I touched Zack’s chest, nodded to Puck, and flipped.
Chapter Fifteen
The Fates
I dumped back into the real world in a bus station.
On the edge of a curb, actually, with one foot on the ground and one in open air. I tumbled and hit the ground with all the grace of a tranq-darted buffalo.
The very first thing I noticed, before I noticed the bus station, before I noticed the light pattering of rain, was the bright lance of pain shooting through my hand. I rolled over onto my back, the gravel digging its stubby spikes into my skin, and held my left arm up. My fingers were twisted and mangled, a purple and yellow bouquet of shattered digits. My gorge rose, and I snapped my eyes away and gagged and coughed up long strings of saliva.
I’d forgotten. My fingers had been stomped on during the fight at Benny’s party and had been shattered and twisted. A wave of nausea crested over me, and I gagged more bile. My fingers cycled between hot and cold, searing when the pain hit, frozen as it faded. I tucked my twisted hand under my shirt, to hide it from myself if nothing more, and tried to breathe. I sucked lungfuls of cold, wet-tasting air. The nausea made my head swim. Little dots of light swirled in my vision. Was I passing out? I might have been passing out.
As my breath began to slow, I began to think. The apparent injury hadn’t followed me into the Grey. Why? Puck said he and I, phantoms—God how I hated that word—didn’t have a body to go back to. We actually shifted between the Real and the Grey in our only body. And yet…
I looked down at my hand, just a misbegotten lump beneath the bottom of my blouse, and felt another sharp staccato blast of agony.
Was there a chance for me? Maybe I wasn’t what Puck thought I was. Maybe I just looked like something he knew—looked like himself. Was there room for something else?
I tried not to let the thought worm its way in, but it was a sneaky one, and a powerful one—maybe not just something else, but something alive?
I tried to regulate my breathing, and I had an interesting thought—I’d shifted from a train station to bus station. I didn’t for a second think it was a coincidence.
I may have been freaked out, in over my head, and possibly dead, but I’m still a quick learner.
I couldn’t see anyone—a small comfort, but the bus station looked to be in the middle of a large series of interconnected parking lots. Oh goody, nothing ever goes wrong for me in dark parking lots at night. I stood in a pool of harsh fluorescent light, and the darkness beyond shimmered and danced with a curtain of light rain.
I got to my feet slowly, trying not to jostle my demolished hand. It didn’t really matter- it was like trying to stay dry during a hurricane. My broken fingers still spun a tale of woe every time I breathed.
In the distance, I heard a train rattle down its tracks. It made me think of Zack. I touched my lips and breathed a stream of frost between my fingers. I’d never felt more lonely in my entire life.
And I was cold. Always cold. In the Grey, things seemed to even out—never warm, never cold. Here, it seemed to be one extreme or the other. The cold meant one thing—I’d have to take soon.
I waited for another ten minutes, wrapped in frost, trying to rub my arms to life on a bus-stop bench in the middle of the night. I tried to formulate a plan, but it wasn’t coming. I wasn’t exactly full-up on courage. In fact, the needle floated a breath above “E.”
The bus finally arrived. A middle-aged black woman sat in the driver’s seat. She was pretty but tired-looking—I could almost see the two-point-five children and the husband she couldn’t stand. Knowing what I did about myself, there was a good chance I actually was seeing her two children, her newborn—Kevin, or Kellin, something like that—and her husband, James.
As I walked up the steps, and I smelled something that could have been Britney Spear’s Curious, I was positive. It was Kellin, and her husband, James, was cheating on her. A little seed of panic popped inside of me, and I made a conscious effort to hold my breath. The weird ambient images disappeared.
“Bus pass, hon?” she asked me, in a surprisingly soothing voice. I wanted to be read-to in that voice. I would have listened to a speech in that voice.
I touched my pockets and shook my head—the international symbol for no dice. It took some doing, but I convinced her to take the tiny amount of cash I had on me. I found my seat and let the radio fill up my thoughts.
I listened to the end of Muse’s Starlight, and a voice hissed into being, swimming out of the static.
“The time is five-to-eleven, and it’s 75 degrees. The search for fifteen-year-old Lucy Day has yielded little results. As stated earlier, she disappeared last night at approximately nine-thirty, according to eyewitness reports—”
I reeled. Holy shit. We’d been gone over a day. Twenty-six hours, almost. I touched my lips. They felt like ice. My parents. My poor parents.
“—and the status of the two teenagers, names undisclosed, hasn’t improved. You’re listening to the World Famous—”
The bus driver clicked the radio off. Thankfully.
I cupped my hands over my mouth and leaned forward. The bus rumbled underneath me, and for a long while there was nothing. I tried not to think of my mom and dad. They would despise me for putting them in this situation. Again. My stomach dropped out from under me. My life was over. Even if I somehow got through all of this mayhem tonight, my life would never be the same. Would I transfer schools? Maybe even boarding school? I might never see Morgan again. Or Zack.
The bus rolled slowly to a stop. I looked around, surprised by the speed. We’d arrived at a little line of houses in the middle of a suburb. I checked the address—it wasn’t too far from where I was going.
The doors closed behind me, and the bus pulled away from the curb with a hiss of hydraulic breaks and the squealing-squeak of ancient machinery. I watched it go until it was nothing but a pair of tiny red dots in the distance. I thought I had felt alone at the bus stop.
Out of habit, I flipped my phone out my purse and checked the time. The screen was cold—was it dead, or just off? I didn’t care. If it had died, having the worried text messages and terrified voice mails at bay was a good thing.
The address took me to 516 Spruce Street. I looked up at the house as I approached, a little surprised. A smoke-gray little BMW coupe sat in the driveway, like it had just leaped out of a James Bond movie. I could imagine Daniel Craig in that thing, glaring into his rear view mirror while he bled from a gash over his eye. He was even making that little sexy pout in my daydream. I took a deep breath.
Down, girl. Really not the time. Anyway, Bond drove an Aston Martin.
I walked up to the doorway, under the eave, and rapped the wood with my knuckles. Three solid hits.
I felt nervous, and cold, don’t forget cold, but kind of light. Airy, almost. I think knowing that some of the Puck mystery was about to be revealed pumped a little helium into my balloon. I knocked again.
The door swung open, and I turned from my musings to say hello and to get my first glimpse of Puck’s granddaughter—down the gaping barrel of a giant black revolver.
“Whoa! Whoa!”
I held my hands up and staggered backward, tasting nothing but metal. I couldn’t make out the figure of the woman holding the gun, back-lit by the bright light in the doorway, but I could make out the gun just fine. And it brought to mind the little bald wannabe vato and his friends who had joked about raping me, and had settled on pumping a bullet into my stomach. The metal taste disappeared, replaced by the taste of bile and fear.