TWO

MERRY-GO-ROUND

When the earliest light of the sun sorted through the trees, Veronica took her first breath in many hours. It was morning dew, honeysuckle, cut grass, and the faint gassy stink of a papermill. She sat on the banks of the creek, letting her clothes dry, watching water-skaters dimple the stream, listening to cicadas whirr as the day grew warmer. It was a nice place she’d found—a gorge nestled amongst the streets and houses of the town, a little wild spot in the city.

She hadn’t known such a place existed in Sowashee—in fact she didn’t know much about town at all—or if she ever had, she had forgotten. She had grown up in the county, and in her time since returning to the world, she had stayed mostly with Aster, who also lived outside of town. When the police took Aster, they went toward Sowashee, south on 292, so she had hitched a ride in after dark in the back of a battered pick-up. She had been planning the trip anyway, to see Errol, but Aster wouldn’t let her go, so she had decided to kill two birds with one stone—see her boyfriend and find out where the police station was. She found both on a map she took from Aster’s bedroom, but decided Errol had priority. She found Laurel Grove without much trouble. After leaving the hospital, she had let the creek guide her, and it had brought her here.

Upstream, some boys were stirring the remains of a campfire back to life and checking the trotlines for the morning’s catch. They hadn’t noticed her, but the two boys skinny-dipping in a deep pool in the stream did pay mind to the little group of girls who came down the steep slope a few moments later, dashing from the water in search of clothes.

It reminded her of the place she had spent so many years, but with no Creek Man to lord over her. She nursed a brief, fond memory of her cache of bones, nestled down in the muck. She eyed the boys a little differently now, but none of them suited; they weren’t old enough, and what cruelty she smelled on them was of the ordinary sort, common to most children—nothing that deserved special treatment.

She turned her mind from that. She was different now, wasn’t she? Reformed. A nov no longer.

“Hey.”

She looked up, a little startled. It wasn’t easy to sneak up on her, but someone had, a curly-haired girl who looked about ten or eleven dressed in rolled-up jeans and yellow shirt.

“Hey yourself,” Veronica said.

“I ain’t never seen you before,” the girl said.

“I’ve never been here before,” she said. “What’s this place called?”

“Massey Canyon,” the girl said.

“It’s nice.”

“You from around here?”

“No,” Veronica said. “I’m from out of town.”

The girl nodded. She seemed like she was about to say something else, but instead she focused off past Veronica’s shoulder. Veronica turned to see why.

He was tall, sixteen or seventeen. He wore long pants but no shirt. His stomach was flat, his arms thin but corded with muscle, and his black hair hung almost to his waist. He had big, dark eyes and an olive complexion. For lack of a better word, he was beautiful.

He didn’t look exactly like he belonged with the other kids, who shied away from him a bit.

And he was staring at her in a way that made her belly go all light.

“Who is that?” she asked the girl.

“That’s the Gypsy,” she said. “He comes down here sometimes.”

The Gypsy waded into the water and took a few steps toward them.

“You,” he called.

“Yeah?” she said.

“Come here, please.”

Part of her wanted to, but the fine hairs on the back of her neck pricked up. Something wasn’t right. He wasn’t a Creek Man, but he was something, and despite her earlier nostalgia, she really did not want to end up captive in some in-between place again.

“What’s the quickest way out of here?” she asked the girl.

She grinned. “You sure?”

“Yes,” Veronica said.

“Come on, then.”

The girl ran along the bank about twenty feet before starting up the side of the gorge along a well-worn rut in the red clay using tree roots as handholds. Veronica followed, fighting down a weird mixture of panic and longing.

She spared a glance back down to see if he was following her, but he was just standing in the creek, watching her leave.

“What’s your name?” he called out.

She didn’t answer. By that time, she had reached level ground. The girl had gotten ahead of her and was running; Veronica followed the flashes of yellow through the trees. A moment later, she burst from the woods onto grass.

She realized she was in someone’s backyard, and that the someone was there. She was old, with more grey than brown in her hair, hanging up laundry. The girl in the yellow shirt was no place to be seen.

“What are you doing?” the woman demanded. “Girl, you gave me a fright.”

“I’m sorry ma’am,” Veronica said. “I guess I got lost.”

The woman was looking her up and down, now, seeing the jeans and T-shirt she had borrowed from Aster, still wet and dirty from the creek.

“Looks like you’ve been lost for a couple of days. Where did you come from?”

“Down there,” Veronica said. She looked back nervously, but no one had followed her.

