Heroes 'Til Curfew Read online

  Bleeding from the ear. Oh Jesus, God. That was on the list for not applying pressure. But what did it mean? I couldn’t remember. Couldn’t think.

  “Is he okay?”

  “You dropped a two-hundred pound log on his head!” I screamed at Nathan. The air shuddered around us; the building itself seemed to tremble.

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “Shut up, man,” Marco said, swatting at Nathan’s arm. “Joss, you need to calm the fuck down.”

  “Calm down? Calm down?!” Energy pulsed around us, hot, thick, pricking against my skin. In my throat, cutting off my air, pricking at my eyes. Above, lights flickered, dimmed. A bulb shattered somewhere, and glass came tinkling down.

  “What the fuck?” Tony groaned, sitting up. He looked over at all of us, his eyes going wide when he saw Marco half-lying on the ground and me kneeling over Dylan, staring daggers. He got to his feet, stumbling toward us, his hands already starting to glow.

  Beneath my own hand I could feel the burned, scarred leather of Dylan’s jacket. My breath started to come harder. Tony had started this. Tony and his fire had pushed Dylan to act. “Stay. Back,” I ground out.

  “Tony—” Marco started to warn him.

  But Tony kept coming at me, the glow turning to flame that licked the air from the tips of his fingers.

  And I was so done with all of them. My forearms crossed in front of me like a shield. The air between us gathered, focused. When Tony hit it, I felt it in my mind, like a spider on a web. Only this wasn’t a web. I yanked my arms apart, forcing outward with my mind. The air itself punched into Tony, throwing him backward, rolling and skidding across the floor, crashing again into the checkout counter. He lay still.

  My head felt foolishly empty, fragile, wrapped up in pain. Marco was yelling at me, but I didn’t really follow, and he still wasn’t making a move. Something tugged at my sleeve and my head swung drunkenly on my neck to find Dylan’s hand gripping me.

  His eyes were open, looking up at me, a switch thrown that brought everything back online.

  “You okay?”

  “Am I okay?” I almost did the laughing, sobbing thing. “Who’s the one bleeding here?”

  “You are,” he croaked.

  I reached up to my face, found blood under my nose, and actually thought about how unattractive that must be as I swiped at it with my sleeve. “Yeah, well, you should see the other guy.”

  “Help me up?”

  “Are you sure—?” Then the sirens penetrated. I saw the phone in Nathan’s hand. “Are you kidding me?”

  “What’d you expect when you practically made the kid piss himself with your freak girl gone wild act?” Marco sneered. Then he grinned at us. “Guess we’d all better get out of here. Good luck outrunning the cops this time.”

  He gained his feet and bolted for the back door without so much as a glance at his crew. Nathan scurried toward the front of the store to kick at Jeff and Tony while I pulled Dylan to his feet. He swayed dangerously.

  “Maybe we should—”

  “I got this,” Dylan cut me off. He looked pale but determined and took a step toward the door.

  “No, they’ll bring the cruisers back there, and there aren’t enough places to hide. We’ve gotta go out the front.”

  “Okay.”

  He moved okay. Kinda slow, kinda off balance, but a few minutes ago I wasn’t even sure if he’d regain consciousness.

  Rick and my dad weren’t exactly friends, but Dad knew all the merchants personally, and so did I, to some extent. I started trying to think up a story in case we got caught. Something to explain the disorder, the damages the police were going to find. It kept my mind from thinking about how slowly we were moving.

  By the time we got outside, I knew that the cops would see us any minute. Dylan already seemed to need a break. I dragged him past the next building into the alley as fast as I could and propped him up against the wall. We couldn’t stay there. They’d be searching the nearby alleys for us soon enough. I looked out at the mall, trying to think of someplace close, some little unlikely nook where we could hide, where Dylan could gain a few more minutes to rest. But I looked up and down the mall, with the soft lamplight glowing on the bricks and glinting off the windows, and saw nothing.

  I heard tires screech to a stop behind the store. Car doors. And then, one by one, the bulbs in the gas lamps began to pop. I started with the one closest to us, and moved down the mall, hopping from one side of the bricks to the other, until everything was shrouded in darkness.

