The Shattered Gates (2 page)

Kahlil released the hilt immediately, and let his black curse-blade corrode the soldier’s flesh.

He lunged for the dog. It sprang to his right and then leapt for his throat. He twisted aside but not fast enough. The dog slammed into him, knocking him to the ground. Searing teeth sank into his shoulder, jerked back, tore through his arm. His shoulder screamed as skin and muscle ripped.

The dog’s eyes glowed brilliantly, and Kahlil felt the slithering sickness of a witch’s curse wriggling from her lips into his torn flesh. He drove his second knife into the dog’s neck. A hot gush of blood poured over his hand as he forced the blade across the animal’s throat. The dog’s jaw clenched down into his shoulder, as the animal choked on blood and half-formed curses. Then it went silent and suddenly collapsed on top of him.

 He dragged in a deep breath, steeling himself against the pain of his bloody shoulder and then shoved the limp weight of the dog off his body. He lay still, listening for the sound of more soldiers approaching. But he heard no one.

The sharp jab in his back reminded him of the bones. He rolled onto his side. The pack wriggled. Then the bones slithered free, crawling along the ground on intricately carved forearms and narrow ribs. Countless incantations had long ago been etched into every bone, binding a soul and its power to the ivory remains. Gilded holy symbols and sacred spells crowned the child-sized skull. It lolled slightly to the side, hanging on the copper wires that held the small skeleton together.

The bones spread their tiny fingers and gripped the dog’s corpse. Carefully, they felt their way through the thick fur up to the open gash of the throat. Then the bones dug into the wound, climbing into the dead body.

The damp ground and soft patter of falling rain soothed Kahlil’s skin. He curled his hand over his bloodied shoulder and waited while the bones put on their new animal body. At least he wouldn’t have to carry them anymore. That was good. He tried not to think of anything else.

“Layin’ on a ground, sleepin’ in a stable, wake up an’ run while yous is able.” The words rolled over him with a strong animal smell.

Kahlil looked over. The dog bared its teeth in a feral smile. The wounds in its throat knit closed as he watched, leaving only a stain of blood behind. The dog stretched and yawned.

“Sleepin’ in an oven,” the dog whispered, “sleepin’ in a pan.”

“Sleep through a war,” Kahlil replied silently, “wake up a dead man.”

The dog snorted at the response. “Yous gotta move, or them ants’ll eat yous live.”

“I know, I know.” Kahlil forced himself up to his knees and then struggled to his feet. Moving slowly and deliberately, he retrieved his knives, then took the dead soldier’s coat. Deep burning pain flooded from his shoulder down through his right arm. The witch hadn’t completed her curse, but the remnants of her profane words still twitched in his open wound. He didn’t bother to slide his injured arm into the coat but just pulled it over his shoulders. The wet wool felt like something dead draped over him. It smelled worse.

When he and the dog strode across the road, the two soldiers on patrol farther up just waved, mistaking him and the bones for the dead bodies they had left behind. Kahlil returned the gesture with his left arm. Then the two other men returned to their conversation. Kahlil walked carefully, mimicking the dead soldier’s disinterested, ambling pace. He continued down the road a few yards and then crossed into the uncultivated woods on the other side.

He continued walking slowly, pacing himself, holding off his exhaustion and pain with a steady focus. He concentrated on each step. When his legs weakened and he stumbled, the muscular body of the dog pressed against him. He steadied and kept walking.

The woods thickened, and the sky slowly grew lighter. At some point Kahlil noticed that the soldier’s coat had slipped off. He didn’t bother to look for it. Suddenly, the dog stopped. Kahlil stumbled forward a few steps in a daze; then, his hand brushed against a smooth stone surface. Relief washed through him.

A ring of huge marble stones rose up from the forest floor like yellowed teeth. They reached to the treetops. At their center was a pool. The dog padded between the two closest stones, and Kahlil followed it into the water.

The inner faces of the stones shone as if they had been polished. Clear reflections rolled and broke across the water’s surface as Kahlil waded to the deep center where the dog waited. The water lapped around his waist. Beside him, the dog paddled, holding its head above the surface. Sluggish ribbons of blood floated out from its fur.

