggie didn’t have time to think. She picked up a rock from the fire pit and hurled it at the rotting slats above her. It
broke through a plank and wood splinters showered down around her, leaving a hole in the track above just as the bike was
passing. The front tire hit the hole and sank through, jarring the bike to a stop. The biker flew off the front and over the
side of the train tracks, falling headfirst onto the rocks below and landing just a few feet from Reggie, motionless.

She turned back to see Quinn emerging from the river, shivering but grinning. The overturned motorbike’s engine idled on the
bridge overhead and then stalled out.

“I—I didn’t mean to,” Reggie stammered.

“I’m glad you did.” Quinn knelt down beside the still biker. Reggie hovered behind him, biting at her nails.

“Is he… did I… kill him?”

“Not a him.” Quinn wrenched the helmet off the biker’s head. Detective Gale’s blond hair spilled over the rocks. A gasp escaped
Reggie’s lips.

Blood trickled down Gale’s cheek, but her eyes fluttered open and stared up at Quinn. She opened her mouth to speak.

“Shhh,” Quinn said, caressing the sides of her head. Then he jerked his hands sideways and snapped her neck.

Reggie heard the
crack
and stumbled backward. She felt the bile in her throat and vomited on the rocky ground.

“Ew. No goodnight kiss for you,” Quinn said.

“Why’d you do that?” she demanded, wiping her mouth with her sleeve. “She was…”

“A Vour. She was supposed to kill us, and she was going to die anyway. I made it fast and painless. Better than she deserved.”
He pointed at Gale. “Check it out.”

Black smoke oozed from the woman’s mouth, nostrils, and open, unseeing eyes, chilling the air. It gathered into a boiling
cloud of inky darkness, undulating a few feet over her wrecked body. Reggie stood frozen with horror as one of its plumes
formed into a malevolent humanoid face. Waves of hatred and evil pulsed from its gaze, reverberating though Reggie like a
passing freight train. The thing made a hissing, droning sound, and then it sailed off over the river and was gone.

“That’s how they check out if you get them by surprise,” Quinn said. “All kinds of weird shit happens. Usually we can vacate
a body before it fails. Not always, though.”

Reggie felt her head spin. She sat down hard on the ground, clutching her temples.

“I can’t believe I came here.”

“Relax,” Quinn said, squatting down by the fire pit. “It just looks like a motorcycle accident. No one will suspect a thing.”

Reggie’s head shot up.

“That’s not the point,” she said hotly. “You… killed her. She was weak—I could have gone into her fearscape. We could have
gotten her to a hospital… we could have
saved
her.”

Quinn shook his head and chuckled ruefully.

“As much as I appreciate your using the ‘we’ pronoun, you just don’t get it. Gale was a powerful Vour. Stronger than me. She
would have decimated you. Fight the battles you can win, Halloway.”

“I helped kill her.”

“If she had made it over here she would have killed us both.”

Quinn pulled off his wet shirt and sat down on a large rock hot from the sun. Reggie couldn’t help but stare, and she felt
ashamed for it. He was lean from months of living in exile, bruised and lacerated from the recent attempts on his life, but
his broad shoulders and chest were still cut like a boxer’s and his arms curved with muscle. In the warm light, the black
marks surrounding his wounds were beginning to fade under his ghostly pale skin. He gingerly unwrapped the soaked rags from
his hand, wincing when they came off fully. He looked like he was wearing a black glove that was missing two fingers.

“Kind of cool, in a Darth Vader way,” he said. He grinned at Reggie, but she could see he was in tremendous pain.

“Will it heal?” she asked.

“I guess we’ll see. Hey, I think there are some dry clothes up there.” He pointed back to the trestle foundation. “Would you
mind—?”

Reggie rummaged around the makeshift camp until she found a couple of T-shirts, then returned to Quinn. He started tearing
one in strips using his teeth, then rewrapped his hand.

“Why was she after you?” Reggie asked as he worked.

“I found something,” he said. “I was scouting out information at an old compound we used to use as a headquarters. It was
mostly cleaned out, but not completely. They’d turned the place into storage for old paperwork. I just had to bide my time
getting in and out of there.”