  “Joss Marshall,” Dylan’s voice whispered to me, “you are a very bad girl.”

  I let my aching head fall against his chest. He’s going to be okay. The relief of it made my knees weak, but I had to hold us both upright. Sure, he’d have a killer headache. He might even need a few stitches. But if he was moving around mostly under his own steam and obviously up to teasing me, it couldn’t be serious. He’d be fine.

  Next step. You’ve got to keep moving.

  There seemed to be at least four cars so far, and not one of those officers had come alone. I had to wonder where Fairview was getting the budget for all these guys and why none of them could be bothered to, you know, prevent the crime. They were preoccupied in the store itself right now, but it wouldn’t be long before they spread out to canvass the area. Two were already in the service road. I could see the beams of their flashlights bobbing. Any moment they’d reach this first alleyway and spot us.

  “Time to move.” I tugged Dylan away from the wall, wedging myself under his shoulder again, and wrapping my arm around his back. We needed to make it across the bricks and between two stores on the other side. But to avoid being seen by the two guys who were about to shine their lights down the alley we’d have to go diagonally, away from Vinyl Salvation, and, unfortunately, away from Dad’s store which we could easily have hidden out in.

  We were halfway across when Dylan started to go down. Hard. It was so quick I almost let him take us both down to the ground. I jabbed him in the ribs with my elbow—more reflexive self-preservation than anything else—and I felt bad about it.

  “Hey, stay on your feet. We’re halfway there.”

  He tried to get his feet back under him as I struggled to hold us both up, terrified that we were stopped in the middle of the road. It was a miracle we hadn’t been spotted already.

  “I can’t do it. Just. Let me sit here. I’ll make something up.”

  Yeah, sure, you’re up for that. His voice was all thready and he couldn’t walk twenty yards. I couldn’t imagine him talking his way out of eating peas, let alone this kind trouble, even if he was Dylan.

  Maybe I could. I thought fast. Maybe I could say we’d been mugged, by the guys running away from the record store. That could work.

  But that would bring us a lot of attention and questions. Too many questions, starting with why we were there this time of night. And then there was the blood that was probably on the statue, on the floor, and probably still running down the back of Dylan’s neck. No good.

  “Come on,” I ground out, literally dragging him farther away from Vinyl Salvation. The fountain was closer now than the shops on the other side, and, when we reached it, it was all I could do to try to lower him in without dropping him. He was nearly dead weight.

  Dylan started to try to sit up, but I shoved him back down to the tile as I fell in beside him. I had just caught a glimpse of a pair of uniforms coming out the front of the store.

  “I need to get around to the other side of this thing. Can you do that?”

  “I think so,” he told me, but I could hear the groan he was trying to hold back.

  I didn’t wait for him, but belly-crawled it around the pool of the fountain and knelt up behind the statue. When I peered around, I could see Dylan slowly making his way around to join me, keeping below the rim. Beyond him were the two officers, shining their flashlights up and down the mall.

  At the mall entrance that borders the cross-stre
et, there’s decorative iron fencing that reminds cars not to turn onto the bricks. There used to be some flowerbeds there, but at some point those became rock gardens, dotted with terra cotta planters that sometimes have flowers and sometimes don’t. Even though it was dark and far away, and I couldn’t really see it, the rock garden was as clear in my mind’s eye as my kitchen. I started picking up rocks and throwing them at the fencing. They didn’t all hit, but enough of them did to get the cops’ attention and send them scurrying in that direction.

  “Okay,” I said to Dylan, who had just made his way around to me, “let’s get to the other side. Then down an alley to the next street and we should be home free.”

  “I think I’m gonna hurl.”

  Oh my God, he’s serious. Because of the shadows cast by the buildings, it was almost totally dark on this side of the fountain. I searched around frantically, dumped the trash out of one of the fast food bags and shoved it into his hands just before he let loose.