The woman frowned. “Down where?” she asked. “Ain’t nothing down there, at least not anymore. Used to be Massey’s Canyon, but they filled that in before you were born.”

She paused and clipped a shirt to the line.

“I’ll go on,” Veronica said. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

But the woman fastened her with her gaze.

“You know, I was just thinking about Massey’s Canyon. Daydreaming, really. We used to have quite a time down there when I was a kid, especially in the summers. Kids now don’t have it good like we did back then. We used to leave at dawn and not come home until the sun went down, and nobody worried about us. Sometimes we camped and spent the whole night. Now I guess it’s just too dangerous to let your kids run around like that. It’s a pity.”

Veronica thought back to that day at the falls, her new tennis shoes, the neighbor she had trusted.

“I bet it was dangerous back then, too,” Veronica said. “People just didn’t notice as much.”

“You might be right,” the woman said. “Anyway, bless you. Have fun and stay out of trouble.”

“I’ll do my best,” Veronica said.

When Errol had last seen Dusk, she had been clad in armor and carrying a sword; now she wore the loose, light green pants and smock most of the patients dressed in when they were indoors. But no matter the costume change, Errol wasn’t likely to forget the woman who had decapitated his girlfriend and chopped off one of his legs.

Dusk smiled. “Errol?” She said. “Is that really you?”

He realized he’d gotten out of his chair and was backing up.

“Valyeme,” Dusk said. Something about her changed—the set of her shoulders, the way her clothes hung on her body.

“Doctor—” he started.

He didn’t get much further before Dusk started moving, fast. She punched Sam in the throat and kicked Mason right in the propers. Then she grabbed a nearby chair and smashed it over Mason’s head before delivering an uppercut to Sam’s chin that sent him sprawling on his back.

“Oh my God!” Dr. Reynolds sputtered, as Dusk sprinted toward him. He fumbled at his desk drawer, but whatever was in there he never got out. Dusk dropped him with an elbow and then kicked him a couple of times after he fell. She bent over and came up with a chain of keys.

“Let’s go, Errol,” she said. “We have things to do, you and I.”

“Are you out of your mind?” he said.

She took hold of his arm. Her fingers felt like they were made from steel, and she dragged him a few steps, as if he didn’t weigh much at all, before he started digging in. He knew Dusk was tough, and a great fighter, but she had never seemed this strong before.

His brain had been chewing at the word she’d said. Valyeme. May I have strength.

As he struggled against her, she turned.

“Errol,” she said. “Sekedi.”

She let go, and he watched her walk away. Then, suddenly, one of his legs moved. His body shifted forward. His other leg jerked along.

Sekedi. Follow.

So, he did. He didn’t want to, but he did.

She didn’t go straight out of the building, but went instead into the wing where temporaries were held. She broke down a door in the interview room and a moment later came out with the padded clothes she usually wore under her armor.

“Turn around, Errol,” she said.

It wasn’t a spell, like the command to follow, but he did it anyway. But then he turned back around, quickly.

He had been hoping she would start by taking off her pants. Then her legs would be half tied-up when he jumped her. Unfortunately, she had begun with her shirt. She hadn’t turned away from him, and it was pulled up just enough so he could see her belly. He jumped anyway.

He hardly saw the blow coming. It didn’t knock him out, but it sure knocked him down. His vision whited out and his ears rang.

“I am sorry,” he heard her say. “I hit you too hard. That body of yours is very weak. Not like the one you had before. Please do not fight me.”

He came up slowly to his hands and knees. By then she had on the gambeson and padded leggings. He noticed they were different from her last outfit, newer-looking, with different patterns.

“New outfit,” he said. “Where’s your armor?”

“I hid it,” she said. Then she laughed.

“What?” he asked.

“I didn’t want to attract attention,” she said. “I did anyway.”

She started walking again, and his body followed, dizzy head, weak knees, and all.

Alberto was at the front door. He was nearly as big as Sam, and he had a night stick.

“Don’t fight her, man,” Errol warned.

But of course Alberto did, although it didn’t last long. As he stepped over the guard’s prone body, Errol hoped Alberto was okay. He had always been decent to Errol, and most of the other inmates liked him.

Moments later, they were through the gate, and Laurel Grove Hospital was behind him. He heard sirens in the distance.

“Constables,” she muttered. “In strange chariots. Yes?”

“You’ve met them before, I guess,” Errol said.

“Yes,” she replied. “I was not prepared last time. They subdued me.”

“This time they’ll shoot you,” he said.

