The car lurched down the feeder streets as we raced for Parsons Avenue. I kept my eyes on the twists and turns ahead. Serge kept a running commentary of what was going on behind us. Flopping down and looking at me, he said, “I wish you had a faster car.”
Mr. Popov’s high beams flashed in my rear-view mirror. “I’m doing my best but this isn’t exactly a Daytona-approved race vehicle.” My foot stamped on the accelerator hard enough to push my foot through the bottom of the car. I dug into my jacket pocket and yanked out my cell. The screen was smashed. I pressed the power button. “No!”
“What?”
I tossed the phone at him. “It’s out of power.”
He fumbled and caught it.
I pumped the brakes and took a hard left on Claxton. The tires squealed but the car held its ground. My fingers, numb from fear and adrenaline, lost hold of the wheel. It spun back to its original position. I grabbed it with one hand and flipped the heat on with the other. Dusty air hissed through the vents, but if it held any warmth, I didn’t feel it.
My mind was focused on one of the big problems of living in a small town: late at night, everyone’s home. The streets were bare, save the gravel and leaves. If I wanted help, I’d have to pull to the curb and get out. Between Mr. Popov and his band of merry men, I’d make it to the front door…if I was lucky. I took a right on Sierra and did the next best thing. As the car hurtled along the avenue, heading for the bridge, I laid on the horn and made as much noise as possible. If it didn’t get people going to their doors and looking out, surely someone would call the police and I’d get back up.
The lamplights zipped past, the rows of dark houses—the sleepy rise of their roofs against the backdrop of night—blurred as the needle of the speedometer tipped to 75 km/hr. Ahead, the metal rafters of the bridge came into view.
I heard the roar of the car behind me.
Mr. Popov rammed his vehicle into mine.
My car lurched forward.
He hit me again, this time on the right side of my bumper.
Serge and I spun in a nausea-inducing circle. The world smeared into a sickening blotch of monochromatic colour. I clutched the wheel. The car bounced off the cement posts of the bridge, and the screech of metal grinding against the bridge girders shrieked in my ears. When the momentum stopped, I found us facing north on Sierra. I needed to turn the car around and head in the opposite direction. The only problem: Mr. Popov’s car blocked the road.
I put my arm on the passenger seat, threw the car into reverse and sped down the road.
“Maggie, he’s gaining!”
“I know! It’s a lot harder to drive backwards than you’d think.” The car wouldn’t—couldn’t—go any faster. “You’re electricity,” I yelled. “Can’t you do something?”
Serge put his hands through the dashboard. Lightning forks of red light shot out of the hood. The car raced away.
Serge tried to give juice to the phone, but the cell remained black.
Panic turned me into a moron. I found myself yelling, “We’re almost there!” as though Serge was incapable of seeing that for himself.
Popov’s car was suddenly blocking the way.
I hit my brakes. “How’s that possible?”
Before Serge could respond, his father slammed his car into mine. I was going too fast to correct the trajectory of the vehicle. The car careened to the railing. I mashed the brakes, but Mr. Popov was behind in a bigger, stronger vehicle and pushing me towards the edge.
“Put down your window, Maggie! Put it down!”
Why, I wanted to scream, why? But then the car was smashing through the railing in a hair-raising, sickening crunch of bent beams and broken rivets, and I was plunging to the dark water beneath. Then I realized why he was telling me to roll down the window: it would be my only way to escape the vehicle—if I survived the impact.
The car jolted to a stop. I slammed—face-first—into the wheel. The wood cracked my skull. I tasted blood and heard the celery-cracking sound of cartilage breaking. Pulling myself away, moaning in pain, I realized we were hanging at a ninety-degree angle. “What the—”
I turned painfully to Serge.
He rose on his knees, his eyes glued to the back of the car, and tilting to the side, pushed his head out the window.
I fumbled for the seatbelt and released myself from the harness.
His face returned to view. Eyes wide, he said, “It’s Craig.”
I twisted around. A torso almost as wide as the back windshield, lean and cut, with green-black scales whose edges glowed red. A pointed tail flicked into my vision. It moved with serpentine grace to my door, opened it.
“Maggie.”
His voice—though it sounded as though it was a hundred voices combined—rumbled and vibrated through my bones.
“Lean out.”
