The Infinite Sea(21)

            Um, that would be one percent, Parish. I started to point that out and then saw him smiling, waiting for me to correct his math, knowing it would nearly impossible for me to resist. He played with the stereotype of the dumb jock the way someone Sammy’s age played with sidewalk chalk: in broad, clumsy strokes.

            “She’s a psycho,” I said. “Seriously, something’s off. You look in her eyes and there’s no one there there.”

            He shook his head. “I think there’s a lot there. It’s just . . . real deep.”

            He winced, hand tucked in the pocket of that hideous hoodie like he was doing a Napoleon impression, pressing on the bullet wound that Ringer had given him. A wound he asked for. A wound so he could risk everything to save my little brother. A wound that now may cost him his life.

            “It can’t be done,” I whispered.

            “Of course it can,” he said. He laid his hand on top of mine.

            I shook my head. He didn’t understand. I wasn’t talking about us.

            The shadow of their coming fell upon us and we lost sight of something fundamental within the absolute dark of that shadow. But simply because we couldn’t see it didn’t mean it wasn’t there: My father mouthing to me, Run! when he couldn’t. Evan pulling me from the belly of the beast before giving himself up to it. Ben plunging into the jaws of hell to snatch Sam from them. There were some things—well, there was probably only one thing—unblemished by the shadow. Confounding. Indefatigable. Undefeatable.

            They can kill us, even down to the last of us, but they can’t kill—can never kill—what lasts in us.

            Cassie, do you want to fly?

            Yes, Daddy. I want to fly.





12

            THE SILVER HIGHWAY that faded into the black. The black seared by starlight unleashed. The leafless trees with arms upraised like thieves caught in the act. My brother’s breath congealing in the frigid air as he slept. The window fogging as I breathed. And, beyond the frosty glass, beside the silver highway in the searing starlight, a tiny figure darting beneath the upraised arms of the trees.

            Oh, crap.

            I launched across the room and smashed into the hall, where Poundcake whipped around, rifle up, Relax, big boy, then busted into Ben’s room, where Dumbo leaned against the windowsill and Ben sprawled on the bed closest to the door. Dumbo stood up. Ben sat up. And I spoke up: “Where’s Teacup?”

            Dumbo pointed at the bed next to Ben’s. “Right here.” Giving me a look like This crazy chick’s lost it.

            I went to the bed and whipped aside the mound of covers. Ben cursed and Dumbo backed up against the wall, his face turning red.

            “I swear to God she was just there!”

            “I saw her,” I told Ben. “Outside—”

            “Outside?” He rolled his legs off the side of the bed, grunting with the effort.

            “On the highway.”

            Then he understood. “Ringer. She’s going after Ringer.” He slapped his open hand on the mattress. “Damn it!”

            “I’ll go,” Dumbo said.

            Ben held up his hand. “Poundcake!” he hollered. You could hear the big kid coming. The floor protested his passage. He stuck his head in the room, and Ben said, “Teacup took off. After Ringer. Go grab her little butt and bring it back here so I can whale on it.”

            Poundcake lumbered off and the floor went Thanks a lot!

            Ben was strapping on his holster. “What are you doing?” I asked.