Irregulars: Stories by Nicole Kimberling, Josh Lanyon, Ginn Hale and Astrid Amara (57 page)

“Good,” Falk replied, but he hardly moved. “We’ll need to get you holed up and call this into HQ as soon as possible.”

“I don’t have a cell phone—”

“Not secure in any case,” Falk cut him off. “I’ll worry about that once we get to your place…” One of Falk’s legs twitched, but he didn’t rise. He glanced up to Jason and a faint blue flame lit his eyes. “Give me a hand with this old sack of bones, will you?”

Jason knelt at his side. Up close he could see the gleam of fresh blood seeping through the front of Falk’s coat. His body felt hard and cold as ice as Jason wrapped an arm around him and helped him up to his feet.

“It’s going to be all right,” Falk told him. “Just trust me a little, you’ll see.”

There was absolutely no reason to believe that anything would be all right. Jason’s entire world had been altered and as far as he could work out he’d become some kind of commodity to goblins and magicians. And yet Falk’s words did ease him; maybe it was that tone of experience or maybe some spell, but Jason nodded and steadied Falk as they stumbled forward.

They staggered out from their shadowy alley into the bustle of the post-lunch rush on Turk Street.

 Fortunately, they didn’t have far to go.

The weathered Victorian sprawl of the Avalon Apartments slumped over a dingy liquor store and a concrete laundromat like the remains of a wrecked ship. Decorative woodwork and paint had long ago weathered away and the rickety fire escape looked like it had been thrown on in a windstorm. Two ground floor windows were boarded over and the entryway reeked of urine from the number of drunks who had pissed themselves after passing out on the stoop.

“Avalon.” Falk’s voice was little more than a whisper, but Jason still noted the tone of irony. He’d thought the same thing on earlier occasions.

Inside, the grimy yellow wallpaper displayed a Rorschach test of water stains. The cage elevator bore a perpetual “out of order” proclamation and for the first time Jason resented it.

In truth, there were only three things to recommend the Avalon Apartments at all. First, the rent was cheap. Second, the locks worked. Third—and most importantly, this afternoon—it was not the sort of place where anyone took much note of two beaten, bloodstained men staggering up the stairs together. With so many drunks, junkies, outpatients, and social outcasts in residence, the sight of him and Falk merited little more response than a bloodshot glance from a half-dressed transvestite traipsing down in the opposite direction.

“I’d throw that one back, honey,” the transvestite informed Jason.

“Damn. If I’d known we’d be meeting the queen on the stairs, I’d have worn my tux,” Falk replied gamely and received a laugh in passing.

Jason smiled despite his exhaustion.

Together they fought up another flight of stairs. When Falk’s boot caught on a step they both swayed. For an instant Jason thought they would fall, but he didn’t let go of Falk. To his relief, Falk caught the handrail, steadying them both.

Falk seemed to be getting stronger. At least Jason hoped he was because he was himself on the verge of collapse.

His muscles trembled with exhaustion and a raw ache scraped through his bruised throat with every breath he took in. Still, it was a relief to feel anything at all.

By the time they reached Jason’s rooms on the third floor, Falk was taking most of his own weight and Jason could feel living warmth radiating from his lean body.

***

“So here it is, Chez Shamir.” Jason unlocked his door and followed Falk into his tiny studio apartment. He guessed that Falk wasn’t the type to give a damn. Still, he felt slightly embarrassed by the single room, bath, and kitchenette that made up his home. It had to look miserable to a stranger. Falk couldn’t know just how much of an achievement it represented to Jason to live free of mental institutions and halfway houses.

A shelf made of cinderblocks and planks stood beside his narrow window. It overflowed with sheet music, instruments, and CDs. His stereo and speakers perched on a second shelf on the other side of the windowsill. Jason’s folded clothes and paired socks occupied a stack of two milk crates beside his futon. A third crate displayed his alarm clock, a battered lamp, and a history book he’d been trying to read.

The barren kitchenette stood open just past the door to his bathroom. From the doorway Jason could see his frying pan and coffeemaker sitting beside his empty sink.

