June, 2012
Lorna shivered, hugging her coat closer about her, and glanced uneasily upward. The sky was grey, heavy with leaden clouds that hung dark and sullen over the expanse of Puget Sound. The water churned, frothing into whitecaps as fitful winds gusted from the west. She'd already been kicked out of two corners at the Pike Place Market, and lost half a day's money; panhandling in Seattle was a lot harder than it looked, especially since she was far from the only one with a guitar.
City's too damn weird, she thought, and not for the first time. How was she to stand a chance against the girl asking for someone to make her dreams of a cheeseburger come true? Or, worse, the one with the sign that read, 'Ninjas killed my family, need money for kung fu lessons'? If she'd realized Seattle was so full of eccentrics, she would have gone somewhere else. It was too hard to stand out enough to attract enough notice.
She made it undercover before the rain started in earnest, clutching her guitar case close. On weekdays, she'd found, the Market was actually possible to navigate without having to kick people; at half an inch shy of five feet tall, Lorna would often get literally stepped on in crowds. The guitar case helped — it was a little over half as tall as she was, and she could use it like a shield against jostling.
There was a restaurant near the main entrance, an old-fashioned place with prices reasonable enough to allow her a sandwich and a cup of tea. She'd been in the States two months now, long enough to properly get the hang of American currency — and to discover life here was nearly as expensive as it was in Ireland. She wormed her way toward it now, shivering again as the wind picked up.
— damn weather —
— weird —
— windows are down —
— great, the basement will flood again —
— something smells good —
— oh God, what did I just step in —
Lorna winced, pressing her free hand to her temple. She knew there was nothing to be done for it — God knew she'd tried — and it was almost enough to drive her back to drink. Why the fuck did it have to be this one? Oh, it wasn't a flashy Curse, not something that would get her caught (or shot) on sight, but at times it felt like her brain was being squeezed. A dull headache lurked at the edges of her mind, just waiting for the right moment descend on her like the bricks beneath her boots.
Unfortunately, she needed a crowd if she were to successfully panhandle, so she had no choice but to suck it up and deal with it. If she was lucky, food would stave it off until she could get to her bus and lay down for a while.
It was the fever that had preceded the Curses – a fever and a cough, like the worst case of flu a person could imagine. It swept across the globe in less than a week, and the only reason it hadn't been called the pandemic from hell was that a relatively small percentage of people actually caught it. It would have wound up nothing more than a footnote, if not for what followed. Where the virus went, magic followed, and it did so with a vengeance – whether anyone liked it or not. So far nobody, especially the Cursed, did.
The restaurant, she found, was busy, but not as jammed as she'd feared. It was big, with a high ceiling, worn hardwood floors, and large plate-glass windows looking out over Puget Sound. The water was even choppier now, the sky alarmingly dark. Fat raindrops, wind-borne, splatted against the glass, and she sighed. There was no way she was heading back to her bus until this cleared up.
She'd been in here often enough that the hostess knew her by sight, and directed her to the counter with a wordless wave. A number of scents drifted to her from the kitchen beyond, all delicious, and her stomach growled like the thunder outside as she clambered up onto one of the tall barstools, carefully leaning her guitar beside her.
The aroma reminded her, achingly, of Jamie's — of the pub and the life she'd left behind with it. Grease, coffee, baked ham, a sweet mingling of fruit pies...all that was missing was the beer. What the village must have thought of her abrupt flight didn't bear considering; every time she let any thought of it creep in, an acidic pit formed within her stomach. She owed them all so much, but she'd fled like a thief in the night, and hadn't dared contact even her sister. It wasn't safe, and not only for Lorna herself.
"Haven't kicked you out yet, huh?"
Lorna glanced at the man beside her, and gave a tired grin. He was an older man, perhaps in his sixties, with a face weather-lined and a shaggy mop of salt-and-pepper hair. She didn't know his name, and hadn't given him hers, but he'd been her semi-companion at lunch for the last week. Tending bar, she'd learned to read people well enough, and the weariness in his faded eyes was not wholly from age. At times they bore the same hunted, harried expression she'd seen in her own reflection — if he wasn't Cursed himself, she'd be very, very surprised.
