Authors: Christopher Pike
“Maybe. Or maybe I couldn’t look at the little guy without thinking about Kari and how she stole Jimmy away from me.”
“Jessica, you have to listen to me, as your father and as a doctor. The longer you let this situation go on, the worse it will get. You know how hard it is to raise Lara and she’s your daughter. There’s no way you’re going to have the strength to take care of Huck—especially when you have Whip to look after. It’s wrong and it’s a lie. You said it yourself, the child belongs with his grandparents.”
I snort. “And what do I say when I hand Huck over to them? ‘Oh, by the way, here’s Kari’s son. He wasn’t dead after all. I’ve just been taking care of him for the last month because I wanted to see if he began to look like my boyfriend.’” I pause. “They’ll have me thrown in jail.”
“You don’t have to be involved with the exchange. I know people. I can make it so the child was miraculously found. The DNA evidence alone will prove it’s Kari’s child.” My father stops. “What is it?”
I’m shaking my head. “Jimmy will kill me.”
“He can’t argue with the truth.”
“Don’t you understand? He’ll kill me for having ordered the test that proved Huck wasn’t his in the first place!”
“That makes no sense,” my father says.
“Nothing to do with this situation makes sense! But I know Jimmy. He’ll feel I betrayed him. There’s even the possibility he won’t believe me. That I manufactured the evidence.”
“I can show him the DNA comparison. Facts don’t lie.”
“You can only show him a DNA comparison from the real world—show it to him here in witch world. There’s no way he’ll be able to replicate the test himself. Jimmy is stuck here in witch world, while Huck lives in the real world. Jimmy can never take a tissue sample of his own. He has to rely on others.”
“Like you?”
“Yeah, like me,” I say weakly.
My father goes to speak and then falls silent.
“Is the trust between you that bad?” he asks finally.
I hang my weary head, wishing it would fall off so I could kick it out the car door and be free of all these complexities.
“Jimmy loves me and I love him. But when it comes to Huck—no, he doesn’t totally trust me. And now I’ve found the perfect reason for him to never trust me again, about anything.”
“You’re being overly dramatic. The truth is the truth.”
I sigh. “Loyalty’s a higher truth when you’re James Kelter. Let’s not forget this is the same guy who had the courage to stick a needle in his arm loaded with an overdose of drugs so he could die in the real world in order to protect me and Lara in witch world.”
My father pats me on the shoulder. “I’ll never forget what Jimmy did for you two. I’ll always be grateful. I’m just trying to protect him from a greater pain six months from now, or six years.”
I nod reluctantly. “You’re right. I have to tell him. I just don’t know how I’m going to do it.”
“The sooner the better,” my father warns.
It’s two in the morning before I get home and I’m exhausted. All I can think about is climbing into bed beside Jimmy and praying that my daughter sleeps until dawn. But when I come through the front door, I find Jimmy pacing the living room, rocking Lara back to sleep. He smiles when he sees me and I give him a kiss on the lips.
“Your timing’s perfect,” he says. “She fell asleep three minutes ago.”
“How long’s she been up?”
“Not long. I changed her and fed her. She fussed a little but I think she just needed to fart. As soon as she did she settled right down.”
We sit on the couch together and Jimmy hands me Lara. I still haven’t gotten over what it’s like to hold her. I know every mom feels her child is special, but the truth is Lara is unique—one in a billion, if not one in seven billion. As a result of the Tar carefully placing Jimmy and me in the same small town, she was conceived with all ten witch genes, supposedly the only person on the planet to have the full slate.
What that means to me as a mother is that every time I hold her, I feel I’m holding a little angel—a
real
angel. The light and love Lara gives off is difficult to describe. It hits me first in my hands, when I first pick her up, a magical warmth that makes me imagine I’m holding my hands close to a fire on a freezing night. I never lift her up without feeling instant relief, a subtle soothing, even if it’s the middle of the night and I’m exhausted. Lara gives off more energy than I can ever give her, no matter how much I feed her and walk her and love her.
She feels so good in my hands right now, as does Jimmy’s arm when he wraps it around me and I lean into his side. For several blessed minutes everything is perfect. The three of us are together in our own bubble and the world outside our door—or I should say “the worlds”—does not exist.