  “Toss that aside before the bottom drops out,” I told him as soon as it sounded like he was done. Part of what I’d dumped out was the obligatory giant stack of unused napkins, so I shoved those at him next.

  “Thanks. Ugh, gross. Sorry about that. Bet you totally want to kiss me right now.”

  “I’m trying to hold back. Feel better?”

  “Yeah, actually. I think I can make that dash now.”

  “All right, hang on.”

  They’d be almost done investigating the rock-throwing incident, maybe on their way back already. I needed to keep them busy over there, away from us. In my mind I could see the huge, metal sign that hung over the fencing. “Get ready to move,” I told Dylan as I envisioned one of the metal rings that held it up. It wasn’t as clear in my head as the rock garden, and it took a lot more effort than a little metal ring should take, but I finally yanked it. The sign swung down and my stomach dropped as I thought of the angel.

  Cops yelled. Dylan and I scrambled out of the fountain and finally made the other side of the bricks. I wanted to take advantage of the diversion and our momentum, so I kept dragging Dylan along, across the service road, down another alley, not slowing until we reached the sidewalk of the next street.

  As soon as the pace slowed, I felt more of his weight sag against me, but at least he was keeping his feet under him.

  “We need to go to ground, rest, clean that cut on your head. The Warren’s way too far from here.”

  “Who’s Warren?”

  “That’s what Heather decided to call the tunnels. Your place is closest. Is your mom home?”

  “Noooo, not my house,” he slurred. “Let’s just find a nice gutter. Or your house. We could go to your house.”

  “And have you take a header off the roof? That sounds great.”

  “Nah, I’m okay. You’d catch me.” With his usual impeccable timing, he stumbled over a break in the sidewalk and I had to keep both of us from going down.

  “Just think about a safe location.”

  “Are there tennis balls in the soup?”

  “Come on, be serious.”

  “A pear camping highway fire mask,” he said, more intensely.

  My heart rate, which had finally started slowing, sped up again. Everything started to tilt. We were under a streetlight, and even though I hated to be conspicuous, I leaned him up against the pole.

  “Dylan, do you understand what I’m saying?” Questions or no questions I was going to have to get him to the hospital.

  His head lolled sideways when he looked down at me. I couldn’t see his eyes in the shadows. “Right water cake.” He reached out to stroke my cheek.

  I grabbed for his wrist. There was nothing coming out of the end of his sleeve. I groped for the hand I had just felt on my face. It was there, I just couldn’t see it. I pushed the sleeve back. He was invisible as far as I could see. I dropped his arm and yanked up his t-shirt.

  His stomach was mottled with patches of clear.

  “Dylan,” I said sharply, as though raising my voice was going to help somehow. “Parts of you are invisible. You need to phase back.”

  “Flowers?”

  There was no way I was going to start crying. No freaking way.

  Chapter 10

  Joss

  Dylan and his mom lived in one of the old, brick apartment buildings downtown. Even if Dad and I hadn’t dropped Dylan at home the other night, I wouldn’t have had any problem finding it. You don’t crush on a guy this long without knowing his address, maybe casually strolling by a few times to try and figure out which window is his.

  If that’s stalkerish, so be it.

  Those were the kinds of thoughts I was babbling in my head, trying to keep it together. The keys I’d dug out of Dylan’s pocket got us through the front door without having to try to use the intercom that looked as old as the building. The stairs were narrow, steep, and sounded so rickety it seemed like maybe it was only the countless layers of paint that were holding them together.

  We had to stop to rest halfway up. Dylan wasn’t even trying to talk anymore. Exhausted and disoriented were such understatements I wouldn’t even know how to describe him. Now that we had some light, I raised his half-closed lids and checked his pupils. They were uneven.

  Oh shit.

  I dragged him up again and hauled him up the rest of the stairs to the third floor, fueled by fear and a desperate need to get him somewhere safe. I’d get him home, and then, somehow, everything would be okay.

  When we got to the door, I pounded on it a few times before fumbling with Dylan’s keys again. I wanted to give his mom a little warning if she was home, but when I finally got the door open, I almost hit her with it. She jumped back, and then glared at us.

