Shattered Sky (39 page)

She slipped on a nightgown, and slid beneath the covers of her side of the bed. Dillon's hands were on her instantly, stroking her shoulders and back, urgently importuning. His hands were colder than usual. His caresses mechanical and forced. When she didn't respond, he became more insistent. Maddy knew that tonight this was not about love. It wasn't even about passion.

She rolled toward him, but grabbed his wrist, moving his hand away from her.

“What is it?” he asked.

He sounded so young when he said it, it made the four-year
gap of their ages seem like a canyon. Yet even as she considered it, she knew that wasn't the reason for her discomfort. It was her “orbit,” as Drew so incisively put it, which so dismayed her. The expanse was unbridgeable. They could be together, holding one another, and still she would be in a distant orbit. Maddy would never truly be with him, and that knowledge was getting harder to bear each time she felt Dillon's body against hers.

“Do you think of her when you're with me?” She found the words were out of her mouth before she knew she would say them.

“Who?” Dillon asked.

“Who do you think?” There was something she had heard over the intercom earlier in the day. Drew and Winston talking about how Dillon and Deanna “completed” each other. Maddy knew she did not complete him in this way, for even in their most fulfilling moments, she sensed a depth of longing in him that her spirit was not large enough to fill. “Well, do you?” she asked again.

He reached over again to touch her, gently stroking her hair, which had grown longer in Winston's presence. “Only sometimes.”

She spat out a laugh at his response, hating him for the answer, yet loving him for being incapable of a lover's lie.

“Please, Maddy,” he said. “It's been awful today. I need you to be there. Nobody else is.”

A flash of lightning lit his eyes, pupils wide, pleading. It was consolation he wanted. She was nothing more than his consolation prize. And she did want him, but now she knew what it was she
truly
wanted. Stifling her own tears, she reached up to his face, gently tracing the curves of his cheek and nose. She kissed his lips, for the first time feeling his kiss free from the scars she had given him.

“All right,” she said in a whisper. “But you have to do something first.”

“What?”

“Tell me that I complete you,” she said. “Tell me, and make me believe it.”

She knew how Dillon could find words to heal hearts and minds. Surely he could cut through the truth, and make her believe a lie.
Please, Dillon,
she prayed.
Lie just this once, and shatter the truth. The truth that I can never be the companion you need.

But Dillon said nothing. And in time, he took his hands from her. She rolled over, facing away from him, and let her tears soak silently into the pillow. For the first time, she found herself truly wishing they were back in the Hesperia lockdown. Back then she could be exactly what he needed. A human contact. The hand that fed him; the source of his survival. In those days they could cling to the wonderful illusion that titanium and steel were the only obstacles keeping them apart. Maddy would have done anything to have that illusion back.

Some time later she felt him get out of bed, and heard him dress. She watched him move in the shadows and the strobing flashes of lightning as he opened the closet door, pulling out the designer overcoat Tessic had given him for their trip to the cold northern reaches of Poland.

“Going out?” she asked.

“Something I need to do. I won't be long.”

He opened the door to their suite, letting in the hallway light. He lingered there for a moment before he left, silhouetted against the door frame, looking toward her.

“I love you, Maddy,” he said.

“I know you do,” she answered. But it was only a shard of what she needed to hear.

T
HE WINDSHIELD WIPERS METERED OUT THE TIME IN
D
ILLON'S
taxi like a metronome.

“I hate storms like this,” the cabby said. “They make me nervous.”

Dillon had taken the stairs down sixty-seven flights rather than alerting Tessic by using an elevator. As soon as he had descended away from the penthouse, a sudden sense of the outside world hit him. Dread and paranoia, a panicked call to action, with no hint of what action to take.
Do something,
his spirit cried.
Do anything.
He immediately realized that his time convalescing under Tessic's protection had changed nothing. He was no more equipped to face things now than he had been when he first arrived. If anything, the sense of panic had intensified.

Already drenched by the downpour, he had called a taxi from an all-night coffee shop three blocks away.