“How was your meeting with the Council?” Jimmy asks. He’s tired but he looks good; he always looks good to me. He has on black sweatpants and a red T-shirt; he’s a casual dresser, especially the “Jimmy” side of him, which has had a powerful effect on the “James” side. If I didn’t buy him clothes I doubt he’d have anything new. He’s not the sort who has any interest in impressing people.
Since shifting over to witch world, he’s allowed his brown hair to grow longer, a source of great delight for me. I love to play with his curls at night in bed, love to stare into his warm brown eyes when we’re talking at meals. Of course I do most of the talking, Jimmy’s not someone who rambles.
Working longer hours as a mechanic than he did in Apple Valley, he’s built up more muscles, although, ironically, he’s probably lost some weight. To be blunt he’s ripped; he looks hot without a shirt. But I wish he’d eat more. Sometimes I fear his lack of appetite is due to some worry he doesn’t share with me.
I’m a fine one to talk.
I don’t share most of my deepest fears with him.
“It sucked,” I reply to his question about the Council meeting. I know what’s coming—another example of how I can’t share with him just how scary my life has become.
“Are the Lapras on the march?” he asks, taking me by surprise.
“How did you guess?”
“We’re in witch world now. The newspapers are even more gloomy on this side of the veil. There are outbreaks of violence all over the place—in Africa, South America, Washington DC. I just read this article talking about the ‘hidden conspiracy’ that’s ruining our nation. I was thinking, boy, open your eyes, guys, it started hundreds of years ago.”
“But here’s not as bad as Las Vegas. I sometimes forget which world I’m in.”
“I hear ya.” Jimmy pauses. “Tell me more about the meeting.”
“Ah, it was the usual crap. The Lapras are evil and they have to be stopped.”
“Did Cleo discuss who’s been chosen to replace Syn?”
I sit up quickly. “How did you know we talked about that?”
Jimmy shrugs. “I figure there’s got to be some kind of power struggle going on. It’s got to affect the Tar. I assumed that’s why Cleo called you to the meeting.”
“You’re right,” I admit.
Jimmy studies me. Even though he’s only my age, he’s very perceptive—especially when it comes to me. It might be a virtue, it might be a weakness, I don’t know, but I find it almost impossible to lie to Jimmy.
“So what’s the verdict?” Jimmy asks. “What are they going to do? Or I should say—what do they want you to do?”
“Stay alert and see if anyone unusual approaches me.”
Jimmy frowns. “I’m not sure I like the sound of that.”
“I’m not worried about it.” I stand with Lara in my right hand and offer Jimmy my left. “How would you feel about putting both of us to bed?”
Jimmy stands and kisses me deeply. I fall, I fly, I melt—he’s a hell of a kisser. It makes no sense, but every time I kiss Jimmy, it’s as good or better than the first time.
When he finally steps back, I feel as if I’m swaying in our warm living room while drifting in outer space. I have to force my eyes open. But it’s good to see him smiling at me.
“Have I ever told you I love you?” he asks.
“Never. All you care about is my body.”
He wraps his arm around me and leads me and Lara toward the bedroom. She sleeps in a cradle at the foot of our bed.
Jimmy speaks. “You know, that’s true. A guy would die for a body like yours.”
“And you did,” I say, the words escaping from my mouth before I can haul them back in. He stops and puts a finger to my lips.
“Neither of us will ever die, as long as we’re together.”
“You say that like you mean it.”
“I know, Jessie. I know.”
He’s the only one who calls me Jessie in witch world.
“I believe you,” I tell him, and I do.
We both put Lara down and go to bed and lie naked in each other’s arms—too tired to make love, too weary even to kiss. Still, the mysterious magical bubble remains, and the fragment I think of as myself is once again whole in the arms of the guy who gave his life in the real world to save mine.
Still, the dream of Marc Simona starts almost immediately, and once again I’m swept up in the saga of his brilliantly complex escapade. Only this time when I reach the end of the night, and walk with him as he zips his fly after taking a piss in an alley not far from his apartment, the bond between us suddenly strengthens. For nine nights in a row I felt as if I was inside his mind and body. Now the feeling of identification grows a hundredfold.
I see the bright light at the end of the alley and whirl to look at the sun, puzzled how it can be in two places at the same time. But when I turn back to the original light I realize, along with Marc, that it has nothing to do with the sun. It’s a light born of darkness. I know because as it grabs Marc it takes hold of me as well, and I feel myself yanked from my bed even as he’s lifted from the alley. It’s only then I lose all contact with Marc and see blackness. It invades my mind and body and suddenly I’m lost.