“Hurrys up, or yous gonna have a drown puppy whens yous gets there.”

Finally, he drew his sword. It was heavy and plain. Only the single black image of an eye marked the pommel. Kahlil threw his weight onto his left arm and drove the blade down through the water and into the earth below him.

“Here is your son, holding his key. Open these doors before me.” He turned the sword in a half circle, twisting it like a key in a lock. The weight of water and silt flowed against it. Then, suddenly, it sank straight down into the waters.

Kahlil clenched his eyes shut. The Prayerscars over his eyes seared white-hot lines into his darkness. He pushed the air out of his lungs and dived down into the waters after the sword.

He sank fast and farther than the pool should have reached. His lungs burned as suffocating pressure closed around him. He felt no up or down, no sense of forward or back. Lost in the crushing light, Kahlil concentrated on that single thread that guided him, even across worlds. He felt muscle and bone and a heartbeat stronger than his own—and it drew him like filament landing a fish.

Blurred images of walls and stairs, pipes and electrical wires whipped past him. Then, suddenly, he broke the surface. He opened his eyes, and for a moment, he floated there, his face and chest rising up until he found himself lying on a wooden floor, gazing up at the familiar ceiling overhead. His sword jutted out at an angle from the bare light fixture in the ceiling. Cracks radiated out from where the blade had driven in.

Later today, he should pry his sword free and buy some spackle.

The dog stepped over him and jumped onto his narrow army cot.

Kahlil pulled himself up and flopped onto his side. His shoulder hurt, but in a numb way, as if his body was too tired to process the pain any longer.

He just lay there.

From the floor below, the sounds and smells of mid-morning began to penetrate his senses. The strong aroma of coffee drifted up to mix with the scent of wet dog that filled his room. A radio fuzzed through snippets of gospel, serious news voices, and flares of rock music. At last, the dial settled on an overly-excited sports announcer. Some team somewhere had won something. A minute later, the radio went off abruptly. Bad news, he supposed.

Kahlil caught the sound of footsteps pacing the kitchen. He easily pictured John, striding through the room, his strong frame almost too tall for the ceiling fan, the breeze from its overhead blades tousling his disorderly blonde hair. Then Kyle remembered him wearing only a white towel, glancing back over his tan, muscular shoulder and catching Kyle’s guilty gaze.

What a dangerous and foolish chance that had been, and yet it had seemed impossible to resist.

He wondered how much time had passed since then. Even with the key, he couldn’t perfectly control the Great Gate. Between the two worlds, hours, days, weeks, even years slipped by.

The distinct sound of papers flopping into the yellow trashcan below the sink reassured him that he’d returned to the same home he’d left. That would be John sorting through the mail. Kahlil wondered if anything had come for himself and then smirked at the ridiculousness of that thought. Nothing would ever come for him, not until it was time to end the world.

Chapter Three

“Don’t.”

John stared at the letter for several moments. He held it up to the light, hoping that there might be something more written on the creamy paper. Maybe a secret code in lemon juice, like the one he and his brother had used back when they were Boy Scouts. He turned the paper over, inspected the edges, and held it up to the light again.

Nothing.

He slumped down onto his cheap plastic chair and tossed the letter into the pile of bills on the kitchen table. He shoved the curly mass of his blonde hair out of his face. So, he’d spent the last ten minutes convincing himself that he had a right to open his crazy roommate’s mail, and this was all the payoff he got.

“Don’t.”

How disappointing.

Well, at least it hadn’t been a picture of some porn star with his own face pasted over hers. He poured himself a cup of coffee. It was the cheap stuff, acrid in the mouth and hard on the stomach, but it was better than nothing. He took a slug and scowled.

If Kyle did not show up soon, how was he going to scrape together enough money for rent? Sell something? He didn’t have much.

He scanned the kitchen. The faded, old Victorian cupboards revealed a box of peanut-butter granola, a little pile of coffee filters and a single foam cup of instant noodles. The total value, he supposed, was maybe a dollar. The stale granola and ramen noodles had been in the house when John moved in a year ago.