"Not yet," she said. "Only a matter'v time before they get sick'v us both, though." And Jesus, where will I go then? Portland? San Diego?
The approaching waitress snorted. "Nobody'll boot you, as long as you keep buying stuff. Same as yesterday?"
Lorna nodded, and flinched when a clap of thunder broke right overhead. It was so close and so loud that it rattled the old man's mug on the counter. As if on cue, the wind picked up, misting the windows with a fine spray of salt water.
"Is this what you call normal around here?" she asked, when the waitress returned with a mug of hot water and a tea bag. (American tea; Lorna would never get used to it. Who put the bag in the cup? Honestly.)
The woman frowned, her expression blank until she translated what was likely a garble to her — Lorna's Dublin accent was so thick that she'd been asked, more than once, if she spoke English. It had stopped being amusing after the first three times. "Not until recently," she said. "People keep trying to blame it on climate change, but if you ask me, it's got something to do with all the Curses floating around. Whatever they even are. Seems like every time there's a storm, more people get dragged off. It's like the storms out them as Cursed, or something."
Lorna didn't choke, but it was a near thing. She felt the old man freeze beside her, and a jolt of his dread hit her in the solar plexus like a half-brick in a sock. "You've got the Men in Grey here?" she asked. Christ, she'd thought it was safe, even if just for now — there hadn't been any reports of them this far west, last time she'd checked the news (four days ago. Shit. )
The waitress sighed. "Is there anywhere that doesn't? Hang on, hon, I think your order's up."
Lorna glanced at the old man. She didn't need her useless telepathy to know what he was thinking. While she didn't know where he stayed, she'd been living out of an ancient VW Bus, and she'd be an absolute shit if she didn't at least give him a ride somewhere safer. And where the hell do you think that might even be? a nasty little voice whispered, from somewhere within her growing headache. You're out of West, Lorna.
Oh, piss off . That voice had grown ever more insistent in the last week, no matter how creatively she swore at it. There were times it felt like it wasn't even hers.
When her sandwich arrived, she ate half of it in three large bites, grabbing a takeaway box for the rest. "Come on," she said quietly. "That's got to be our cue. I've got a bus in a car park up the hill, and I'm thinking it'd be best if we weren't visible for a while."
She hopped off the stool and snatched up her guitar case, ignoring his startled look. He seemed poised to question her, but she forestalled it with a glare. They could hash out her motives later. Lorna dropped a twenty off at the hostess' station — more than her tab, and certainly more than she could afford — and shoved the old man out in front of her.
"You're taller," she explained, when he glanced over his shoulder at her. "People'll actually get out'v your way."
They hadn't even made it back to the Market proper when somebody screamed. It was more than a mere cry of alarm; there was real fear in it, and a frision of worry passed through Lorna. Pain and shock from God knew how many people slapped her like a physical thing, momentarily stealing her breath. Something came crashing down, something far too close — not the roof, but at least one stall.
— Tricia says there's two more in here —
— got the main entrance covered —
— the hell do we always have to catch them in this weather —
Lorna swore in Irish, and prodded her pseudo-friend in the back with her guitar case. "Go," she said; she had to stand on her tiptoes to at least try to hiss into his ear. "We've got company at the entrance, so we've got to weasel our way out the back. Don't run unless somebody else does." Cold though the wind was, she was sweating, her mouth dry and pulse racing. Nobody actually knew what happened to the Cursed when they got caught, but there were whispers, and none of them were good.
Her quasi-friend halted so abruptly that she slammed into his back, and got a face full of damp, slightly smelly wool. She swore again, wiping her face on her equally damp sleeve, and peered around his arm.
Shit.
