Valknut: The Binding, page 28
She had forgotten that Monte was not alone in his head.
His eyes fired, twin suns in a void. His gaze burned into her eyes before she could look away. Like before, a yellow haze flooded her vision and filled her mind. She clung to the broom, her sole contact with reality. An image coalesced within the haze—a face, hollow-eyed and fear shrunken. Cheeks sagged around its slack mouth. Clumps of hair hung over its haunted eyes. Her father’s face? No, too young. Too feminine.
You see? I have made a place for you beside your father.
Horrified, she felt herself shrivel. Her shoulders hunched. Her tattooed hand sparked, but found no kindling. Its power flickered weakly and died. The broom slipped from her fingers. This was her fate, to live as a fear-eaten husk in Fenrir’s shadow.
Monte’s hot, vile breath puffed in her ear. “Now, bitch, do you see how useless it is to fight El Lobo?”
***
Discarding the flashlight, Junkyard dropped, rolled, and pulled the knife from his boot in one smooth motion. He crouched low, one hand braced on the wall. The shadows might have hidden him, but his warning shout to Lennie had given his position away. The two gangbangers came after him. Monte went straight for Lennie.
They had all forgotten Too Long Soo. She screamed a rebel yell and leaped on a gangbanger’s back. That left one punk for Junkyard. A happy-sad theater mask tattoo leered at him in the unsteady light, and he knew he faced the Ragman.
Then he heard Lennie yell. With a quick glance, he saw Monte’s dark form bend over someone huddled next to the television. Lennie.
The Ragman would have to wait.
Junkyard dodged the gangbanger and launched a flying tackle at Monte, ripping him away from Lennie. They landed hard, with Junkyard on top. The Ragman moved toward them, but Junkyard pinned Monte with a knee on his chest and put a knife to his throat.
“So, Ragman—how much does your El Lobo care about Monte, here?”
Scowling, the Ragman stopped. Monte seemed unaware of the knife. He howled and struggled to reach Lennie, who lay on the floor, retching. He might look like he had been through a meat grinder, but he was strong. Junkyard leaned hard onto Monte’s chest and broke his skin with the sharp blade.
Monte stopped struggling. His gaze shifted, casting Junkyard’s face in lurid, yellow light. Junkyard drew back, staring. “What the hell?”
The light seemed to invade Junkyard’s brain, loosening his already failing control. Repressed emotions eddied through his mind. Rage, a need for violence, desire for revenge...
Soo shrieked. Junkyard blinked and remembered the third gangbanger. Grimacing with effort, he broke from Monte’s gaze. The yellow taint faded from his mind.
“No more of that,” he growled. Whatever the hell that was. He slammed his fist down on Monte’s head and left him lying on the floor.
Soo clamped a hand to her face. A dark stain trickled through her fingers. The short gangbanger smiled and charged her. Before Junkyard could intervene, Soo kicked out, driving the pointed toe of her boot into the gangbanger’s belly. He doubled over, sucking for air. Then, grimacing, he lunged at her again.
“Aw, hell,” Soo said, sounding more disgusted than afraid. She hefted Woody like a baseball bat and swung.
The wood connected with a crack. The gangbanger staggered back and teetered at the lip of the door. He screamed and clutched at the guitar. His fingers tangled in the strings. Cursing, Soo held onto Woody and tried to shake him off.
“Soo! Let go!” Junkyard lunged for her, but he was too far away. The gangbanger’s feet slipped and he tumbled into the night, pulling Woody after him. Soo let go too late. She fell forward. Her long frame stretched out the door as if she were trying to catch wind and fly. Then she was gone.
Junkyard charged the door, as if he might somehow bring her back. He caught himself on the doorframe, swinging all but an arm and a leg outside. Battered by the wind, he stared down the track, hoping to see a long, lanky shape pick itself up from the gravel. But it was no use, and he knew it. The train was moving too fast. Tomorrow, someone would find her body. People would shake their heads in pity—just another hobo lying broken next to the tracks.