  “He drunk again? Another fight? What’s he done now?”

  “No, ma’am, he’s not drunk,” I told her, pulling Dylan over the threshold and into the darkened living room. Most of the light came from a pretty big flat-screen TV on the wall and a weak bulb hanging from the kitchen ceiling at the back of the apartment. “He’s hurt, though.”

  “Well go dump him in his bed and let him sleep it off.” I must have looked at her blankly because she threw her arm out in irritation. “Down the hall, on the right, like you don’t know. Think I don’t know what goes on here while I’m at work?”

  I didn’t even know what to do with that. I had expected her to rush forward and help me get him to the couch or to his room. Or to stumble back in surprise and then start scurrying around and do—I don’t know—mom stuff. But she just stood there looking pissed at us. Clearly she didn’t understand.

  I started moving toward the hallway. Dylan was barely holding himself up now. “Mrs. Maxwell—”

  “Felson. I don’t go by that name anymore.”

  Whatever. “Dylan’s been hit on the head. I think it’s serious, but it’s…complicated. I couldn’t take him to the hospital. We’re going to need a first aid kit—”

  “Do I look like a Girl Scout to you? We got Band-Aids.”

  At least she was following me. I got Dylan into his room and lowered him onto the unmade bed as gently as I could. I was starting to freak out again. Dylan’s mother wasn’t going to do any mom stuff. She wasn’t going to make any of this better. She wasn’t going to fix it. I fussed over Dylan a little and kept my face turned away from her as I bit my lip and thought about my mom. My parents. I needed help, damn it.

  “What do you mean ‘complicated’? Why couldn’t you take him to the hospital?”

  She hadn’t noticed his missing hand yet. I snapped on the lamp over the bed so we had more to work with than the streetlight shining in through the uncovered window. I pulled up his t-shirt and showed her the strange pattern of skin mottled with the distorted image of the sheet underneath him.

  “What the hell is that?”

  “It’s…parts of him are invisi—”

  “I can see that! Why?”

  Her hair was the same color as Dylan’s, and starting to gray.
Her eyes were the same color blue, but somehow completely different.

  “He took a really hard blow to the head. At first he seemed okay, but then he started to have trouble speaking, and then I realized he can’t control his Talent.” I was trying really hard to keep my voice steady. I was so frustrated with this woman, cosmically disappointed, terrified for Dylan and that I was all he had right now. “I’m worried that’s a sign of a brain injury, but I don’t know—”

  “And you brought him here?”

  “It was the closest, safe place.”

  “Safe for who? How am I going to explain my half-invisible son if—if something happens? I was supposed to turn him in. There’s a law, you know.”

  She can’t help you. Ignore her and take care of business.

  “I’m going to need something to clean this with.”

  “Go look in the bathroom,” she snapped at me. She tapped a cigarette against the pack a few times, lit it.

  Oh no, that’s fine, I’ll just find it myself.

  I found some rubbing alcohol, but nothing in the bathroom looked particularly sterile. I was lucky to find an unopened roll of paper towels on top of the refrigerator. I’d get this cleaned up, see what there was to see. Then I’d call Kat, make her look up first aid stuff online, tell me what I needed to know. I’d get her to bring me whatever we needed. If she was still pissed at me, she could just get over it. And if it was too bad, I’d call my dad. He’d take care of us.

  I had a plan.

  When I came back, Dylan’s mom was sitting on a desk chair, well away from the bed, ashing into an empty soda can. I tried to ignore her as I settled in on my knees to clean Dylan’s wound. At least it seemed like it had stopped bleeding. It would probably start again when I wiped the dried blood away, but I didn’t think blood loss was the worst of his problems.

  I thought about easing his jacket off, cleaning off the blood that had run down his neck and back. I could see the neck of his t-shirt was soaked in it. But that would be stalling. I told myself I was trying to be gentle with the dampened towel and my fingertips, gingerly trying to part his hair, clean away the blood, find out exactly where he was hurt. But really, I was just so afraid to touch him. I tried to refocus, depersonalize, just get in there and do the work.