Quinn held out his hand to Reggie, and she tied the ends of two strips together, securing the bandage. As she pulled the knot
tight, he grabbed her wrist with his good hand. Reggie cried out.

“Hey! Let go of me!”

But Quinn had taken Reggie’s hands in his own and was examining her forearm. Small black scars crisscrossed the underside
of her arm near her wrist.

“It’s like our injuries,” he said, gesturing to the discolorations on his own cheek. He gently touched the marks on her skin.
“How did you get these?”

Reggie’s body went stiff, but she didn’t pull away.

“I was cut. In Henry’s fearscape. A few of the scars came back with me.”

Quinn looked up at her.

“That’s unbelievable. Does it hurt you?”

“Looks worse than it feels.” Reggie finally tugged her arm out of Quinn’s grasp. But he continued to gaze at her.

“I doubt that’s true.”

They stayed silent a moment, then Quinn shivered as the sun disappeared behind a cloud.

“What did you find?” she asked.

But Quinn’s head jerked to the horizon, and his eyes flashed.

“Shhh! Listen.”

The sound of more motorcycles.

“Gale’s goons. We’ve got to go.” Quinn yanked on the other dry T-shirt and snatched up his backpack. He looked ruefully at
his pants. “Damn it, wet jeans are the worst.”

Reggie glanced back and forth. She wasn’t keen on going anywhere more remote with Quinn, but she didn’t want to run into a
pack of Hell’s Vours, either. She pulled her bike out from behind the bush and sat astride it.

“Come on. Get on.”

Quinn squeezed onto the seat behind her, grasping her about the waist. His arms were strong, Reggie noticed, and he held her
tightly. She pedaled the two of them down the path.

“Please tell me you have a place to hide,” she said.

“There’s a storm drain not too far up.”

Reggie felt fat raindrops hit her head and arms. Quinn pointed, and she saw the tunnel at the side of the river ahead. The
roar of engines grew louder. Quinn hopped off the bike as they neared the storm drain. A locked grate covered its entrance.

“What now?” said Reggie.

“Have some faith.” Quinn fished a key out of his pocket and stuck it in the lock. The lock clicked and the grate swung open.

“I broke into Sewer Management one night and stole copies of their keys. I’ve hidden in every sewer in town at some point.”
Quinn held the grate open and made an after-you gesture.

“You and the rats. Appropriate,” Reggie said, rolling her bike inside. Quinn relocked the grate just as the heavens opened.

Minutes later they could hear the motorcycles. They stopped on the road by the storm drain, and one biker dismounted and approached
the grate, his leather jacket glistening with raindrops. Reggie and Quinn sank back into the shadowy tunnel, out of sight.

The biker tried the grate, and it clanged as he shook it back and forth, but the lock held. He looked at his companions and
shrugged, then went back to his bike. Moments later, the engines gunned and faded into the distance.

Reggie heaved a sigh of relief.

“Okay, I’ve got to get out of here. Unlock the grate.”

“I wouldn’t advise that,” said Quinn. “They’ll circle back around a couple times trying to find us. Stay put.”

“Convenient for you,” said Reggie. “I had other plans this afternoon, you know.”

“Consider them canceled. This is more important.”

Reggie glanced at her watch. It was ten after four. There was no way she’d make it to the parole office in time, especially
not in this weather.

The storm drain offered them shelter from the rain, but it wasn’t comfortable. Reggie stood in ankle-deep drainage water ferrying
leaves, sticks, and other debris to the river.

“So tell me what you have in that bag,” she said.

Quinn pulled a packet of papers out of his backpack and held one of them up to the meager light from the storm drain’s entrance.
Reggie saw that it was an X-ray of sorts.

“What is it?” she asked.

“An MRI scan of a brain.” He handed a series of the pages to Reggie. Some were on the X-ray film, others were colored diagrams,
but all depicted images of the human brain. She shuffled through them, puzzled. This was more Aaron’s field of expertise than
hers.

“I don’t understand what I’m looking at,” she said finally.

“I don’t know if I know exactly, either,” said Quinn. “But I have a guess. And it’s a long story.”

Gusts of wind howled around the entrance as the storm raged overhead.

“Does it look like I’m going anywhere?” Reggie replied.