He pressed his forehead to cold metal and closed his eyes. If Jungle Jim had been his conscience over the last year, Soo and Bones had been his family. He didn’t think he had the courage to continue the hunt without them.
“Junkyard! Look out!”
He didn’t register Lennie’s panicked scream until pain erupted in his hand. His fingers instantly went numb. Somehow, he held on. He tried to pull himself back inside, but the Ragman was there, grinning, his fist raised for another blow, and there was nothing Junkyard could do to stop him.
“Hey! You!” Lennie shouted from inside. “I’ve got something for you.”
Both men looked over the Ragman’s shoulder. Lennie faced them, holding a push broom like a ram. Even in the dim light, Junkyard could see her eyes narrow and her lips curl back from her teeth in an ugly snarl.
“Eat this!” she screamed, and she rushed the gangbanger.
The broom caught the Ragman in the back, spinning him around. He stumbled into the open doorway, arms windmilling, his tough-guy scowl wiped away by desperation. His flailing hand brushed Junkyard’s arm, then grabbed for him, but Junkyard shook him off. Lennie rammed the gangbanger again. This time, the Ragman caught the broom, and Junkyard feared a replay of Soo’s death. But before the Ragman could regain his footing, Lennie gave a last push and let go. The Ragman was gone.
Junkyard imagined he heard the crunch of the gangbanger hitting the cinders above the roar of the wheels. Nodding in grim satisfaction, he pulled himself inside.
“Thanks,” he began, “you saved my life.”
Lennie’s expression stopped him. She was staring out the open door, her hands bunched over her mouth as though she might throw up. Her face looked gaunt and hollow-eyed in the dim light. The angry, vertical line between her eyebrows now seemed out of place in features strained by fear and exhaustion.
“Lennie?”
She lowered her hands and looked at him, her eyes full of self-loathing. “I—I killed him. Didn’t I.”
“Oh, Lennie.” She looked so lost. Despite his doubts about her, he wanted to go to her, to brush the stray curls from her face and somehow make the pain go away. How could he have ever thought she was connected to the Hobo Spider murders? “I’m sorry.”
He felt the movement before he saw it, coming from the forward end of the boxcar. Monte exploded from the shadows, eyes burning yellow. Junkyard shoved Lennie out of the way. The crazed gangbanger drove his shoulder into Junkyard’s gut, driving him into the boxcar’s back end. Junkyard’s head cracked against the siding, and the boxcar became a spinning top of pain. Monte roared and rammed into him again, trapping him against the wall.
A face out of a horror movie swam in Junkyard’s blurred vision. Blood-caked. Slack and drooling. That unbearable stench. How could it be alive? And those eyes—yellow slits glowing from a bruised and broken skull. As though Monte’s head were an empty shell and a bright flame burned within.
Junkyard struggled to fight, to clear his mind, but those eyes...those eyes. Whispering dark tendrils filled his vision, worming into his mind. He felt Monte’s hands at his throat, squeezing. He couldn’t breathe. The world blurred in a yellow haze. Using every ounce of his fading will, Junkyard wrenched his head and broke eye contact. But he had grown too weak to break Monte’s strangling grip.
Beyond Monte’s shoulder, Lennie stood as if frozen. Her eyes were fixed, trance-like, on Monte. Junkyard worked his jaw, trying to tell her to do something—anything—but no sound came out. She extended her arm, palm-outward, like she meant to rush Monte and push him out of the car. She’d probably die trying unless Junkyard could help.
He beat feebly on Monte’s arms, but his hands didn’t seem to work right. His head throbbed. His cheeks felt ready to split. The last of his strength left his body and he sagged. The only thing holding him upright was Monte’s grip on his neck.
Do it, Lennie. Do whatever. Now.
But instead of rushing Monte, she flexed her fingers back, a look of hard concentration on her face. Her hair rose from her shoulders, floating as if lightening were about to strike. The air sparked and crackled around her, lighting the boxcar in brief, bright flashes. Startled, Monte let go of Junkyard and swung to face her.
Junkyard collapsed. Air rushed into his lungs. He could only lie gasping as Monte went after Lennie.