Nobody knew just what the Men in Grey were, who they worked for or what they really did. All anybody did know was that where they went, the Cursed disappeared — the Cursed, and anyone who tried to intervene. Not that there were many of those . They were, as the name suggested, men in bland grey suits, often fitted with earpieces and sunglasses, like bad impersonations of Secret Service agents. On the surface they were so cliché that it could be difficult taking them seriously at first, which was probably the point, but they'd gained one hell of a reputation.
Now what? Lorna wondered, a little wildly. If she'd been alone, she would have ooched her way through the crowd and run like buggery, her height for once an advantage, but she wasn't alone. Rationally, she probably didn't have much to fear, since both she and her almost-mate looked as normal as anyone else, but somehow, the Men in Grey always seemed to know . Maybe there was no real hope of blending in.
Lightning flashed, so brightly that even undercover, the strobe-glare was momentarily blinding. Lorna blinked, disoriented, and on instinct she shoved her companion to the left. Sunglasses, or no, the MiG would be as temporarily blinded as everyone else, and she meant to use that to disappear into the heavier part of the crowd.
"Pushy, aren't you?" her companion asked, just before a clap of thunder actually rattled the roof.
Lorna wasn't the only one who jumped, and she certainly wasn't the only one who swore. "Oh, you've not seen pushy yet," she said, though if his ears were ringing as badly as hers, he might not have heard her. "What in hell've we got ahead'v us?" she asked, louder, once again right into his ear.
He half-turned. "Booth blew over," he said. "Think it landed on a couple people." If he was at all afraid, he certainly wasn't showing it; only the grim set of his mouth betrayed any worry at all. God did she envy him.
A surge of terror not her own crashed into her mind like a brick — terror, and a pain so intense it almost made her ill. She caught a glimpse of one of the grey-suited bastards through someone else's eyes, the dull, phantom thump of what was probably a punch to the kidneys echoing through her back. Oh god dammit, OW.
Before she could do or say a thing, another booth went crashing down — from the discordant jangling, she'd wager it was one of the jewelry-stalls. More screams, and far more swearing, and suddenly the tide of the crowd turned against them, a stampede headed for the relative shelter near the entrance. Even her companion, tall though he was, couldn't stand against it — he was the one who ran into her now, forced backward by sheer press of numbers.
Lorna staggered, losing her grip on her takeaway bag and nearly dropping her guitar. Her back still ached with someone else's pain, the bright afterspots of the lightning still danced before her eyes, and she was well and truly fed up. She'd never let anyone shove her around back home, and she didn't intend to start now.
"Blow this," she said, the words practically a snarl. She turned, ready to kick whoever was nearest her out of her way —
— and found herself face-to-chest with one of the MiG.
"Shit," she breathed, heart lurching in her throat. She kicked anyway, even harder than she'd intended. Her boots, one of the few things she'd brought from Ireland, were steel-toed, and she heard the crack of his kneecap even over the panicked din.
He dropped like a lead balloon, and actually howled. Real professional there, mate, she though. Rather than flee, she went right over him, seizing her almost-friend's coat with her free hand.
"Well, damn," he said, half admiring. She didn't miss the rather vicious kick he delivered himself.
In spite of her mounting rage, Lorna laughed. It was a slightly hysterical laugh, but it felt good nonetheless.
"Let's blow this Popsicle stand," he said. "I need a weapon."
She blinked, stumbling when someone bumped her shoulder. "A weapon ?"
He didn't respond, but he did try to pat down the prone Man in Grey, who was now also sporting a bloody head wound. To her companion's obvious disappointment, the MiG didn't seem to have a gun on him.
Not that it really mattered — they both got knocked away from him, separated by a thundering herd of schoolchildren who must have been on a class trip. Lorna lost sight of him, and cringed when she accidentally whacked a kid with her guitar case. She was little enough that she could probably squeeze her way out among them, but she couldn't just leave her almost-friend, who was rapidly losing the 'almost' status.
