Wordless Read online

  “What the hell were you thinking, Tavin? What are you doing with her, huh?” Apparently I not only cursed but talked to myself when I was in a state of near-hysteria. “Where the hell am I even going? Oh man, Drey is going to kill me … if the Word of Death doesn’t kill me first. Hey, but I’m okay, because I have the Word of Life to save me—in a garbage bag in the back of a stolen pickup!”

  My tirade ceased when I eventually slowed down with the flow of traffic, no longer careening around other cars like I was in a high-speed chase. The only time I’d come close to feeling this way was one evening after Drey and I had gotten in our worst fight ever, and I’d stolen a hundred in cash from him along with the garbage truck. I’d felt unleashed—in a bad way—but I’d ended up only driving a few blocks and spending ten bucks on candy bars at a twenty-four hour convenience store. Drey hadn’t even been mad at me in the end, even though I’d returned at three in the morning.

  I figured Drey would be pretty mad at me now, so that nixed heading back to the garage as a possible answer to the “Where the hell am I going?” question. I had no idea where in Eden City I could possibly take Khaya in her gruesome condition and not be turned in by people who might not even recognize her. And if they did recognize her, they might kill me before turning me in. The Word of Death wouldn’t even have to get his hands dirty—or his fingertip.

  I had to go someplace where no one would expect to find her … without powerful or power-hungry people

  … where anyone who saw her would ignore her.

  Then I had it. Just the place. I’d been heading toward the mountains, deeper into the hillier, richer section of the city, but I made an abrupt turn and headed downhill toward the Nectar River.

  I took narrow backstreets to get near the waterfront, which were blissfully vacant at this time of day. These types of streets were busier under cover of darkness. I parked well underneath the Old Bridge—not the oldest bridge, but the shabbiest alongside grander, shinier counterparts—and didn’t even have an audience as I hopped up into the back of the truck to tear Khaya out of the trash bag.

  The ladies under the bridge worked at night, and the sun was now officially up.

  A few years ago, after having one too many drinks one evening while keeping me company at the garage, Drey had told me about these ladies—women who wore scooping shirts and short skirts and leather boots that made my brain melt to mush. I mean, I’d seen them as a kid, but never really seen them until Drey’s story; and, after a couple more drinks, he’d told me exactly what they could do and for how much. But then he smacked me upside the head when I jokingly asked him for a hundred bucks.

  Funny thing was, I had gone to see them. But Drey was with me, and we went for lively conversation, nothing else. We saw them usually in the early morning—the end of their “day” and the start of ours. People like us, who were only one step off of the streets and still worked on the streets, often only had people of like status for company.

  Khaya looked barely alive as I knelt and pulled the black plastic away from her, her long hair and sticky blood all over. But she still somehow managed to look beautiful. Even crazier, her thumb was reattached, though there was still a sharp red line around it as if she’d glued it on. It was pretty amazing.

  “Don’t touch it,” Khaya snapped before I could even lift a finger. “It’s not fully healed. I need to sleep first.”

  I jumped up, loose trash falling off me. “You’re welcome,” I said before I could restrain myself. My restraint reserve was about bone-dry.

  She looked around for the first time, blinking at the gray underside of the bridge as if she was having trouble focusing. She damn-near looked drugged. It wouldn’t cast me in a good light if some law-abiding citizen were to see us. But I was betting on the likelihood that none of those would be here.

  “Where am I?” she asked.

  “Under the Old Bridge. There’s a roll of paper towels in your bag there. You might want to clean yourself off before you leave the truck.”

  She fished around awkwardly in the garbage for the roll, avoiding the use of her right hand. Fumbling to tear off a paper towel, she ended up only ripping a sheet in half.

  “Don’t just stand there, help me!” she said with audible frustration.

