Slashback (Cal Leandros, #8)(49)

Landing on top of him and feeling the skin of my legs split open—not good. I jammed the MP7 into the mass below me and fired at least ten more rounds before he vanished again and I fell to the concrete beneath me. That didn’t do my ribs any good at all. Instantly I saw Jack appear again, this time by Robin. It hit me, a memory close to as f*cking freaky as Jack himself.

We had a neighbor once, we had lots of neighbors that we used for, you know . . . reasons. Good reasons. Getting us medicine if we needed it. Calling us in sick to school. Signing flu shot forms—all things Sophia couldn’t be bothered with or was sober to do. Most of them were nice old ladies and one of those nice old ladies had given me a toy when I was five—the same year I’d found out about the Auphe and how I was half one. She meant well. The people who screw up in the most interesting ways mostly do.

She gave me a jack-in-the-box. I’d never seen one before. There I was, an unsuspecting kid, because monsters were lurking outside the window, not in an innocent box a nice lady gave me. I cranked and cranked, the music screeched and played as best as its rusted innards let it and then . . . pop goes the weasel!

A clown came exploding into my face. And this clown, he’d been around a long, long time. His once white teeth were brown, dirt you’d say, but I knew better—it was dried blood. The blue eyes faded to a blind white . . . but the blind that could still inexplicably see you. The carved hands curled into talons from the damp. That’s what Niko had said, the damp. I wanted to believe him, but, shit, I knew better. Five years old and I knew better.

Jack-in-the-boxes were evil. Beginning, middle, and end.

This Jack was no different.

I staggered up with Niko’s hand on my elbow, careful and slow. He could tell by the way I was breathing, shallow and panting, that I’d messed up my ribs. With most people that would’ve bugged me, knowing that much about me with one sweeping observation. With Niko I expected it and I didn’t mind. Again, that’s what Niko did. What he’d always done.

Jack was drifting closer to Goodfellow and I could hear the music in my head. Hear it plain as day. Round the mulberry bush, the monkey chased the weasel . . .

Robin had his sword between him and Jack, but would that be enough?

I watched as Jack grew, a storm cloud no one wanted to chase.

Probably not enough.

The monkey thought ’twas all in fun . . .

“Let go, Nik,” I said urgently. He hesitated, then let go of my arm. Robin was one of us. He knew that the same as I did.

I was gone and then back again, right between Jack and Goodfellow and firing the MP7 at nothing. That was how quickly he flickered in and out. He was something and then he was nothing and then . . .

Pop goes the weasel!

He was on me again, grinding me down into the rough surface beneath me. This time the MP7 did fly from my hand. “A wolf who hides among the Flock. I am not surprised,” he said as thickly cloying as the first time I’d heard his voice. “That is why the Flock needs saving.”

At this point my vision was wavering between bizarre paien serial killer and a jack-in-the-box clown from hell. To be fair, weren’t all jack-in-the-boxes and clowns both from hell? I didn’t wait to sort it out. I gated again.

I was back with Nik, who’d moved closer to the action and who was still scanning the sky with the flamethrower ready as Jack had disappeared at the same time I had. Beside Nik, the gate around me fading, it took me a second to get my balance with both arms wrapped around my ribs. Cracked definitely, the first time. They might be broken now. I let my head hang for a second and concentrated on shallow breaths to ease the stabbing pain. “I lost my gun. I f*cking never lose my gun,” I panted.

Niko and I both knew now wasn’t the place for an impromptu physical, and he knew just by the way I was standing I had either cracked or broken ribs. The medical advice would have to wait. But he wasn’t waiting on another type of advice. “Cal, you idiot. I didn’t mean die instead of gating. I meant if there’s another way then use it. If not then at least weigh the mental cost to you later, after the fight, but don’t let yourself be killed if it can save you.” His arm hooked lightly around my neck, his breath a human warmth and not Jack’s frostbite cold exhaled against my jaw. “Can you fight? If we can get your gun back?”

I gave a nod. “Yeah, I’m good. You know how much that gun cost?” Ruptured spleen? Lacerated liver? Screw that. I laughed at internal bleeding. I truly loved that gun.

“Then let’s see if we can save Goodfellow’s ass as Ishiah treasures it so much. And, Cal, do not die,” he ordered. “Or I’ll have this Jack raise you from the dead so that I might kill you all over again.”

“You’re a marshmallow inside, Nik. I’ve always known it.” I grinned as best as I was able with a distinct lack of breath and gated again, scooped up my gun, and gated one more time to end up beside Robin, a bruise of a light—purple, gray, and black—still swirling around the outline of my body. “Hey, Jack, we can both come and go. That makes this game more interesting, doesn’t it?”

It did. Besides Auphe and half Auphe, I’d not seen anyone who could do what Jack and I could. Although I was ripping holes in reality. Sometimes I tore them open and stepped through them, sometimes I opened them in monsters that deserved it and they exploded/imploded—a little of both—sometimes I built them around myself and it almost looked as if I were teleporting, but I wasn’t.