“Got caught in a flash flood once,” the cabby said as they drove to the address scrawled on the slip of paper. “Sumbitch washed my car away. Lotta power in them there things.”

The taxi was brand-new. Dillon was certain it hadn't started that way. He wondered how long it would take for the cabby to notice the change. Hopefully not until after Dillon left the cab.

Halfway there, the rain turned to sleet, pummeling the roof in a metallic clatter. “Yeah, this is a weird one,” the cabby went on. “Pattern of a hurricane, but it ain't got no eye. Stretches all the way to San Antonio.”

That was almost two hundred miles. A year ago the radius of Michael's influence was only ten, maybe twenty miles at its peak. This knowledge only added to Dillon's sense of foreboding.

“I don't like it,” said the cabby. “Don't like it at all.”

The address was a warehouse in a deserted industrial district. “Sure this is where you want to be?” the cabby asked, obviously nervous, yet not knowing why.

Dillon double-checked the address. It was right, and he could feel Winston and Michael close by. Having no money to speak of, Dillon told the cabby to wait, knowing he would not. Michael's icy sphere of emotional influence would repel anyone from its epicenter—and sure enough, as soon as Dillon stepped out into the sleet-filled street, the cabby spun off, his back end fish-tailing until it found traction.

Dillon took in his surroundings. The place would have been dismal even in bright summer sunshine. Up ahead, a red Durango straddled the curb, as out of place in this bleak circumstance as he. The headlights of the Durango flashed on and off, and as Dillon approached, the driver's-side window rolled down. Drew sat behind the wheel of the otherwise empty car.

“They're inside,” Drew told him, pointing to the warehouse entrance.

“How come you're out here?”

Drew hesitated before responding. “Hey, ignorance is bliss, right? Some things I don't want to know. Some company I'd rather not keep. Go on, they're waiting for you.”

The window closed before Dillon could question him any further. Dillon went to the door of the warehouse, and pushed it open.

Inside, the warehouse had been plunged into a deep freeze.
Ice coated the walls; it hung in massive icicles from the high ceiling, like stalactites. The few lights that worked flickered in and out, casting the ice cavern in shifting shadows. Dillon lost his footing on the slick floor, and fell to one knee.

“He's here,” he heard Winston say.

Carefully rising to his feet, Dillon followed the direction of the voice to a far corner, where several chairs sat. Three were occupied, one awaited his arrival.

Three? Was Lourdes there, too? Was that Winston's secret?

But as Dillon approached, hopefulness gave way to apprehension, and then to despair. Even before he saw the mystery guest, he knew who it was.

“The prodigal son returns,” Okoya said. “So happy you could grace us with your presence.”

Dillon felt his feet threaten to slide out from under him again so he stood still, holding his distance. The sense of betrayal was more overwhelming than the cold.

“It's not what you think,” Winston said.

“I'm not sure what I think.”

“Winston says we have to listen to him,” Michael said. “I don't like it any more than you do.”

Every human instinct told Dillon to turn and run . . . but, like Michael's ice storm, Dillon knew it was a reaction of fear. He would let Okoya have his say. And when he was done, Dillon would leave. Alone, if he had to.

He took his place with Michael and Winston on either side, across from Okoya—who looked less emaciated than when Dillon had last seen him, but just as depraved. Speckles of frost dotted his long dark hair, and he wore heavy layers of old clothes like a vagrant, but the clothes were quickly renewing, their colors brightening, their tattered threads redarning.

“I want to talk to you about destruction,” Okoya told
Dillon. “It's important that you understand the level of devastation you've caused.”

“I already do understand.”

“No,” Okoya said. “It goes beyond anything you've witnessed—anything you've imagined. But within that destruction lies your salvation.”

If Okoya had bitterness and vengeful intents, they were no longer evident. In fact, Dillon sensed a hopefulness in the dark creature. And so he forced himself to suspend judgment, listening to everything Okoya had to say. He began by talking about home.