“Clean.” Falk said it like he’d expected as much. Then he glanced over his shoulder to Jason. “Close the door and lock it, will you?”

Jason did both quickly. Then Falk reached out and laid his bloody right hand against the door. He flexed his fingers and silver light gushed up from his chest, lighting him like a halogen filament. His eyes shone bright. His hair and clothes moved as if caught in a breeze.

“I name you sanctuary.” Falk leaned close to the door, almost pressing his mouth to the white paint, and whispered, “Let none pass who mean him harm.”

Blazing light flashed up from Falk’s hand and spread like frost across the door and walls of Jason’s apartment. Jason stared as the crystalline patterns climbed his window and curled across both his floor and ceiling. He thought he saw florettes of blades and glinting forms that reminded him of skulls and he wondered if the markings were the letters of some strange spell. They moved as if they were almost alive.

At last the luminous filigree closed and the entire apartment glowed so intensely that Jason squinted against the flashing brilliance. He stole a glimpse back to Falk and found the man’s figure strangely dark in the midst of so much light, as if it had drained him completely.

Then Falk lifted his hand from the door and the symbols sank away beneath paint, plaster, and flooring. Only Falk’s bloody handprint remained, a wet crimson smear on white planks.

Again Falk swayed on his feet but didn’t fall. He met Jason’s worried expression with a crooked smile.

“Just got a whiff of myself. Nearly floored me,” Falk commented. “You have a private tub and toilet in this joint?”

“Yes, right through there.” Jason pointed to the bathroom door. Falk strode in without bothering to close the door after him. For a very awkward moment Jason wondered if he should follow the other man in to make sure he was all right or give him his privacy.

“If you have any salt, bring it, would you?” Falk called. “And a felt marker. Mine’s getting dry.”

“I’ve got a ballpoint pen.” Jason pulled it out of his jacket pocket.

“That’ll work.” Falk’s reply rose over the sound of rustling cloth.

“How much salt do you need?” On his way to the kitchenette Jason stole a glance in at Falk and found the man bracing himself against the small porcelain sink as he stripped off his bloodstained clothes.

“A cup would be good, but anything you have will help.”

Falk’s coat and vest lay in a heap on the floor. His button-up shirt hung open, exposing the solid expanse of his bare chest and abdomen. Jason remembered how strong and hard that scarred body had felt against his own. The memory was immediately eclipsed by the sight of a bloody bullet hole gaping over Falk’s heart. A sluggish stream of blood seeped down his chest.

Jason stared in horror at the wound, feeling amazed and sick at once. How could Falk even be standing?

Falk glanced up and, meeting Jason’s stare, offered him an almost sheepish smile.

“I know, blood’s a bitch to clean up. I’ll pick up a new set of towels for you as soon as I can.” He shrugged off his shirt and Jason noted a second massive stain from the exit wound in Falk’s back.

“How can you still be alive?” Jason’s words came out in a horrified whisper.

For just a moment Falk went still. He glanced down at the stream of blood pouring from his torso and seeping into the fabric of his pants as if he’d just noticed it.

“No other option,” Falk replied offhandedly, but he didn’t meet Jason’s gaze. Instead, he wadded up his shirt and wiped at his bloody chest almost self-consciously. “You gonna grab that salt?”

“Ye—yeah.” Jason tore his gaze from Falk’s chest and bolted into his kitchenette. For a moment he thought he might throw up in the sink, but then he regained his composure.

He’d seen worse—much worse. But there was something so disconcerting about the combination of Falk’s easygoing manner and those ugly, gaping wounds. How could a man be so deeply injured and just keep moving?

The sound of water running in the bathroom brought Jason back to the task at hand.

“Is kosher salt okay?” Jason called.

“Better actually,” Falk replied between splashes of water. “But anything you’ve got will do.”

Jason brought the entire box of Diamond Crystal kosher salt and his ballpoint pen.

