So yeah. I get it already. I'm an idiot.
The stupid bird doesn't have to hang around up there to keep reminding me.
Vincenzo bends down closer to me.
"I could lie," he says, his hands reaching to grab either side of my head, "but we both know I'm going to enjoy this."
If he wasn't so damn strong. If I wasn't so helpless …
That hawk up there reminds me of something Tío Goyo told me the first time we met.
You are only as weak as you think you are. Expect to be defeated and you will be.
It just pops into my head and I think, what the hell. Sure, it sounds like what Chaingang said it was—fortune cookie advice—but that doesn't mean it's wrong. I may not be what everybody thinks I am, but I'm better than the loser who just gives up. I'm fast and I'm strong. These Thunders—whoever they are—made me what I am for a reason. I'm guessing that reason isn't to simply die here.
I catch hold of Vincenzo's hands before they can grab me.
He laughs and pushes down harder with his foot. I can feel my ribs cracking under the pressure.
But then I let the mountain lion free.
Marina
It seems like we've been here forever, Des and I, sitting on either side of Theo, too scared to even lift his head to pillow it in case it makes things worse. Auntie Min stands with her back to us, arms folded, her gaze on the far horizon of the Pacific. Tomás's body lies where it fell, unchanged except that Auntie Min laid her scarf over his face after she talked to us.
I turn to Des. "How long has Cory been gone?"
I can't get my head around the fact that Cory's supposed to be literally inside Theo's head—or at least inside his dreams. Except how is that even possible? I know we saw him touch Theo's brow and then disappear, but it doesn't make any sense. Cory's not a big guy, but how can anything physical go into a person's head without, you know, severe physical damage?
Des looks at his watch. "Since it's only been a minute since the last time you asked, it's now sixteen minutes."
"Thanks."
I smooth my hand across Theo's brow.
"If he's not back in another ten minutes," I say, "I don't care what anybody thinks. I'm calling an ambulance. They can airlift him out of here and have him in the hospital in about—"
"No." It's loud enough to echo off the rocks.
Auntie Min has turned around to fix us with her gaze. Something changed in her after Tomás died and everything else that's happened. That calm, wise energy she's always given off seems really tired now, and there's a deep anger inside that's a little scary. But I'm too worried about Theo to let it intimidate me.
"This is serious," I tell her. "It's not something that can be fixed with hocus pocus."
"I understand your concern," she says, "but if you move Theo before Cory returns, we might not get either of them back."
"I don't understand. How can he be inside Theo's head?"
"He's not. Cory's walking with him in the dreamlands."
"In his head."
Auntie Min sighs and shakes her head. Then she comes over to where we are and sits on her haunches near Theo's feet.
"The dreamlands are a physical place," she says. "The five-fingered beings usually access it only with their spirits—when they dream. We cousins can access it more freely, though some of us—like Cory—can do it with greater ease."
"You mean its in the otherworld?"
She nods. "But they lie much deeper. The otherworld you visited can be accessed by anyone, once they've been shown how to make their way through to it. The dreamlands are far more dangerous. The landscape, the weather, the time of day, even the points of the compass change randomly from one moment to the next."
"Like in a dream," Des says.
"Exactly," Auntie Min says. "So Theo's position here on this headland is the only anchor that will allow Cory to bring him back."
"But how long does it take?" I ask.
"That, I can't say. The dreamlands—by their very nature—invariably present complications to even the simplest task."
"So, it might be awhile."
She hesitates, then finds a smile that I don't believe.
"Yes," she says. "But not too long, I hope."
She doesn't say it, but in her eyes I can see what she's not telling us: if they ever come back.
I feel like crying, but I try not to let it show. If I give in to it now, I might never stop.
I can't lose both Josh and Theo in the same day.
Des reaches over Theo's still body and pats me awkwardly on the shoulder.
"It'll be all right," he says. "I mean, dude. We're talking Josh and Chaingang here. They've been in worse situations."
He doesn't believe it any more than I do. But he means well, and I know what he's trying to do, so I just take a deep breath and nod.
Chaingang
When I come to, I'm lying on my back, staring up into a deep blue sky. I reach up to touch the bridge of my nose where the knife went in, but it feels normal. No wound, not even a scab. I push myself up into a sitting position and look around. I'm in a dry wash in the middle of I don't know where. There's just dusty scrub and desert for as far as I can see. The wash disappears in either direction, marked only by the scraggly mesquite and prickly pear that follow its banks.
Sitting on his haunches a few feet away is Cory. His forearms rest across his knees and there's no sign of the knife he rammed into my brain back in wherever it was that we were.
"That's a pretty good recovery," he says. "I know cousins twenty times your age who would never snap back so quickly."
"Let's see how quickly you snap back," I tell him.
I lumber to my feet and sway there, trying to stop the sudden vertigo.
Cory never moves. He just looks up at me, waiting.
"You're a dead man," I tell him.
I'll take him apart with my bare hands—just as soon as the world stops whirling around me. I think I'm going to hurl.
"I was never a man," he says. "And I think you'll find cousins in Coyote Clan hard to kill."