But as Monte reached for her, sparks flew from her fingers and swarmed him. With a high-pitched shriek, he whirled and swatted the air. The sparks spun a cocoon of light, solidifying in endless, winding, constricting strings, trapping his arms and legs. He let out an anguished wail and toppled to the floor. The light in his eyes went dark.
Heaving air down his bruised throat, Junkyard rolled to his hands and knees. He blinked and shook his head, but he couldn’t clear the tainted, yellow haze from his vision. Too weak to stand, he crawled to Monte’s side. The gangbanger’s eyes stared, unfocused, empty of life. Junkyard remembered the emptiness behind the yellow slits and wondered if Monte had been dead all along.
He touched the substance that covered the body and jerked his hand back, repulsed. It felt unnaturally smooth, almost gelatinous, like dry slime. And it was string.
The body was covered with white string. Just like Hotshot. Just like Tin Can Petey.
Just like his brother.
He looked up at Lennie and saw the way her eyes shone, the exaltation in her face. Who else could have done what she just did?
He struggled to his feet. If he weren’t so weak, he knew he would hit her, maybe strangle her as Monte had tried to strangle him. He wanted to punish her for his suffering over the last year, for his brother’s horrible death, and for all the other victims. As it was, he could only muster the energy to spit in her face.
Lennie snapped out of her trance and wiped at her cheek. Bemused, she looked at her wet hand, and then saw his expression. The euphoria bled from her eyes.
“Junkyard,” she said, looking bewildered, “wh-what’s wrong?”
“It’s you,” he said. “You killed my brother.”
Chapter 23
“Your brother?”
Lennie stared dazedly at Monte’s cocooned body. Monte was Junkyard’s brother? That didn’t make sense.
All that string. She had done that. But how? And why now?
Junkyard had been about to die. She remembered that much. He had just hung there, limp, with Monte’s hands around his neck. She couldn’t let him die. But she couldn’t fight Monte, either. At least, not physically.
Her hand had been buzzing so badly she’d thought her finger joints might vibrate apart. She had stretched it toward Monte, thinking maybe this time...
When Monte dropped Junkyard to come after her, she’d met those horrible yellow eyes. But instead of locking up and letting that creeping yellow haze overwhelm her, something clicked in her mind. The world seemed to shift, and it all became so obvious, so easy. The power streamed from her fingers.
And it felt good. Better than good. She felt fully alive and strong. Unbeatable. Like approaching the end of a 400-meter race knowing she was well in front and going to win.
And then the power was gone. A beautiful euphoria followed; an endorphin rush like no other. But Monte was wrapped in pristine white string. She hadn’t expected that.
Urdie’s voice whispered in her mind. Six threads, twisted into one, bound and knotted.
Was this what she was expected to do? Use a bunch of thread to bind Fenrir, a man with the soul of a monster? Right. She didn’t intend to get that close to him.
The euphoric cloud dissipated, leaving her exhausted and frightened. Junkyard was looking at her like she had committed the worst crime imaginable. She wanted to explain everything, but her thoughts slipped and spun incoherently. “I thought—I thought there would be lightning.”
“Lightning?” Junkyard snarled. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“My hand. It’s been...”
She stopped, not knowing where to start. The train rumbled on. Light and shadow flickered across the hard angles of Junkyard’s face. He looked so angry. If only she had told him everything from the very beginning. But he never would have believed her. He certainly wouldn’t believe her now.
He waited for an explanation, fists half-raised. All that anger, directed at her. She averted her eyes, but there was nothing to look at except shadow, discarded junk, Hotshot’s body...and Monte, staring at her in accusation. His face was so grey. So still. Why didn’t he move? It was like he was—
“Oh, God. Is he—is he dead?”
Junkyard swore. “Don’t give me that crap. Of course he’s dead. Just like all the others.”
She shook her head, feeling sick. He couldn’t be dead. No one died of being tied up. Did they? But the way Monte stared, never blinking...
“You don’t think he died because...that I...?”
“Got another explanation?”
The accusation in his voice cut through her confusion. “How can you believe I could kill anyone?”
But he did. His expression said so.