  I stared at her over folded arms. They probably looked more intimidating than necessary, especially since they were bare, but my white jacket was wadded up underneath her. “Maybe you’re used to having everything handed to you in the Athenaeum, but I just risked a shit-ton to get you out of there. I’m still taking a risk, as far as I know. And I’m not even sure why, but have I demanded answers? No! So the least you can do is give me a simple please or thank you with your demands.”

  She looked up in surprise, her eyes shining more than usual before she went back to studying the paper towel roll. “Thank you. I’ve been so absorbed in the larger situation, I overlooked … ”

  Me. Instead, I said, “Common courtesy? Better yet, deep gratitude?”

  Her voice went cool again. “I said thank you.”

  And I hadn’t demanded answers—yet. “You’re welcome. So, what exactly is the ‘larger situation’?”

  “I can’t tell you right this second. Just … please, help me. I can’t even see where I have blood, and I can’t … ” She gestured with her Frankenstein hand. Drey had told me Dr. Frankenstein’s story, and of course it was one I’d remembered.

  I sighed, then sat back down in front of her and took a few towels in my hand. I paused after lifting them to her perfect face. “I’m going to have to touch you, just so you know.”

  “Really,” she said flatly.

  “I’ll try to avoid jabbing your thumb and ankle, but I make no promises.”

  Of course, I wiped her off as gently as if she were one of the creatures I found left for dead. Maybe too gently, because she had some stubborn patches of dried blood on her cheek. I held a towel to her full lips, trying not to think about what it would feel like to kiss them.

  “Spit,” I said.

  She stared at me. “What?”

  “Spit,” I repeated. “Unless you want my spit on your face.”

  Looking skeptical, she spit barely enough into the towel to suffice, which I rubbed into her cheek.

  “That’s disgusting,” she said as I scrubbed.

  “No, it’s useful in a pinch. Let me guess, you don’t have spit in the Athenaeum.”

  She opened her mouth to say something that probably wouldn’t have been friendly, but before she could, we heard a voice echoing under the bridge: “What is going on here?”

  Thank the Gods I recognized the voice. The woman it belonged to certainly wasn’t law-abiding.

  “Chantelle!” I said, vaulting out of the back of the truck. “It’s me, Tavin.”

  Chantelle stood in front of me, wearing a leather jacket over a red miniskirt and heels. Not that I really noticed; at least, not in that way. She was old enough to be my mother, and usually acted like a mother whenever I stopped by to talk to her, telling me to eat well and stay out of trouble—and to stay away from the younger ladies. She was as bad as Drey.

  She’d come out of what had been a utility room under the bridge, which was now sort of a communal break room used by all the ladies. “Tavin! What are you doing here, honey? Shouldn’t you be on your route with Drey?”

  “Uh, I’m doing something different today.” Which was an understatement. I didn’t know how to elaborate, so I tried to change the subject. “What about you? You’re up late.”

  She rolled her heavily made-up eyes. “Yeah, well, business ran late. Don’t you hate those last-minute—who’s that?”

  I turned. Behind me, Khaya was trying to climb down from the truck—unsuccessfully, by the looks of it, with only one hand and foot at her disposal. I grabbed her before she could fall, lifting her the rest of the way down. She leaned unsteadi
ly into me, which would have been nice if it didn’t make me look shady. At least her messy hair was shadowing her face and her gory hand was tucked behind her back.

  Chantelle raised her thin, penciled-in eyebrows. “She doesn’t look too good. She on something? Tav, I never thought you were one to take advantage—”

  “No!” I said quickly. “I, uh, found her on my morning route … in an alley. She’s hurt, see, but she didn’t want to go to a hospital. It’s, you know, a touchy situation, I think. I didn’t know where else to take her, since Drey didn’t want her at the garage.”

  Chantelle brightened. “Well, honey, you’ve brought her to the right place. I can see why Drey wouldn’t want to get mixed up in anything, but here, we’re all mixed up!” She patted Khaya’s arm. “There’s a cot in our little ‘office’ over there—no business ever done on it, of course, only napping. You’re more than welcome to it for as long as you like, and a cup of coffee. We’ll get you feeling better.”