Falk sat on the edge of the claw-footed bathtub, naked, with a roll of masking tape in one hand and a towel in the other. The water in the tub swirled with currents of deep red and dilute pink. Falk had clearly made an effort to wash away the blood. Water glistened in his blond chest hair and droplets slipped down the line of his lean abdomen. He was a big man, and stripped of his ill-fitting clothes, he looked more savage, muscular, and tattooed than Jason would have expected.

A black star shone against the pale skin of his hip and tiny golden symbols stretched like constellations across the scarred lengths between his right thigh and his broad shoulders. Amidst the arcane markings a black block letter
F
stood out on his right shoulder like a brand.

He held one of Jason’s white towels against the wound in his chest, as if shielding Jason from the sight, though, he seemed utterly unaware of the disarming effect of his nudity.

Despite himself Jason felt a flush rise across his cheeks.

“What should I do with—”

“Just leave them on the toilet seat.” Falk didn’t look at Jason. “You don’t have to watch this. I can manage it myself.”

Suddenly Jason felt like an ass. Falk had suffered these wounds protecting him. More than likely he’d saved Jason’s life. The least he could do was help the man.

“The bullet hole in your back looks like an awkward reach for you on your own,” Jason commented. “It would probably be easier if I helped with that.”

“You sure?” Falk glanced to him questioningly. “’Cause it won’t do either of us any good if you lose your lunch trying to patch my ugly ass up.”

“I won’t,” Jason assured him. “No way am I giving up my free meal.”

“All right then.” Falk held out the roll of masking tape to him and Jason took it. For just an instant he expected to see something strange on the surface of the tape—some swirling magical script—but it seemed to be nothing more than mundane beige masking tape.

“What should I do?”

“Just tape me up.”

Falk turned so that Jason could see his bleeding back. Just below his shoulder blade streaks of scarlet blood seeped from a ragged exit wound.

“You don’t have to look at it,” Falk told him. “Close your eyes and just concentrate on the idea of healing. Try to hold the thought while you make a mark on the masking tape with your pen and then slap the tape over the wound.”

“What kind of mark?” Jason frowned at his pen and the tape.

“Doesn’t matter,” Falk replied. “It’s the thought that counts, not the wrapper, if you know what I mean. The faster you do it, the less likely you are to overthink it, though.”

“Right.” Jason responded automatically to Falk’s terse tone. The man was probably in intense pain; Jason could ask questions later. He gripped the tape and pen, closed his eyes, and thought of what healing meant. Smooth skin marred by only the shadow of a long faded scar. Health and well-being. Unbidden, a melody came to him and he wrote the simple notes on the masking tape.

Then he tore off a length and taped it over Falk’s back. He half expected the piece of tape to just fall off. But it adhered instantly to Falk’s flesh. As Jason watched, the inky notes dulled from black to red to the shiny white of scar tissue and the beige strip of tape melted into Falk’s flesh, taking on the color and texture of his skin. Only Jason’s musical notations remained as the faintest scars.

“That’s good.” Falk sounded both surprised and relieved. “Really good. Can you keep going?”

“Yeah…It seems kind of easy actually.”

“Easy…” Falk repeated as if he found it ironic. “Where have you been all my life?”

Jason’s cheeks flushed at the remark. He glanced away before Falk could notice and returned his concentration to the next strip of tape.

He expanded his melody, writing the notes nearly as quickly as they came to him. He laid each new strip next to the last. Soon the wound in Falk’s back was entirely closed. Jason stared at the pale scars and expanse of healthy skin, hardly able to credit that he’d played any part in anything so amazing. Pride swept through him.

“Shall I take care of your chest as well?” Jason offered.

“Are you sure you’re up to it?” Falk asked. “I don’t want you dropping dead of exhaustion.”

“I’m fine. I actually kind of enjoyed doing it.” Jason stole a glance to Falk’s disbelieving expression. “Is that a weird thing to say?”

“No more weird than closing a bullet hole with masking tape is in the first place,” Falk replied, but then added, “Though it’s pretty damn impressive that you haven’t even broken a sweat.”