“As I'm sure you've surmised, the place I come from has a different reality from this universe, with its own natural laws,” Okoya said. “There is no physicality; all is spirit and energy. And in our dimension, my kind is supreme.” Dillon shifted, irritated by Okoya's species's arrogance. “The best way I can describe our existence to you is that of a single pod of interconnected spirit-beings—about three hundred thousand in all. We exist on a grid of three dimensions, moving in unison along simultaneous vectors of depth, width, and time, but these three vectors, like everything else in my universe,
are alive
. They are three powerful entities—the greatest of our kind. The vectors determine the course and momentum of the pod, as our species impels through the universe.”

Michael laughed nervously. “Great. Extra-dimensional off-roading. Why do we have to know this? Will we be tested on it?”

Dillon considered what Okoya had said. “I think I know why. These three ‘vectors'—are they the spirits we've been sensing?”

Okoya nodded. “They are.”

Dillon felt his own vector of fury building within him, and
it took all his control not to launch himself at Okoya. “Why did you bring the leaders of your soul-sucking species here?” Dillon hissed.

Okoya met his scorching gaze with ice enough to douse the flame. “It was
your
actions that brought them here, not mine.”

Dillon turned his gaze to Winston, who only looked away.

“This world of yours,” Okoya said. “This entire universe has always been insignificant to us, but we do occasionally make ourselves known, angling for sport or amusement. In our natural form, we are, to human eyes, whatever those eyes wish to see. Glory and wonder; lost loves; sacred memories. Wherever your emptiness—wherever your
need
—that is how we appear. Call it the natural lure of a species of hunters. The problem is that humans are too weak to resist the lure, and so there's no challenge to the hunt. Fortunately for you, the effort it takes to break through to your universe is rarely worth the reward.”

“Then why did you come?” Dillon asked.

“The lure of power can be irresistible as well,” Okoya admitted. “But trying to elevate myself in this world earned me immediate condemnation by my own kind. I was therefore a pariah from the moment I first arrived here.”

“And the three vectors, as you call them—are they lured by power as well?”

“They came here out of necessity.” Okoya tossed his long hair which had become caked with white rime, and the flakes fell from him like dandruff. He turned to Michael. “I wish you'd warm up to me, Michael; this frosty welcome gets tedious.”

“Maybe you're right,” Michael said. “Maybe I should broil you instead.” But the temperature retained its deep freeze.

“You still haven't explained why the vectors are here,” Dillon said.

Okoya turned back to Dillon, pointing an accusing finger. “It all comes back to what
you
did last year. Your cunning ploy to get rid of me.”

“It couldn't have been too cunning if Okoya came back,” Michael said. “So what did you do, Dillon?”

“I . . . infested him,” Dillon explained. “Okoya had confronted me, and offered me a bargain. He offered me the chance to reclaim and revive Deanna . . . in return for my servitude. Then he punched a hole to the place where we left Deanna's body.”

“The Unworld?” Michael said. “Okoya can get to the Unworld?”

Dillon nodded. “I agreed to his terms, but when I crossed into the Unworld, I never went after Deanna. Instead I went looking for our parasites—the two that were still left alive, but trapped in the Unworld.”

Dillon had tried to put it out of his mind, but now brought the vile memory back. He explained to Michael how, in order to defeat Okoya, Dillon was forced to invite those two unclean spirits into his soul. His own parasite had evolved into a winged gargoyle that still hungered for destruction, and Deanna's was a vermiform serpent that thrived on fear. They were as complementary and codependent as he and Deanna had been—and far too powerful, for they had been nurtured well. While the other shards had faced and killed their parasites, these two had survived, trapped in that place between worlds, waiting for a soul to crawl into. A soul that could take them out.

“I stood on the sands of the Unworld until they came,” Dillon said. “Then I took them into myself, letting them leech onto my soul. And I brought them back into this world.”

“I was not expecting it,” Okoya said. “The moment Dillon came through, the creatures leapt from him, and burrowed
deep into me. I could not free myself from them, and in a panic, I punched a hole into my own universe. I withdrew back to my own world, taking the two parasites with me. And in so doing, infested my entire universe.”