Shine (41 page)

Another
crack
came from the room downstairs, as Martin slammed a bat onto the outstretched arms of a rifle-wielding Nighthawk agent.

“Zach!” I ran to kneel at his side. “Can you hear me?”

His eyes were wild. “Aura, what happened? Why am I—”

“Shh, shh.” I peeled off my cardigan and pressed it against his wound. “It’s all right, it’s all right. Just talk to me.”

“He—I didn’t—I didn’t shoot him.”

A young man bellowed below, “Someone call an ambulance! Two men have been shot!”

Zachary’s gaze roamed the ceiling beyond me. “Two? Was I shot?”

“Yeah, but you’re gonna be fine.” I looked over my shoulder to see Timian staring at me. He mouthed the word
Help
as one scarlet-coated hand reached out.

Timian’s blood pulsed slower. He was dying, apparently from the same bullet that had pierced Zachary’s body, then continued its deadly flight.

Martin bounded up to us, stepping over the unconscious agent on the stairs. He saw Zachary.

“No!” He skidded to his knees beside us. “Listen to me, mate. You’re not going anywhere.”

Zachary’s breathing was thick, and when he coughed, blood dribbled from his mouth. “Cold.”

“That’s right, ye’re going into shock, but that’s what’ll save your life.” Martin took off his shirt and wiped Zachary’s face. “Boys, tear down one of those curtains and bring it here.”

A familiar chilling voice spoke in the auditorium below. “I don’t believe this. I can’t even see my own body?”

Agent Timian.

I looked at the Nighthawk’s still figure. “He’s dead.”

Zachary squeezed my hand. “Ghost?”

“Don’t worry. He can’t come up here, because of you.”

“Keep him,” he rasped. “He knows.”

Knows what?
I wondered. Then I realized what Zachary meant: Agent Timian could be a witness to everything Nighthawk had done in the name of protecting SecuriLab’s profits. Maybe even Flight 346.

“Go,” Zachary pleaded.

“I can’t leave you.”

“Not dying.”

How do you know?
I wanted to ask him.

“I’ll stay wi’ him,” Martin said.

“Why the hell did you shoot him?” Timian railed below at his fellow agent. “I was standing directly behind. Where did Nighthawk recruit you from, Kindergarten Cops?”

I took a last lingering look at Zachary. “Don’t go anywhere.”

He swallowed and panted out one word, “Promise.”

“Someone dim the lights,” I called as I hurried down the stairs. A few seconds later, the auditorium went dark but for the soft Glaswegian morning drifting through the stained-glass windows.

And the violet glow of ex–Agent Timian.

“I can’t believe I was killed by friendly fire.” Ex-Timian jumped back as one of Zachary’s friends ran toward the stairs, a red curtain bunched in his arms. The ghost shuddered at the near contact with the dreaded color, then focused on me again. “Do you know how many bodyguards I’ve killed to perform my duties? Back in ’95, I took out a principal of the Cali drug cartel.”

“Wow,” I said. “I’d love to hear more about that.” My tone was hollow and insincere. All I wanted was to be by Zachary’s side, not pumping the ego of a dead commando.

He eyed me. “I’d better not. They might come after my family. It’s best if I pass on before I say too much.”

“No! We can talk about something else.” I suddenly remembered I had more than my own voice to lull him. I reached under the collar
of my shirt and pulled out the clear quartz necklace. “What was your favorite TV show?”

“Child, you are ridiculous, and I—” He stopped when he saw the stone around my neck. “Ah.” The outlines of his violet form smoothed as he felt the gem’s ghost-calming effects.

“Don’t go,” I whispered. “Please. Tell me how you followed me for so long.”

Instead he frowned. “I’ve never been seen by a target, not until you.”

“Is that why you disappeared after we saw you at Newgrange?”

He laughed. “I didn’t disappear. I kept watching you.”

Up on the balcony, Zachary made a choking noise, moaning. I started for the stairs, certain he was dying, then heard Martin say, “Dinnae worry yersel’, mate. You only need one lung tae breathe.”