Probably more like twenty cents.

He could always volunteer for one of the scientific studies at the university. One of his fellow graduate students had mentioned a sleep deprivation trial that paid daily. But John rebelled at the thought of being so closely observed and monitored. He supposed that he was almost as bad as Kyle when it came to maintaining his privacy. Maybe that’s why they made such good roommates.

 Then John remembered running into Kyle at the Steamworks bathhouse. Had it really been so bad that they had seen each other?  If Kyle hadn’t disappeared, maybe they could have laughed it off together. Or maybe their mutual knowledge could have become something more. There had certainly been desire in Kyle’s eyes before recognition burned it away.

John wasn’t sure if he liked that idea or not.

Also it was beside the point. Right now John needed rent.

He strode past the carved staircase into the living room. He gazed at his possessions. Not much: an old DVD player and a 12-inch television, which couldn’t be configured to work with any remote control unit in existence. Not surprisingly, a number of supposedly universal remotes were piled up beside the television like sacrifices to an indifferent god of technology.

Both the television and the DVD player shared a rickety plywood-and-brick structure that served as John’s entertainment center. Stacks of ecology textbooks slumped on the remaining shelves in no particular order. John glanced through the open door to his bedroom. His futon was the only thing of any value in the dim room. Maybe seventy dollars. John frowned at the hopelessly compacted futon and the disheveled bedding. It gave him a slightly sordid feeling to stare into his bedroom and contemplate money. He sensed that this wasn’t a resource that decent people ever resorted to considering.

The gently aged architecture of the house itself didn’t add any sense of respectability to John’s endeavor. While the house wasn’t in the best repair, the natural luster of the wood floors and detailed moldings reflected an enduring craftsmanship. Deep care showed in the perfection of the tall, smooth walls, and the carefully turned rungs of the staircase. The obvious devotion that had produced the house carried an almost moral quality. It radiated a simple goodness.

 John’s possessions suffered from the comparison. From his CD player to his running shoes, every item seemed conceived with an eye for quick satisfaction and disposability. Nothing accrued value. It all just fell apart.

 John returned to the kitchen for a refill of coffee. Unwillingly, his gaze drifted from the cracked white cup in his hands to the substantial stack of bills on the table.

Money was such an ugly thing. It made people consider actions that they knew they would despise themselves for later—actions like begging their friends for loans. John scowled. He hated having to ask for anything. Money was the worst, though. Just the idea of it made him feel pathetic, like a kid who couldn’t make it in the grown-up world. He’d had enough of that when he had been a kid.

The real problem with asking his friends for a loan, though, was the fact that most of them were broke. Usually, only John earned a steady income. He couldn’t imagine many of his acquaintances amassing four hundred dollars, much less lending it out. Their universal poverty pretty much stranded John on the moral high ground, whether he liked it or not.

Upstairs, the toilet flushed.

John almost dropped his coffee cup. He heard the water pipes rattle, wheeze, and then subside as the pressure built. Then the sound of the shower hissing into life drifted down.

It had to be Kyle. He must have come home in the middle of the night, and John hadn’t heard him. A rush of relief flooded through John. As strange as it was, he almost felt giddy with expectation, his trepidation about their meeting at the Steamworks vanishing with the prospect of financial relief.

As John reached out to straighten the stack of bills, he noticed the page of creamy parchment paper lying there. He’d forgotten about the letter and the key. He reached down into the pocket of his robe and looked at the key again.

The honest thing to do would be to give Kyle the letter and the key and apologize. He would probably be mad. He would have a right to be mad—possibly even furious.

 John didn’t think he had ever seen his roommate angry. He wondered just how mad a guy like Kyle could get. Immediately, he considered Kyle’s collection of scars and also his ever-present knives. Would Kyle actually stab him for opening his mail? John glanced at the padlocked cupboards and frowned.

The key went back into the pocket of his bathrobe. He picked up the letter and its envelope and stuffed them into the recycling bin, beneath the underwear catalog. After he shoved the trash back under the sink, he rinsed his hands. When he turned around, Kyle was descending the stairs.