She struggled back toward him as gingerly as she could, trying not to smack any more children. The wind had whipped the Sound into such a frenzy that she actually tasted salt on her lips, her face chilled by the frigid spray. If this kept up, the Men in Grey might be the least of their problems. Did America get hurricanes on the west coast? She didn't think so, but there was a first time for everything.
No sooner had she cleared the gaggle of kids than someone else grabbed her, a large hand clamping onto her left shoulder like a vice. It was another MiG, his suit damp and rumpled, and his expression was downright murderous.
Undignified though it was, Lorna screamed, and swung her guitar case around. It smacked him in the chest, hard enough to break his grip and send him staggering. She cringed at the thought of what it must be doing to the guitar itself, but that could be worried about later. If she had a later. Don't let this be how I die. I'm not going out like this.
The man flailed, and she hit him again, using the case as a monstrous, awkward club. She didn't even hit many other people, because the press of the crowd lessened as it lumbered onward — much of it toward the restaurant.
"Will — you — leave — off !" she cried, and hit him square in the jaw. Persistent bastard, she'd give him that, but the weight of the guitar and her own relentless assault drove him back. Men. Bloody grabby, pushy, grasping men — she'd had more than enough of them for one lifetime, thanks so fucking much.
She jumped when a salmon went sailing overhead, smacking him full in the face. For a moment she paused, blinking, but only a moment — it was an odd sort of distraction, but she'd use it. Back she scrabbled, hunting her lost companion.
Another fish went flying over her head, this one shedding chunks of crushed ice. Somebody was raiding one of the fish stalls, hurling salmon like stinky, slimy missiles. They weren't aiming, either — the fish hit whoever and whatever happened to be in the way, which only added to the chaos. She wished she'd thought of it first.
Her boots slipped on the wet, ice-strewn pavement, and she almost crashed into the now-lopsided display. Her new best friend, it seemed, was the salmon-bomber; he'd hurled half the fish already, and had another in his hand when she grabbed his sleeve.
"C'mon, Red Baron," she said. She had to shout to be heard. "I think we'd best be off."
He didn't get a chance to retort — the entire roof groaned as it tilted sideways, water sluicing down onto everyone unfortunate enough to be in the way. Lorna instinctively ducked, though there was no real point; she wound up soaked anyway. With a growl and a curse, she took off across the treacherous pavement, dragging her companion with a strength that always surprised people. She was vaguely aware that he was still slapping people with a fish, wielding the salmon like a smelly cudgel. Jesus, what was he, before the Curses?
Another unfortunate MiG got a face full of salmon, and a pointy elbow to the rib cage immediately after. Unlike the others, he didn't go down so easily — Lorna had to slam her forehead into his nose and knee him in the groin. Of course his nose spouted blood like a fountain, spraying over her hair and face, stinging in her eyes and temporarily washing her vision red.
Lorna swore, ignoring the screams that erupted at the sight of so much blood. Wiping her face on her sleeve did nothing but spread it around, and she gave up when they staggered out into the storm. The rain would take care of it on its own.
It was bucketing now, the wind blowing it almost horizontal: fat, heavy drops that felt hard as marbles. It slipped beneath the collar of her coat, turned the hems of her too-long jeans into wet shackles.
At least her boots had a little more traction, and she used it as she bodily dragged her fish-wielding friend away from the crowd. There were so many alien thoughts in her head that she gave up trying to think herself, relying on instinct as she fled the scene of…well, it wasn't her crime, but it was a crime, all right. They just had to reach her damn bus, which was up a somewhat nasty hill. What they would do after that didn't matter.
Overhead, a streetlight shattered, the bulb going off like a small glass bomb. Christ, was someone shooting at them? She didn't dare pause to check — if there was a sniper, she could only pray the rain would fuck up his aim.