I stopped and took a deep breath myself. Zachary was counting on me—the
world
was counting on me—to keep this ghost so he could give us the truth.

“If you were watching us,” I asked ex-Timian, “why didn’t you save us from those crazy Children of the Sun at Dowth?”

“All I knew was that you’d entered the megalith, not that anyone was waiting for you. When the girl ran out, I tracked her until she reached her car, then called two of my colleagues to follow her. Next thing I saw was you covered in blood. Then I lost you on the road—your boyfriend’s a crazy driver, by the way—and decided to come straight to Glasgow. I figured you’d end up in Zachary’s hometown, but I thought it’d be last night. You surprised me.”

“Why were you following us, if not to kill us?”

“We wanted to ensure that you didn’t enter the UK, where you’d
both be out of reach if Zachary told anyone about his treatment at DMP hands.”

“The DMP sent you?”

“No, they know nothing of our following you. But the agency has done so much for us and our client, keeping an eye on you was the least I could do.” Ex-Timian stopped. “I should see if I can find my wife, have someone speak to her for me.”

“Wait! If you show up as a ghost before she knows you’re dead, it’ll destroy her. Believe me, I know.”

His chin tilted up. “Ah, yes, I read the report of your former boyfriend’s death.”

“It was horrible,” I whispered. “Listen, there are lots of ways to find peace. Logan found it by doing the right thing. That might be your way, too.”

“Maybe.” Ex–Agent Timian wavered, his violet light shimmering. “Or maybe not.”

Behind me a voice shouted, “MI-X! Nobody move.”

“About fuckin’ time,” one of Zachary’s friends said. “Zachary’s up there bleedin’ to death, and there’s apparently a ghost here wot needs capturing,” he added laconically, as if telling an exterminator where to find the cockroaches.

“Got it,” said a female agent with an English accent.

A pure white light filled the dim room—an activated clear quartz summoner. The agent had a ghost-trapping box.

“No!” Ex-Timian windmilled his arms, trying to escape as his form slid toward the woman. Maybe it was old habit, but I felt a pang of sympathy as I watched him go.

In a few moments, a loud beep sounded, signaling that the ghost was in the box. As the noise faded, it was replaced by the siren of an ambulance.

I ran back up the stairs, where the agent whose head I’d bashed was now awake, though glassy-eyed. One of Zachary’s friends, a hulking blond with a neck tattoo of a harp, was guarding him.

“Thanks,” I said to the boy, who looked at least a year older than us.

“Nae bother. I’m Niall,” he said, pronouncing it like
Neil
. “Downstairs is Roland, and Frankie’s the fat one. The ugly one’s Graham.”

“Oh.” As I moved toward Zachary, I glanced over the balcony edge to see which guys he was referring to.

“It’s a trick,” Martin muttered, wiping Zachary’s brow. “They’re all fat and ugly.”

Two pairs of EMTs arrived with gurneys and med kits. I knelt next to Zachary.

“Get the ghost?” he whispered.

“We did. So now I can do this.” I softly kissed his unbruised cheek.
“Mo anam caraid.”

He smiled up at me. “Always.”

A
week after his emergency surgery, Zachary was moved to a normal, non-intensive-care hospital room, where I could stay by his side for hours instead of staring at him through a window for a few minutes at a time.

The Nighthawk’s bullet itself had gone through his shoulder and hadn’t hit any vital organs. But the impact had collapsed his right lung and caused a ton of internal bleeding, not to mention cracked his collarbone.

I’d called Aunt Gina on the way to the hospital, and she’d boarded the first available flight to Glasgow, arriving Christmas morning. Ian himself was released from the hospital that day, so we shared a worried but thankful dinner together—just the four of us, since Martin had gone home for the holiday weekend.

On Monday, Simon arrived with his supervisor, Minerva Wolcott.
Ian had picked her as his successor because they’d worked together—as had their fathers and grandfathers—in the secret paranormal agency that preceded MI-X. She was as tough and wise as her Roman goddess namesake.