  “Gods, thanks, Chantelle,” I said, while Khaya nodded weakly, keeping her head down.

  “It’s nothing, sweetheart. I’ll go put some hot water on.” The clicking of her heels rebounded underneath the stone bridge as she strode away.

  “Perfect,” I whispered, guiding Khaya over to the wall to use as support. She could only hop on one foot. “You can stay here for a little bit. I need to go—”

  Her good hand tightened on my arm as she watched Chantelle’s retreating figure. “Don’t leave me here. I can’t stay—I need to leave the city!”

  “First, I need to take back the truck. Then we can figure out—”

  “You can’t go back to the Athenaeum,” she said, interrupting me again. “It’s too dangerous.”

  “No,” I said, my patience wearing thin. “It’s dangerous if I keep the truck. They’ll know I’m involved with all of this if I steal it! Maybe you don’t have to work, but I still need my job.” She shook her head but I ignored her. “You’ll be safe here. Later, we can figure out a way to get you out of the city, if that’s what you really want. Drey might know a way—”

  “You have to leave, too.”

  I felt like she’d slapped me. “What?” I asked, staring at her.

  Khaya didn’t have her usual aloof look as she sagged against the wall. Her eyes were wide, as if she was almost afraid to break the bad news. “You have to leave or they’ll kill you. They’ll find out you did this. There are cameras everywhere in the Athenaeum—too many to monitor constantly, but it’s only a matter of time before they locate the footage they need to identify you … if they haven’t already.”

  Of course they would have more cameras than the one at the alley gate. And how could I forget that Dr. Swanson was already watching me, suspecting me of a crime I hadn’t yet committed? Actually, I hadn’t forgotten. I’d been vigorously trying to forget.

  “They’ll come after you,” she added in a low voice. “Hunt you down, even in your home.”

  Home. The garage. Drey. The facts locked together in my head like nuts and bolts, constructing a thought that was pretty unpleasant.

  “Drey,” I said out loud.

  “I need … I don’t think I can do this on my own,” Khaya said, squeezing my arm tighter. “I’ve never been so weak. Whenever I accelerate the usual biological process to heal a living thing, it exhausts the one being healed. I’m exhausted. I’ve never been hurt this badly.”

  “Drey,” I said again.

  “Tavin, listen to me.” Not only did she say my name for the first time, she shook me. “Even if you won’t do it to save your own life, you have to help me get out of here. You don’t know how important it is for me to—”

  But I was gone before she could finish, dashing for the truck. I left her leaning against the wall, shouting my name a second time.

  six

  The ride back to the garage passed in a blur. I considered sneaking up on it, but if something had happened to Drey, my own safety didn’t really matter anymore. So I barreled straight there, driving like a maniac until I screeched to a stop in front of the garage.

  I hoped he would be out driving the usual city route without me, but one of the wide, rolling doors was open when I arrived and Drey’s truck was already parked inside. He’d probably come back to look for me after I didn’t meet him outside the Athenaeum. Or at least that was what I told myself as I leapt out of the pickup and raced up to the open door.

  There I stopped. It was too quiet. Of course, the other guys were out driving the second truck, but still, something wasn’t right.

  Maybe because there was a trail of blood snaking from the driver’s side door of Drey’s truck toward the back of the garage, the red as vivid as the bright yellow walls. Drey had chosen that paint because he said I needed more sunlight in the garage.

  My foot took a mechanical step forward. “Drey?”

  There was a groan from within. I broke into a run down the aisle between the wall and the truck, and then whipped around the front bumper.

  I would have stopped dead in my tracks, but a puddle of blood made me slip and fall to the floor—near Drey, who was seated in the center of the mess, his back against some shelves.

  My hands and knees slid on the wet concrete as I crawled over to him. “Gods,” I said, looking over the ragged red hole in his shirt, which burrowed right into his stomach. I had a hard time catching my breath. “Oh, Gods. Someone shot you?”

