25

 

A CURSE RIPPED THROUGH Emanuel Krane’s throat. He stared down at the tiny red puddles collecting in the bathroom sink. With a grunt, he dabbed his face with water, letting the cold

slip inside his tired skin.

“Give it some time. The sting goes away after a bit,” Lamont said, his voice scratchy from screaming orders at security for the last fifteen minutes.

“Time is always against us.”

Lamont shrugged, enjoying Krane’s agony. “That puny punk’s got some kick to him, don’t he?” Lamont eyed his reflection. A dark-purple line crept down past his half-shut eyelid. He chuckled, forcing the cartilage in his nose back in place. “The girls will appreciate the battle scar.”

“Stay focused.”

“Look, I sold it in there, all right. I played along nice, like we agreed. If you ask me, Hoven’s gonna find a new place in hell to stick you once he finds out what’s really going on.”

Krane turned to Lamont. “He won’t.”

“Whatever you say, Doc. Your neck is on the line this time, not mine. But it’s pretty stupid to let one of them escape like that.”

“Finding Adam was never the issue,” Krane said, hating every second of the pain. “I want-wanted him to escape. To ensure m-me that everything’s working as it should. Adam is special. Without him, we’d be lost. It’s because of him that we are here.”

Lamont froze for a moment, chilling Krane with beady eyes. “And you let him get away.”

“Quite right. I let him get away. He’s being track-tracked as we speak. Saul Hoven merely doubts our ability to return him. Finding him, that’s no challenge. Br-bring-bringing him back may be. His powers will return soon, so we must be vigilant and act quickly.”

“I guess I just underestimated the little mutant freak.”

“Adam is no freak,” Krane replied, his jaw crunching. “Adam is special.”

“Yada-yada. You think all of them are special. I mean, Scarface hasn’t exactly given us much of anything. But great body, though. So young, so fresh. Man, high school was a trip.” Lamont’s eyes glowed with lust.

“You’re a sick, blind fool. You’ve seen the powers of one with your own eyes.”

“Well, I’m not really sure what I’ve seen no more. Bein’ cooped up in this nuthouse these last few months makes me question if I’m still me. Shoot, I’m becoming more and more like you whack-jobs. This hole messes with my head.”

 Krane’s wrist trembled. A bone splintered inside his hand and he struggled to hold back tears of anguish.

“Easy, Doc. It’s just one little job, right?” Lamont snickered, applying a band-aid to the scar on his face, ignoring the dry blood. 

“Saul Hoven is a menace, you know that, d-d-don’t you?”

Careful, Emanuel. Tread softly. Hoven is the lord of this arena. Don’t allow your doubts and your sentiments to ruin your position in all of this.

“He has his moments, I s’pose,” Lamont agreed.

Krane’s jaw shifted. With a slanted gaze, he eyed Lamont from the vanity mirror. “That menace doesn’t have any notion of real power. A vulture is only as strong or as int-intelligent as his weakest, underestimated prey.”

“So which one are you, Doc, the vulture or the prey?”

A cold silence split the air, and Lamont stepped back, rigid.

“Adam is the Source. He is precious to me. And we’re going to bring him back.”

Lamont grinned.

“Adam be-belongs with me.” Krane tended to his wounds. “Hoven doesn’t understand it the way I do. But a dog of war l-like-like you should be able to understand keeping things close to the chest.”

“Yeah, well, seems like everyone’s trying to run their own circus show, and I’m stuck riding backseat in all this chaos.” Lamont got close enough for Krane to pick up the stench of tobacco escaping from his cesspool of a mouth.

“What is the mission worth to you?”

“Keep your coin. I’ll do this one for free,” Lamont said. “Already gave Hoven my word.” Krane’s lids were gray splinters.

Leaning over the sink, Lamont spit a string of brown slime down the drain.

“Such a filthy habit.”

“Vices, mmm, we all got ’em.” Lamont rubbed his fresh bruise. “You planning on letting Carra…I mean, Issac in on your little operation?”

“This doesn’t concern the arson. Besides, that freshman thinks he’s ready to play in my realm, but he’s not equipped to handle what’s coming.”

Lamont paused a moment. “You know, Hoven thought Isaac was getting too close. Startin’ to wonder if it’s you we should be worried about.”

Spit.

“You’re not my keeper, Jeb.”

“Easy, Krane. I’m not judgin’. You know as well as I do that this messed-up world wasn’t built for peace. It’s chaos, and I thrive on it.” Lamont winced slightly at the purple bruise and furrowed a brow. “Adam ain’t gonna go quietly, especially now that he’s got Scarface with him.”