CHAPTER THREE
“HEY, CAN YOU HEAR ME?
Wake up.” A gentle hand shakes me. “Rise and shine, pretty girl.”
I open my eyes and see Marc Simona staring down at me. I know his face, of course, I’ve seen it every night in the mirror of the janitor’s closet in the mall parking lot where he hides his tools.
He’s handsome in a bad-boy sort of way—meaning he could use a shave and a shower. His hair is light brown, an out-of-control wavy mass streaked with dust—which I’m sure he picked up in the alley where he hid Silvia’s emeralds behind that stinking Dumpster. His eyes are a clear blue, his mouth is wide, expressive; it might be his generous lips. The guy’s sexy, no question. It’s odd how I never noticed his muscles in my dreams. I’m not surprised he grew up on the streets—he looks like he can take care of himself.
“It’s you,” I whisper, my throat dry.
“I suppose,” he says. “You awake?”
“Gimme a minute,” I mumble, trying to straighten myself on what feels like an airplane seat. Then, blinking my crusty eyes, I give a quick look around and realize I
am
on an airplane.
Yet a closer inspection makes me wonder. There are no long aisles, no rows of seats. The walls don’t curve like they normally do in the friendly skies. They’re sharp cornered and dull gray, and give the give the impression we’ve been stowed away in a large metal box. Worse, there are only six chairs and six of us.
Still, I feel a faint vibration as if we’re moving through the air or along an extremely smooth railroad track. Off to my left I see a door leading to a compact restroom. On my right is a shiny silver refrigerator. There are no windows, however, and I have a sneaky feeling we’re not going to be introduced to the pilot.
Last night, when I went to sleep, I remind myself, I was in witch world. That means I’m in the real world now. The world I’ve known all my life. But a world without Jimmy.
“Are you thirsty? Need something to drink?” Marc asks. I realize I’m automatically assuming it
is
Marc, when I’ve never actually met the guy. Yet it has to be him; he looks exactly like the guy in my dreams. He even talks like him, sort of cocky, definitely cool.
However, he’s not dressed in the black slacks, white shirt, and dark Nikes—the clothes he wore in my dreams. His clothes resemble a uniform. His long-sleeved shirt is dark green, as are his pants, and his ankle-high leather boots are black. He wears a bright green bracelet on his left wrist.
It takes me a moment to realize we’re all dressed the same. Which means someone undressed me while I was unconscious, and probably the others. My bracelet feels like it’s made of plastic; the fit is tight.
“Water, please,” I say.
“Coming right up.” Opening the fridge, Marc pulls out a plastic bottle and unscrews the cap, creating a popping sound. He hands it to me and nods for me to take it. “I’ve tried it. It won’t kill ya.”
Taking the pint-size bottle, I search for signs of identification—a company name, a popular logo—but there’s none. Still, the water tastes fresh and I gulp down half the bottle. My intense thirst makes me wonder how long I was out.
“Thank you,” I say, keeping the water.
“You’re welcome.” Marc sits down in the only unoccupied seat and looks to the other four as if waiting for one of them to speak. When no one volunteers, he casually leans back in his chair and sticks out his legs. He adds, “So I take it this isn’t some sort of super-secret AA meeting?”
“How long did you say you’ve been awake?” a dark-skinned woman on his left asks in a sharp tone. Her black hair is cut short; her hairdresser couldn’t have spent more than sixty seconds on the task. Her eyebrows are thick, dark, fearsome. She appears to be Middle Eastern, and it doesn’t take me long to place her accent. She’s from Israel.
Marc is unmoved by her nasty tone. “You already asked that question, babe.”
“Answer it again for our new arrivals,” she orders.
“Not very long,” he says.
The woman stands and puts her hands on her hips. There’s something commanding about her presence, but she’s one shrill chick. She doesn’t much care for Marc’s laid-back attitude.
“Who are you people?” she demands of the rest of us. “What are your names? Where are you from? Why are you here?”
“I’m Brad Pitt and I’m researching a new film I’m shooting,” Marc says cheerfully. “It’s called
Six Suckers in a Box
.” He pauses. “Any other stupid questions?”