Her friend stumbled behind her, and for a horrible moment she thought he'd been shot, but no — the gale-force wind had literally ripped his fishy weapon from his hand. He cursed, but didn't try to retrieve it — fortunately, because Lorna would have hauled him along like a sack if he'd tried. She'd be damned if she'd drop her guitar, though: it made a more effective weapon than a salmon.
Lightning forked overhead, a brief, brilliant filigree against the blackness of the clouds, followed by a clap of thunder that rattled her jaw. A stray thought hit her: was one of the Cursed doing this? Was there another one out there — one who could muck with the weather? There were, she knew, Cursed that could do that, though they rarely did it on purpose. Half the reason people were so afraid of the Cursed was because so many of them couldn't actually control their Curses, which occasionally had lethal consequences to anyone around them.
Her legs burned as she hauled arse up the hill, though not nearly so much as her lungs — sheer lack of money had forced her to quit smoking when she reached America, but it had only been two months. She was panting like a dog on a hot day, now as furious with herself as she was with everything else. Not so long ago, she could have made a run like this without breaking a sweat, but she was sure as hell sweating now, and not only from adrenaline.
"I'm too old for this shite," she muttered, though she shouldn't be — she was only thirty-three, for Christ's sake. She had no excuse for being this out-of-shape, but the only real exercise she got was shifting beer-barrels.
Her friend, it seemed, didn't share her problem: he kept up with her easily, and might have outpaced her if he'd let himself. That was even more embarrassing, since he had to be at least twice her age.
Another streetlight blew, and another — if there was a sniper, he had piss-poor aim. If nothing else, they had that in their favor, however dire the situation might be.
— up ahead, going up the hill —
— pay for that —
Oh, no. No. Lorna's fists itched to hit someone, to sock at least one of the twats in the jaw, but the desire wasn't strong enough to make her want to actually have to confront any of them. She scanned the street as best she could through the deluge, but her eyes were still blurry and stinging from her unfortunate blood shower.
— see them. Wish I could just shoot them both —
— get a promotion for this —
Lorna snarled, white-hot rage crowding out anything else her mind might cough up, singing in her veins like sweet music. This she could use; anger and her were old friends, and it kept her going, smashing hesitation and indecision into bits before either could even try to take hold. Her grip on her companion's hand tightened until she felt the bones creak, but if he made any sound of pain or protest, she didn't hear it.
She felt them before she saw them — two Men in Grey came pelting toward them from the right. They looked like drowned rats, but one of them was armed with what looked, to Lorna's blurry eyes, like a taser.
Once again, sheer instinct took over. She released her companion's hand and swung the guitar case in a wide, clumsy arc. It was completely graceless, but it worked — the heavy end caught the man full in the face, knocking him back into the second.
Lorna hit him again, but this time the handle broke. The case went flying, but so did her attacker, dropping his taser. Unfortunately, it cracked into a dozen pieces when it hit the pavement. She'd get no use out of it. Admit it, she thought, you'd probably just zap yourself if you tried.
The second man scrambled to his feet with a glower, but the guitar itself cracked him upside the head. Her friend must have pried the case open when she wasn't looking, and his second swing hit so hard the neck snapped in half.
In spite of everything, Lorna winced at the death of her poor instrument. Priorities , she told herself, fumbling through her coat pockets. Her fingers were chilled to the point of numbness, but they found her keys nonetheless. She yanked on her companion's sleeve, and shoved them into his hand.
"Green van," she said. "Stomp the accelerator or it won't start."
He pushed his sodden hair out of his eyes, staring at her. "What the hell are you gonna do?"
"You're faster than me. Go , will you? I'll catch up."
She struggled after him, bent nearly double against the wind. Even unencumbered by the guitar, her sodden clothes, all too big, might as well have been lead weights. Neither of the men behind her was in any condition to give chase, fortunately, and if there were others, Lorna couldn't sense them. While she was running on adrenaline, she'd crash soon enough, and she wanted to be well away before she did.
When she finally made it to the car park, she found her friend swearing at the bus. The engine coughed and shuddered as he pressed the gas, but it refused to turn over. He'd left the driver's-side door open, so of course half the interior was soaked.