I didn’t want to die. Didn’t want to plunge into ice-cold water. But this version of Craig, massive and imposing, with a tail whose circumference was the size of my entire body, terrified me.
“It’s fine.”
I heard the rumbling gentleness in his words.
“Trust me.”
“It’s okay,” Serge said. “Lean out. He’ll catch you.”
I unclenched my fingers from the headrest and put my right foot on the driver’s railing. Taking a breath, I gripped the side of the car’s frame. Wind whipped around my face, its scent cold and tart with the smell of decaying leaves and algae from the water below. I leaned out and got a full view of Craig.
He wasn’t massive. He was gigantic. Wide didn’t describe him—his thigh must have been the circumference of a big rig. His legs ended in hooves. Muscle rippled on muscle. His wings seemed to block the night, and though they were scales, the wind made them flutter like feathers. Red-orange eyes glowed at me. His tail curled around my waist and pulled me to his chest.
“Serge?” He asked.
The ghost appeared on top of the car. “I think I can get myself to the bridge.”
“Are you sure?”
He shook his head.
Craig held out his hand.
Serge took it, careful to avoid the six-inch claws.
Craig let go of the car. It plunged into the inky water and a geyser shot up as it hit the surface. With one beat of his enormous wings, he brought us back to the bridge.
Popov swivelled and pointed at Craig. “Your pet protected you, but that won’t happen again.” His voice was a mix of the demons and himself.
“What is he talking about? Can he see you or is that the dead talking?”
“He sees me, but trust me”—Craig’s voice rumbled—“that isn’t a good thing.”
I glanced over to where Serge stood clutching the edge of the broken rail. “Can he see his son?”
Craig’s glowing eyes turned the ghost’s way. “Not yet.”
“Finish her,” Reverend Popov’s words hissed, sizzled. He gave me a predator’s smile and in the voice of the preppy man responded to himself with, “I will.”
The sound of his voice made me feel as though someone had shoved a hot skewer into my eardrums. I slapped my hands over my ears, trying to stem the burning, piercing sensation.
“Do it now.” The legion of spirits looked over at Craig. “Stay out of this, Ferrier.” Popov’s tongue flicked out. Skinny, triple-forked, and with sharp barbs on its end, it undulated as though scenting the air.
Craig loomed over me.
The reverend’s flicked his tongue out again. “She lives or dies by herself.”
Craig gave him an evil smile. “As you wish.” A red-orange ball of light appeared in his palm. Fast and ruthless, before I had time to figure out what he was doing, he launched the light at Mr. Popov.
He screamed—howled—as the demons shot out of his body.
Craig’s tail snaked out and grabbed the men. They bellowed in pain at his touch. “Let’s get you home, shall we?” He looked at me. “This is yours to handle.” Then he disappeared.
Mr. Popov blinked and glancing around, stared through Serge. “Where—?” His gaze honed in on me. “You,” he snarled. “You were in my house. With the drive.” He took a menacing step towards me. “Give it back and I’ll let you live.”
“No.” I held my ground. “You’re evil. You killed your son—”
“His whore of a mother did that.”
“You put her up to it.”
He smiled. “She’s always been a good wife.” Then he rushed me.
I spun and dived out of his way, but he caught me by the hip and dragged me to the ground. My chin smashed into the road. The hard metal girding sliced my skin and drove pain through my bones.
He grabbed me by the hair, yanked my head back.
Instinct said he was going to strangle me.
I twisted around.
“Hit him in the crotch! Punch his solar plexus!”
There was too much movement, too much action for me to be able to follow Serge’s commands. I reached up, clawed at anything solid I could find. My fingers found the soft wet of his eyes. I gouged my nails into them.
Popov howled.
I tore myself away. There was nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. Where was the police? Had no one phoned in the noise? How was I going to fight a guy twice my size? I put my head down and charged him. Driving into his stomach with my shoulder, I brought him to ground. His head hit the road with a sickening thunk and he lay still.
Serge ran to me. “Is that it?”
“It can’t be,” I gasped. “It can’t be that easy.” I bent over Popov. Big mistake.
His eyes snapped open. He grabbed me around the neck and started squeezing. I clawed at his hand, but his grip was iron-tight. He rolled and suddenly, I was on my back, the cold hardness of the metal seeping past my clothing. Mr. Popov straddled my chest and squeezed harder. My head throbbed, my lungs burned. Sparks of light exploded in front of my eyes. I kicked, trying to drive my knees into his back but the lack of oxygen left me weak, helpless.