With Simon and Minerva came the secretary of the Department of Metaphysical Purity. To see me. And, surprisingly, not to kill me.

Between Zachary’s revelations about his time in Area 3A, and ex–Agent Timian’s statements about the role of Nighthawk and SecuriLab in the bombing of Flight 346, things were going to change.

The secretary outlined his plan to us.

It included major changes in the implementation of the DMP “selective service,” which Congress might end up repealing anyway. Post-Shifters would still have to register and face heavy recruitment, but the penalties for avoiding the “draft” would be changed from prison and major fines to community service requirements. So if you objected to a job with the DMP, you could work off your “patriotic duty” (as Becca had called it) by volunteering at a soup kitchen or animal shelter, for example. Ghost-related charities would be worth double-time in meeting community service obligations. Not bad.

The DMP would end its “indefinite detainment” of at-risk ghosts, instead doing an annual review of each case, like a parole hearing. That way, some less dangerous ARGs could be set free to continue haunting—or better yet, to pass on.

Best of all, Area 3A would be shut down. I would’ve preferred that they let Zachary and me set fire to it ourselves, but it wasn’t a perfect world.

Two days later, the secretary flew home, announced the changes,
and promptly resigned. I might not have brought the DMP to its knees, but I’d made it sit in a corner until it could behave.

When I arrived at the hospital on New Year’s Eve afternoon, Martin was already there—and so was Niall. Along with all the big-picture benefits of our showdown with Nighthawk, Zachary’s friends were all friends again.

“Hiya, lass,” the two of them said in unison as I walked in. Zachary’s tired expression grew animated at the sight of the cookies in my hand.

“Where’d you find dark chocolate HobNobs?” He gazed up at me like I’d turned water into wine. “They’re dead scarce around here these days.”

“I heard there were some in a shop in Edinburgh, so I took the train.”

Martin and Niall recoiled. “And how is Auld Reekie?” Niall asked.

I looked at Zachary for a translation. He rolled his eyes. “It’s what Glaswegians call Edinburgh, because the distilleries used to make the city reek like burnt toast. But that was back when we were weans. It smells fine now.”

“It did,” I said. “Edinburgh’s really pretty.”

This time, even Zachary gagged.

“The only good thing ever came out of Edinburgh is the train to Glasgow.” Martin snatched the cookies from me. “And now these biscuits.”

“Hey! Those are for the patient.” I grabbed for the packet, but Martin pulled it out of reach.

“And the patient’s only got one hand. Just trying tae help.” Martin
slid his finger under the sealed plastic. “Possibly take a wee, one-biscuit fee for my trouble.”

Zachary eyed his sling. “I’ll be in this contraption a while. I’d better learn how to do a lot of things one-handed.” At the sound of his friends’ raucous snickers, he said, “Oh, shut up. Isn’t it time for you lot to hit the pubs?”

“Past time.” Martin stuffed a cookie in his mouth and handed the packet to Niall. “They’ve been open for hours.”

Niall dropped the cookies into Zachary’s lap (after taking one). “Sorry you’ll miss your first Hogmanay, mate, but we’ll raise a glass or thirteen for ya.”

“Cheers.” Zachary looked glum. Even though he wasn’t a big drinker, I knew he wanted to celebrate this rowdiest of Scottish holidays with his friends. “We’ll make up for it next time, right?”

I realized he was talking to me. “Right.” I took his hand, warming at the thought of us together here next year, and the year after that, and so on.

“We’ll be back to see ya when we’ve recovered,” Niall said.

“If we recover.” Martin patted Zachary’s shoulder—the injured one, of course. “Oh, sorry.” He saluted me. “Enjoy your one-handed visit.”

On their way out the door, Zachary’s friends chortled gleefully, like ten-year-old boys. One of them mentioned something about the “Prince of Wank.”

“What did they call you?” I asked Zachary.

“Nothing. So, Edinburgh. It was lovely?”

I had a feeling I was treading on sensitive ground, like telling a Philadelphian about Pittsburgh. “It was all right. Glasgow’s better.”