"Shove over," she said, actually shoving him for emphasis. His clamber over the gearshift was far from graceful, and he swore like a sailor when his foot got stuck between the console and the dashboard.
"Welcome to the circus," Lorna muttered, wrenching the door shut. Now that she wasn't running, she was chilled through, her temper growing fouler by the second. "Come on, come on ."
The engine coughed again, and roared to life when she floored the accelerator. Even yet she hadn't quite got the hang of American cars, or at least not of this monstrosity – from her perspective, everything was on the wrong side — and she fumbled with the gearshift before she got it into reverse. The tires, nearly bald, squealed and slipped on the wet pavement, sending the entire bus lurching to the right.
"You actually drive this thing?" he asked, and gripped the dashboard.
"More or less. Live in it, too." She winced as the undercarriage scraped the curb. " What are you doing?"
He was, in fact, rifling through the pockets of his huge overcoat. "Grabbed this off one of the goons," he replied. From some inner pocket, he produced an actual bloody handgun . "Not much, but it's loaded."
Lorna snorted in disbelief. "When did you manage that? And just what is it with you Americans and guns?" She'd never even touched one herself, but she had a hazy idea that there was more to it than just pointing and pulling the trigger. Recoil, or something like that.
He did something that made the gun go click . "I'll give you the lecture later. Will this thing actually make it up this hill?"
"Oi, no insulting my ride." She leaned forward to wipe the condensation off the windshield, but all she did was smear it around. The ancient windscreen wipers didn't do her any favors, either.
A stray thought hit her brain — not words, but an image. Somebody was very nearby, and they were looking right at her bus.
— there you are —
"Oh, shite ." A fresh burst of adrenaline filled her veins as she stomped the gas again. The engine protested when she slammed it straight into fourth gear, peeling up the hill with another screech of tires. "Is that thing loaded? 'Cause I think we might need it in a minute."
"Well, fuck." The window squeaked as he rolled it down, and rain immediately blasted in. "Where?"
"Don't know. Close, somewhere ahead'v us on the left." Lorna's heart was in her throat again, anger joining the adrenaline in a red-hot wave.
"Head right at the stop sign. If we can reach the freeway, we're golden."
Yeah, if , she thought. The intersection was momentarily empty, and she prayed she wouldn't hit anyone who might be approaching.
The bus shuddered again when she turned hard right, and for a second she was afraid it would tip over. What was that bloody game her nephew played — Grand Theft Auto? It was a lot less fun in reality.
There weren't any cars, but there was, at the next intersection, a police barricade. She had no space to pull a U-turn, even if she thought the bus could handle it. The thing looked unmanned, so she kept the accelerator floored.
"What the hell are you doing?!"
"Hang on."
"To what ? My own ass?"
Lorna didn't answer, because there was no answer to be given. The wooden barrier splintered apart when she hit it — whatever else might be said of her bus, it was sturdy as a tank — and she gave a triumphant laugh. "Pog mo thoíne, jacknob. Shut the damn window, will you? I think you can put the gun away."
"What does that mean?" he asked, struggling with the window. The icy blast of rain couldn't be helping his grip.
"'Kiss my ass'." It was amazing, really, what you could get away with saying in America; she'd yet to find a single person who spoke a word of Irish. More than once in her panhandling, she'd sung songs made up entirely of curses, and nobody knew the difference.
— ran the damn barrier. Are they even worth it —
"Oh, come on ," she growled. "They just don't quit, do they?"
She didn't get to finish the sentence. The front tires blew with a deep, explosive, echoing boom. The bus pitched forward, back tires actually lifting off the pavement, and Lorna's stomach lurched with it.
The steering wheel refused to respond — the bus careened wildly, spinning what felt like a hundred and eighty degrees. Lorna barely had time to recognize the second crash, and less time to register pain, before she flew at the windscreen and everything went black.