Serge loomed over Popov. “I hope this works.” He took a breath. He drew his hand back, opened his fingers and shoved his palm between his dad’s shoulder blades.
His fingers poked through the older man’s chest. Mr. Popov jerked, his eyes widened. “What the—”
Blood rushed into my head, a pounding, throbbing, painful rhythm. I shoved him back and stuttered to my feet.
Serge pulled his hand out.
Popov spun around. He fell on his butt and crab-walked backwards. His mouth gaped open and closed. “What—” He clutched at his chest. Then he turned, fumbled to his feet and ran.
“Get him, Maggie.”
Serge didn’t need to encourage me—I was already on my feet and chasing the minister. My raw throat burned, I had the migraine from hell, and my lungs felt bathed in acid, but I was going to get him, make him pay for what he’d done. I came abreast of him and shoulder checked him into the beam of the bridge.
He ricocheted off the girder and fell against the railing. Popov jerked and scuttled backwards. His feet slipped and he pitched over the side.
Instinct made me grab him.
Craig appeared beside me, in human form, and caught hold of the reverend as he began to slip from my grasp. “We have to let go,” he said. “He’s not to live past tonight.”
I jerked. “What? No. He has to account for what he did to Serge.”
“Let him go.”
Mr. Popov’s terror-filled eyes met mine. “Don’t! Don’t let me die.”
Maybe it was the lack of oxygen or the fight between instinct and justice that left my mind muddled. “No—that’s killing him. I can’t just—isn’t that vengeance? Shouldn’t we—”
“Maggie.” Craig’s voice was quiet. “This life was for you to decide if you wanted to be a protector—”
“I do—but—”
“This is the frontline stuff I was telling you about. There is the human legal system and there is justice. You need to decide which you’ll follow.”
Mr. Popov and I exchanged a long look.
“Serge,” I said. “This is your call. I’ll do what you want.”
The reverend’s eyes widened. “Why are you calling him?”
“You don’t want to drop him?” Serge peered over the edge to the water below.
“I’m—I’m not sure.” I clutched at the older man’s arm. “It feels wrong to me.”
“Then don’t do it.” He looked at Craig. “Turn me solid. Let me talk to him.”
The ferrier did.
When the reverend saw Serge, he jerked and bucked, his eyes white with terror. He babbled, incoherent.
Serge came behind me, grabbed the reverend’s arms. “Let go, Maggie.”
I did.
“Get out of the way.”
I ducked under his elbow and moved into Craig’s embrace.
“I—I—it wasn’t me.” Terror pitched his voice high. “Your mother killed you. Son—”
Serge laughed, the sound held no humour. “There was a day when all I wanted was for you to call me that.”
“She was unbalanced—ill.”
“Did you tell her to kill me?”
“No—no.” He wheezed like he was trying to laugh through a closed throat. “I told her to take care of it—you—but she got it wrong. It was her. Why would I kill you?”
“Amber was pregnant.”
“So? It wouldn’t have changed anything.” The air was thick with his lie.
“Did you kill my mother?”
Reverend Popov shook his head with such force I thought it would snap. “No, no, no! She did that! She did that, alone! I swear it!”
“You didn’t tell her to.”
“Suicide is against God’s law.”
“So is beating your family.”
He flinched. “I’ve made mistakes. Forgive me—I’ll do my time. I won’t put in an innocent plea. I’ll tell the police everything—don’t kill me!”
Serge pulled his father to him, grabbed him by the shirtfront.
The reverend’s feet found the bridge’s solid ground and he laughed, relieved. “I knew you couldn’t—”
“You tortured me,” said Serge, his face set into quiet lines, his voice solemn. “It’s not about forgiveness, anymore.”
The older man’s smile trembled, fell.
“I was a child. All I wanted was your love, your acceptance. Instead, you beat me, burned me, and locked me in closets. Every day I was alive, you murdered me a little at a time.” Serge pulled the reverend close, until they were nose-to-nose. “I asked Craig to turn me solid because I wanted you to see me. I want the last thing you’ll ever see to be the face of justice.” His fingers tightened, then Serge shoved him off the bridge.