"A bullet in the head'll take you down the same as anybody else."
He shrugs. "You need a gun for that."
I think I'm going to fall down.
"Maybe later," I manage to get out.
I drop to my knees, then lie down in the dirt again. The world settles down around me.
"As soon as I—can stand without falling down," I add.
Cory smiles. "I knew you were a fighter."
"That was no fight. You sucker-punched me with a knife."
He shakes his head. "No, I just woke you up from that stupid dream of yours. I mean, really? You've got the entire width and breadth of your imagination at your disposal and that was the best you could come up with?"
The dirt feels good against my cheek. Like it's grounding me.
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"What's the last thing you remember?" he says.
All the humour's gone out of his eyes. But I've got my own thousand-yard stare.
"You stabbing me in the head with a knife," I tell him.
He waves that off like it was nothing.
"Before that," he says. "Before you were walking around admiring your little Beverly Hills wet dream."
Dream? I guess maybe it was. That makes a lot more sense than me actually owning a place like that.
So—before that?
The memory floods in and I feel a twinge of phantom pain that runs up my back, from the start of my spine to the nape of my neck.
"Vincenzo," I say. "He threw me onto the rock. I think he broke my back."
Cory nods. "Broke your neck, too, and put you in a coma. Comas are funny things. Sometimes you come right out of them. Sometimes you hang on for years until somebody comes along and pulls the plug."
"I'm in a hospital somewhere?"
"No. You're still lying on a headland overlooking Tiki Bay."
"Seems more like we're at the ass-
end of nowhere."
He nods. "Yeah, maybe so, except the fact is, you're here while your body's still over on that headland. It's taking a little time, but we'll be working our way back. The condition you're in—we can't rush this." He flashes me that damn grin of his. "But I'm starting to feel we might be looking at a positive outcome now."
I roll over on my back so that I don't have to look at him.
"So that mansion," I say. "What was it?"
"A safe place. Somewhere your spirit could escape the trauma of what happened to your body. Do you dream about that place a lot?"
"Never saw it before."
"Interesting."
"No, it's not. It's just part and parcel of this freak show I seem to be stuck in." I turn my head to look at him. "Level with me for once. What the hell's going on?"
"Okay. Short version. You know that otherworld we were in a few weeks ago? Now we're in a deeper part of it—some of us call it the shifting lands, or the changing lands. Mostly, it's known as the dreamlands."
"So it's not real."
"It is and it isn't." He holds up a hand before I can speak. "I'm being straight with you. This is where we come when we dream—well, not exactly here in this desert. I chose this place because it's pretty stable and I need you to get yourself together for the next thing we have to do."
"Which is?"
"Get you conscious again so that you can shift from your broken body to your cousin shape and heal yourself."
"Just like that."
"It's easier to do when you're not fighting me," he says.
"So you're going to knife me in the head again."
He smiles and shakes his head. "But if we get out of this, you can take a swing at me if you think it'll make you feel better."
"Count on it."
"Look," he says, "I know you're a tough guy, but sustaining a shock like you did from your injuries, your body just shuts down and your spirit goes away. If we'd had the time, I could have talked you away from the mansion—but that method can take weeks. Nobody wants to believe the place isn't real—especially because deep down they know what's waiting for them when they get back. The knife was the fastest way to get your attention."
"To get my attention? If I could get up I'd—"
He cuts me off. "Exactly. To show you that the place you were in wasn't real. Now, as soon as we're sure you can handle returning to your body without going into shock again, we'll get everything fixed up."
"You still stuck a knife in my head."
"Like I said, it wasn't real."
"It sure as hell felt like it was real."
He glares at me. "Man, you're stubborn. If I thought it would help, I'd stick it in your head again."
"I'd like to see you—"
"Will you listen to me? If I wanted you dead—or even just incapacitated—I wouldn't have bothered to come looking for you. I'd just leave you on the headland and let whatever happens happen."
I can't deny the logic of that.
"Okay," I tell him. "Thanks for stabbing me and saving my life. What happens now?"
"Will you shut your mouth? Just for five seconds even?"
"I—"
But I see the look in his eyes and cut myself off.
Cory sighs, then takes a breath. "Thank you. Now try to stand up again."
I want to tell him: but I like lying here in the dirt.
You ever get so nauseous that the only way you feel even remotely okay is to lie down on the floor and not move? That's where I'm at.
"I need you on your feet," Cory says.
I realize I've closed my eyes. I snap them open, half-expecting to see him with that knife in his hand again.
But he's a few feet away, not looking any happier.
"I'm not sure I can," I have to admit.
"You need to try. I don't know how big a window of time we have here. If we take too long and they move you, we won't get a second chance."
Man, I hate this.
"Give me a hand up?" I ask him.
He nods. He hauls me to my feet without any problem—after all, he's got that Wildling strength. Keeping me upright is harder because the world is playing Tilt-a-Whirl on me again. He gets his shoulder under my arm and holds me up.
"Hang in there," he says.