She took a step back. “No—”
It was that tattoo. The Valknut, or whatever. That bastard Ramblin’ Red had branded it on her. How could she know what it would do? She scratched at the design, drawing blood. She’d burn the thing off if she had to, just to get rid of it. She didn’t want that sort of power, to tie people up like that. To kill...
Junkyard closed the gap between them and grabbed her roughly, his face contorted with anger and hatred. “Why’d you do it? He was just a kid, dammit! Not a drifter or some punk criminal. Just a student trying to get home.”
“What? Who-who are you talking about?” He couldn’t mean Monte. That guy was no student.
A horrible understanding struck her.
“Your brother. Did he die like—” Like Monte, she started to say, but he might take it as a confession. “Like Hotshot?”
A yellow spark flickered in his eyes, filling her with dread. She could feel violence building in him. The heat of it radiated from him like an aura. She tried to twist away, but he was so strong. And where would she go? There was no escape, no way to fight him. She didn’t want to fight Junkyard. She had to make him listen.
The spark in his eyes bloomed into a yellow fire, rooted deep, as though kindled by his soul. The flesh of her tattooed hand prickled in response. But she didn’t dare use that weapon on Junkyard. This wasn’t his fault. She closed her eyes and twisted her face away from that fiery gaze. His anguished voice rang close to her ear.
“I saw the pictures after they found him, Lennie. I saw what you did to him.”
“No, I swear I didn’t hurt him. This was the first time! I didn’t even know what would happen.”
But he wasn’t listening. “Who’re you gonna kill next? Me?”
He shook her, hard. Her head whipped back and forward. Her teeth snapped down on her tongue. Pain and blood erupted in her mouth. The tattooed hand flared wildly. The urge to use it became unbearable. But she couldn’t shake the image of Monte’s grey, dead face from her mind. She clenched the hand and pressed it to her stomach.
Junkyard shoved her back, slamming her into the closed door. Air whooshed out of her. Blood from her cut tongue gurgled in her throat when she tried to breathe. She gagged and coughed, gasping air into tortured lungs. Junkyard came at her, an angry silhouette against the moonlit sky—featureless, except for two glowing, yellow eyes.
“Do you know what I planned to do to the guy who killed Austin, once I found him?”
She tried to push him away, but he brushed her arms aside and struck her face. Her head knocked against the solid metal door. Her eyes lost focus. She fought for consciousness, clawing weakly at his arms, at his face, but he wouldn’t let go. He meant to kill her.
A long, discordant blast of the locomotive’s horn sounded up the line, followed by the screech of tortured metal. Junkyard jerked his head up, listening, and the yellow faded from his eyes. His eyebrows lifted and he blinked at Lennie as though awakening from a deep sleep.
“Lennie?”
The world faded and her legs went slack. Junkyard held her upright, his touch suddenly gentle. “Lennie, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean—”
Airbrakes chuffed violently. The boxcar lurched and rocked on its wheels. The floor tilted crazily, tossing them both. Lennie fell and skidded on her face, caught in a maelstrom of tumbling debris. The television bounced out the open door. She felt herself slide after it and scrambled for a handhold. The boxcar slammed to a stop and the back end flew up. Lennie hurtled forward and smacked into the front wall. Her arm buckled and something snapped in her chest, the crack of breaking bone lost in the cacophony of screeching metal. Helpless, she tumbled and slid. When the boxcar finally stopped, she came to rest in a heap of cardboard and packing paper.
The sounds of a thousand car crashes echoed down the length of the train. Moonlight filtered inside through a cloud of dust and smoke. Blood bubbled in Lennie’s lungs and she couldn’t draw air. Panicking, she tried to prop herself up. Bones shifted in her arm with an explosion of white-hot pain and she collapsed. Her consciousness fled, leaving only a dim awareness of a warm, gentle pulse radiating from the interlocking triangles on her hand.
***
The boxcar tossed Junkyard like laundry in a dryer. He hit the floor...a wall...tumbled and tangled with a length of packing paper. Only the white streak of the moon through the open door told him which way was up.