Krane nodded, understanding that there would be blood, there would be violence, and there would be loss. But such things in times of war were inevitable.

Seconds passed, and Lamont let himself out, abandoning Krane to the dim lights of the bathroom for the moment. The sinister reflection got lost inside the glass. He wished Henry Parker were here. But he wasn’t. It was up to him to claim his rightful place. This was how the story would end, not in peace, but in violence—a war with new weapons and a new order of beings.

Emanuel Krane, worn and sick with fatigue, dragged his body closer to the door at length. Soon he’d disappear inside some hallway. The purpose and potential of a turbulent future were now clearer than ever before. He was closer. They all were. There was no return. There was no undoing.

It was coming.

All that remained would be tears and bloodshed.

“Cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war,” Krane murmured.

* * *

“Hello?” he screamed. “Hello!” It got louder each time. But nobody ever came.

Arson wasn’t sure how long he’d been calling out or how long he’d been walking down this narrow school hallway, but it was getting old. This was too real.

Time slipped by, or maybe wasn’t there at all. 

Arson swallowed. His spit was a cold slide down his throat. Goosebumps raced up his forearm. His body became a living, breathing block of ice. He panted. He blinked.

Alone.

Hello?

Alone.

The t-shirt was tight against his chest, almost like it didn’t fit. Hair sank weakly in front of his eyes, the grease from each loose and curly strand sliding inside determined facial creases. He coughed, and it felt like a chisel hacking away his insides.

A flash of light blurred at the end of the hall. Lockers. Images reached and called out to him from within the twisted metal cages, and suddenly it wasn’t quiet anymore. The sounds erupted like distorted, tortured laughter. He recalled the bad homework piled on top of hatred and never fitting in. This place was a world of rejection. Would he ever escape it?

After shifting left, he stopped, frozen. Panic held him there with impunity. He stared into a stained, grungy locker. In there was a little girl with hair covering most of her face, head tilted low. She was breathing heavily. Arson waited for her to speak, the silence baiting him. Pity lingered inside. Then remorse. The hardest to endure was the fear.  

Regret stung like acid in his lungs. The girl wore ripped jeans, dripping with dirt and black water. Messy, ruined hair covered the lost eyes that glowed like ashen lamps. Her black shirt and the fading flame bleached into its center seemed to shoot out from her small frame. Was it coming for him, trying to kill him?

“What do you want!” he screamed. “Who are you?”

The locker cage swung back and forth, its unsure creak enough to turn his bones into splinters. He took a step back, but the girl’s tarnished face tilted and changed. He could barely identify those dark lamps; they wanted his soul. She was still and eerily pensive, her tiny hands drawn to tiny sides, where her bent fingers carefully made him their target. Though her lips didn’t stutter, he felt like she was saying something to him. It was a sentence of blame and judgment.

Spiders crept around her feet, their spiny legs moving all around her as they spun tormenting red webs over her. Once he stopped the shivers and could focus, Arson caught a glimpse of her scarred hands, burned to the bone, the nail crusted with blood. Slowly, the girl’s neck dragged her head from side to side, and the soundless, angry hum of lament and understanding came at Arson like a flood.

It was dark. It was light. It was cold. It was his fault. For everything.

He blinked and shuddered. “Sooner or later…”

What did you do, Arson? He heard her mind speak while lips stood still. What…did you do to me? And then her thoughts became daggers. What did you do to us?
In that moment, he wondered if this girl’s identity had become someone else. “Emery?”

The girl’s head silently shook no, but as she did her face became a mask. The image faded in and out, reversed then came back. It happened over and over, and he turned away but was drawn back again. The mask came closer.

In his hand was a lit firecracker. When it exploded, his grip turned hot and birthed a flame. He stared back at this frightening image. The way the mask seemed to choke the girl’s face and throat, like stretched fingers bending around broken skin. Her hair and flesh were singed, but those eyes never wandered from his.

“Emery, I can save you. I love you. I’m sorry!”

Once more her head shook no.  

The white mask. It was an empty, lifeless thing.

A scream shot out from within the locker. All of a sudden, the tarnished white mask melted off. The girl’s shirt tore from her body. All of her clothes burned, exposing the marks on her skin.

Arson was heartbroken and afraid. It wasn’t fear of being harmed, but fear of doing harm. The murderer that lay dormant inside him. The pain he knew could consume.  

“Beauty to ashes.” Arson could see his breath as the metal cage slammed shut.