“As with arrows?”

“Bullets,” he said. “You remember bullets?”

She smiled slightly. “Yes,” she said. “I remember you saved my life after I was shot with one.” Her mouth quirked to the side.

“I think we shall avoid the bullets,” she said, and started running. Then he was running, too.

They tore across a couple of yards, over a fence, crossed a couple of streets, and ran into Threefoot Park.

Errol had grown up in the country, about twenty miles outside of Sowashee, but he had an aunt who lived in town, near the park. In summer he had spent a lot of time there—taking swimming lessons in the public pool, catching soft-shelled turtles under the footbridges over the creek, watching fireworks on the Fourth of July. But the best, the coolest thing about Threefoot Park was the carousel.

His father had told him it had been built in the eighteen-nineties, and that it had been designed by a strange old guy from far away. That it was magic.

It had been magic to him. It was housed in a big white building that reminded him of a circus tent and always smelled like cotton candy. The carousel took up most of the building; horses hovered over its wooden deck on gilded poles, horses of all kinds—Appaloosas, bays, black stallions—but there were also tigers, lions, antelopes with twisting horns, giraffes, stags—all manner of beasts, all posed as if about to pounce or take flight.

After a bit of violence to one of the windows, he and Dusk stood in front of the carousel. But now it was dark, the animals in shadow.

“Come along,” she said.

She led him past the empty ticket booth and onto the platform, then swung herself up on one of the horses. He had always liked riding the tigers and had started toward them when she called him back.

“Get up behind me,” she said.

He was still compelled, so he did as she said. The animals were large, not kid-sized like some he had ridden in carnivals, but it was still uncomfortable sharing the rigid saddle with her. That was offset somewhat by . . . well, sharing the saddle with her. Dusk was beautiful, and at one point—before she chopped his leg off—he’d had kind of a thing for her. Now he was pressed against her. She was warm, nearly hot, and he couldn’t help liking it, even though he knew he shouldn’t.

She was the enemy.

“Put your arms around my waist,” she said. “But take no liberties.”

“Okay, I won’t,” he said, trying to cram as much sarcasm as he could into the words. “But listen, would you mind telling me what’s going on?”

“Later,” she said. Then she said a word or two he didn’t catch, and the platform beneath them suddenly lurched into motion. Lights came on all over the carousel, and music started up as the calliope chuffed to life, whistling out a familiar melody, its little mechanical drum beating in time.

The calliope hadn’t worked in years. The park had substituted a tape player. But now the ancient machine was going full blast, as it hadn’t since he was five or six. He remembered riding the tiger, his dad standing by him, grinning, holding onto the pole as it went up and down, his mother ahead on the gazelle, laughing.

They had been happy then, hadn’t they? Before his dad got sick. He believed they had been.

He was shaken out of his reverie as the pace picked up; the music, the spin of the deck. He was sure it was going faster than he had ever known it to, way quicker than it was supposed to go.

Yet it continued to speed up, until he started to get sick and dizzy. He realized he had a death-grip on Dusk because the ride was trying to fling him off.

Then they did fly off—the wooden horse, Dusk, him—the whole package. He closed his eyes, bracing for impact, but instead felt his belly go light. Wind streamed against his face, and the smell of cotton candy was gone.

He opened his eyes, but closed them again immediately when he saw the rapidly receding ground below them. Then he cracked them again, cautiously.

Here we go again, he thought.

Because they were not in Sowashee anymore.

Things had changed in the years Veronica had been dead. The clothes were odd and sometimes just weird. Nobody wore real hats, although she saw the occasional cap. There were a lot more cars and they were all ugly. Everything was brighter and tackier and moved too fast.

But downtown Sowashee was a lot like she remembered it. Most of the buildings had been built long before her birth, and although they looked more worn and rundown, they still retained a certain dignity and—in many cases—mystery. The Obelisk Theater still looked like something out of The Arabian Nights. Twin sphinxes in Egyptian headdress still flanked the steps of a building she had no name for but knew had something to go with Shriners and their fez hats. The Trevis Building—the tallest and only skyscraper in town—was still embellished with fantastical motifs that seemed at once sort of Biblical and utterly exotic.

She had a little money from Aster, so she ate lunch at a diner—meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and butter beans, followed by apple pie and ice cream.

Food was one of her favorite things about being alive.

As it grew dark, she made her way back toward Laurel Grove. She climbed up into the branches of a magnolia to watch the sunset.

When the light began to fade, and her heart stopped, she went to see Errol again.