  Drey opened his mouth to speak, then coughed his usual frightening cough—except this time, blood bubbled on his lips. “Herio,” he said. It took me a second to remember that Herio was the Word of Death. “Surprised me while I was waiting for you. Athenaeum security blockaded the parking lot, but they were no match for the truck.” He coughed again. “The only reason they haven’t followed me here now is because they’re probably using me as bait. You have to leave.”

  So a bullet hadn’t made that wound—the Word of Death’s finger had. How Drey had managed to drive himself back to the garage in this condition was beyond me. He could hardly move now, his lips pale and bloodless where they weren’t bloody.

  I pulled my phone out of my pocket, but Drey clawed it out of my hands and smashed it against the ground. He groaned at what the effort had cost him. “Don’t use that. They’ll trace your number here.”

  I didn’t care. I scrambled away from him, tracking red handprints across the concrete, then launched myself at the video phone in the corner of the garage. I practically hammered on the emergency button Drey had programmed years ago, leaving red prints on the screen.

  “Idiot,” Drey murmured from his slouch. “They’ll definitely know you’re here if you use that.”

  I didn’t hang up when someone answered, or even bother hiding from the video camera since my voice was more than enough to identify me. I just gave our address as quickly as possible and added, “Drey Barnes has been shot, and he’s … he’s … hurry!” before I hit the button to end the call.

  “They know it was you who took Khaya,” Drey said. “They want her back.”

  “But why did they do this to you?” I crawled back over to him, my hands and legs feeling almost too weak to support my weight. The slippery floor didn’t help. “Everything is insane! Dr. Swanson watching me, and now … this. What do you have to do with these people?” The question came out forcefully, almost like an accusation, maybe because the words were getting caught in my throat.

  Drey took a ragged breath. “Because I used to work there … for Dr. Swanson.”

  “Wait … what?” I halted, leaning over him. I wasn’t sure what Swanson had to do with it all—I didn’t even know what his official position in the Athenaeum was. But the fact that Drey had worked there … “That’s why you’re so smart. And that’s why they hurt you. They thought you put me up to this!”

  Drey smiled, and blood dribbled from the corner of his mouth. “You�
�re smarter than me—too smart for your own good.”

  “I’m an idiot!” I shouted, tears finally overflowing my eyes and running hot down my face. “I sneaked a Word out of the Athenaeum and they did this to you! Aren’t you even mad?”

  He shook his head, more of a single jerk against the shelf. “I understand why you did it. Believe me.”

  “But look what I’ve done … look at you … ” I glanced down at his stomach, then back up at his face as soon as possible.

  “You can’t save me, boy,” Drey said, still managing to sound gruff. “I’m old and I have lung cancer, anyway. You know it, so don’t look at me like that. I could have gone to the Words for a cure—maybe Swanson would have helped me, after everything—but no, I don’t think we should have the power of the Words. Not meant for us. Only for the Gods.”

  “Then why did you get me a job there?” I demanded.

  “I wanted you to see … he needed to see … ” Drey’s voice grew faint. His eyelids fluttered.

  “What?” I lifted a hand as if to shake him, but I left it hovering over his shoulder. “Who needed to see?”

  “They’re probably coming … ” His focus drifted, his eyes wandering up to the garage’s high ceiling. “I always thought of you as my son, not … ”

  I’d never noticed quite how blue his eyes were before, like the sky in that postcard he’d given me. Blue as the sky over the Alps.

  Those eyes snapped back to me, suddenly as sharp as they were clear. “You need to run. See this shelf, right behind me? To the left you’ll find a backpack strapped underneath. Yes, there it is. Don’t open it now. Use the back exit out of here. Get to the river, to Jacques. You know Jacques, the captain of the trash barge.”

  I knew, but I didn’t move from my knees as I clutched the brown backpack in my arms. “Khaya. Khaya can heal you.”