My only response is to throw up on him. The goopy mess spills onto the side of his face and his shoulder before flowing down his neck and chest. He doesn't even flinch. I just feel sicker at the reek of it.
He wipes vomit from the side of his face with his free hand.
"Here's what you need to concentrate on," he says in a calm voice, like this kind of thing happens every day. "You need to be conscious when we get back. Shift right to your cousin shape and then back again."
I can hear him, but everything's spinning so hard that I can't really stay on my feet. Without him holding me up, I'd be down for the count. That wouldn't be so bad. I really really need to lie down again. I start to slump, but he hoists me up again and keeps me standing.
I think I hate him the most for that.
"Focus!" he tells me.
I throw up again. Mostly dry heaves because after the mess I made earlier, there's nothing left in my stomach.
"Focus, damn it!"
It's impossible. I don't seem to be aware of anything except for the combination of vertigo and my nausea—made all the worse from the stench of the puke I've hurled all over him. His voice seems like it's a hundred miles away. The world spins. The ground feels like it's falling away from under my feet. I keep dry heaving like I'm never going to stop.
That familiar black wave of unconsciousness comes rearing up over me once more and I welcome it like an old friend.
"Don't you dare go away again!" Cory yells.
He says something else, but it's just a mumble. The black wave's swallowing everything.
Josh
I haven't even finished shifting to my Wildling shape before I'm using the mountain lion's claws to rip into Vincenzo's arms. I'm not getting great purchase, but any normal person would still be incapacitated. Vincenzo just grins at me. It's like he can't even feel the torn flesh.
"Found a little courage, did you?" he says.
He presses down with his foot and the ribs that were cracking snap. One of them pierces a lung and my mouth fills up with blood. I lose my concentration and realize that all I've managed to do so far is shift my arms into the mountain lion's front legs. The pain makes me lose my grip on Vincenzo.
"This is a man's business, boy," he says.
He lays his hands on either side of my head.
I know why he snapped Tomás's neck. Dead, there's no chance of coming back the way I did at the taquería. Dead, I'm not coming back this time.
"You should have done what I told you," he tells me. "Then you'd be the only casualty. Now I'll kill them all. This is on you."
Liar!
I want to scream the word at him, but I'm suffocating on my own blood. I save the last of my energy to try to prove him wrong. I put away the burning pain that's spread through me because I can't get a breath. The crush of his foot. The hard grip of his hands.
I force it all out of my head to focus on triggering the shift.
Let's see Vincenzo not feel this.
Marina
Theo makes a choking sound. Then his breath—weak as it is—catches. He gags.
"We have to move him," Des says. "Just onto his side."
"But—"
Des nods. "I know. We're not supposed to move him. But I think he's throwing up. He's going to choke to death if we don't do something."
Auntie Min quickly joins us beside Theo.
"He can heal himself when he gets back," she says, "but not if he's dead."
Auntie Min and Des put their hands under his body while I cradle his head. Between the three of us, we manage to turn him onto his side. He retches up spittle and some watery vomit.
Des pulls a face.
"I know," he says before I can speak. "It's
not his fault. But dude, that reeks."
"What do we do now?" I ask Auntie Min.
"We can only wait."
I'm not good at waiting.
I lean close to Theo's face. Des is right. It really does reek. But I ignore the sour smell.
"You'd better get your ass back here," I tell him. "You hear me? Don't you dare think you can bail on us now."
Chaingang
It's so calm in this black wave that it takes me a moment to realize that the looping 50 Cent riff I'm hearing is a cellphone's ring. My cellphone's ring. Which is weird for all kinds of reasons. To start with, I have no sense of a body at all, so what am I hearing with? Followed up with another biggie: wWhat the hell's a phone doing wherever this is? And how do I answer it?
While I'm still trying to figure that out it goes to voice mail. I can recognize Marina's voice, but not what she's saying. She seems to be coming from a million miles away. I strain to hear the words until I remember where I left her: on the headland near Tiki Bay, where Vincenzo put me down. He'll be going after her and the others. Then he'll go after Grandma. Yeah, Donalita's at Grandma's house, but she won't have a chance in hell of stopping him.
Whatever Marina's saying dissolves into Cory's voice—the words equally unintelligible—and that's when the black wave spits me out.
I open my eyes to find the coyote cousin right in my face. I'm still lying down in what feels like dirt. The blue sky from before has clouded over and the air's not as dry as it was the last time I opened my eyes.
"That's interesting," Cory says. "Usually people go a lot deeper into themselves when they have a setback like that."
He draws back, sitting on his heels. I have to turn my head to look at him. I remember throwing up all over him but there's no sign of the mess now. The dirt I'm lying on seems to be a rough road. There are fields around us, dotted with trees—I couldn't tell you what kind. But it doesn't look like So-Cal to me.
"We have to get back," I tell him.
"I know. Can you sit up?"
"Probably not."
"Are you at least going to try?"
I reach a hand up to him in response.
He pulls me up into a sitting position and we both wait for the world to go spinning on me again. It does—but this time it only leaves me with a mild queasiness. I can deal with this.