The three girls paused at the front of the class, looking over their subjects, and something inside Scarlett’s chest went pop.
“Oh, look,” she said. “It’s the three little cunts.”
And then, because it was just too impossible to be happening, and the whole class was sitting there with their mouths open or tittering or staring at her with great, big, sad, old-person eyes (Mr. Vogel) or, in the case of the Bitch Queens, probably deciding how to punish her, Scarlett added, “They huffed and they puffed and they blew the football team down.”
She stuck her tongue into her cheek and made the blow-job face.
What the fuck did I just do?
It was insane.
She was going insane.
The classroom erupted into chaos. Loud, shouting, laughing, mocking chaos. Everyone knew what Scarlett said was true: the Bitch Queens were on the cheerleading team, and, in a bond as old as the nineteen-fifties, they were sleeping around with all the football players, except for the guy who played center because he already had brain damage from being hit so often and was secretly gay. Wads of paper tore out of notebooks, flew across the room, and pelted the Bitch Queens. Names were called. Guys hit each other on the shoulder and chicks sniggered.
Casey picked up a wad of paper and whipped it at a particularly nasal, laughing nerd. If it had been a rock it would have exploded the guy’s head, she threw it so hard. After it hit him, it bounced up in the air and got jammed into the metal slats covering one of the hanging fluorescent lights.
Heather dropped her leather messenger bag on the floor and shoved toward Scarlett, grabbing a girl in the way by her shirt and simultaneously pulling and shoving her to the side. The girl smashed into the row of desks, went over the top, and flopped over the top of the desk and onto the floor with someone else’s books landing on her. A couple of guys grabbed Heather, stopping her from attacking, and started mocking her. The words “how about giving me a blow job” kept coming up. Heather had tears in her eyes as she glared back and forth from her attackers to Scarlett and back again.
Jamie… just stared at Scarlett.
Jamie had a long face with a small, bitchy mouth and a long, straight nose—all the better to look down at you with. Her chin would have been considered ugly and pointy if she hadn’t been so popular. Her gray eyes were surrounded with black eyeliner and her long eyelashes were stiffened with mascara. They held no emotion at all. Her eyebrows were tweezed. Her makeup: perfect. She looked like a cartoon or a sticker, the way her head was tilted at the end of her long, thin neck, like it’d been stuck there, slightly crooked.
“What, did your boyfriend die or something?” Jamie asked. “You know, the sick one? Who’s dying? The one who’s a freak and a laughingstock? That one? Remember him? I’m so sorry for you. Sad day.”
And she touched under her eye with one finger and made fake tear trails down her cheek.
If Pax had actually died, Scarlett would have lost her shit.
As it was, she just laughed. It sounded like a grown-up woman’s laugh. Not a nervous high-schooler’s laugh. Deep and powerful.
“Is that the best you can do, bitch?” she said.
Something weird happened: Something wet rolled down Jamie’s cheek. A tear? An actual tear? Was she crying? It left a track. Her makeup wasn’t perfect anymore. Jamie touched the drop. Another teardrop of water rolled down her cheek and another.
They weren’t tears. They were coming from her forehead.
Sweat.
Sweat meant heat.
Oh, shit.
The tentacles piercing Akllana’chikni’pai burned away. Hundreds of others began pouring in. Akllana’chikni’pai turned up the heat. She was not going to die here, no matter what.
Now that Scarlett was looking for them, she could see signs of heat all over the place. Sweat on people’s foreheads, dark spots on their shirts. Mr. Vogel was fanning himself with some homework papers and saying in a perfectly useless monotone, “Come on, you hotheads. Settle down.”
Scarlett glanced up at the fire sprinklers. She probably had seconds to spare before she set something off. She had to get out of there. She started to stand up, but some guy pushed on her shoulder and, surprised and off balance, she sat down again.
“As a matter of fact,” Jamie said, panting a little and patting her face with a handkerchief monogrammed in gold thread. “No, that’s not the best I can do. I was being nice. On account of your grief. But I think we all can see that you’re out of your mind right now. With grief. Or maybe just general stupidity. What? Did you wake up and need some drama today? Because you’re going to get some.”
And she nodded at the guy who’d just pushed Scarlett back down.
“Kids,” Mr. Vogel droned. “It’s time for class.”
Scarlett opened her mouth to say something sarcastic and cutting—and the guy, who had greasy hair that hung in his face, grabbed her breast.
“Hey, they’re real!” he said. “I thought she’d stuffed them today, but toilet paper just doesn’t have the same squish.” He pulled his hand away a second later and blew on his fingers. “But, yow, she’s hot!”
His name was Matt something-or-other, and he was one of the jocks. Not one of the shiny, well-known jocks. Just a backup jock.
He glanced at Jamie. She nodded again, her pointy chin almost stabbing her chest.
Matt’s hand swung down toward Scarlett’s chest again, but this time she was ready. She slammed both of her forearms against his arm and pinned it down to the desk.
Almost immediately, she smelled burning hair. Matt howled and tried to pull his arm back.
But she was stronger now, and it wasn’t so easy to push her around. Or to get away from her. She could feel the skin blistering up under her arms, the small hairs breaking off.
“Hot, hot!” he screamed. “Oh my God, she’s burning me!”
Everyone laughed. They shouldn’t have laughed. It wasn’t funny.
Scarlett slowly lifted her arms, and greasy-haired Matt jerked his arm away and stuck his blistered skin in his mouth, desperate to cool it off.
Things were out of control. She was out of control. Scarlett knew she wasn’t a good person. She was never going to be a good person. She was greedy and selfish. She didn’t help anyone unless there was something in it for her. And now, the one good thing she was good at, keeping herself at least from hurting other people, was breaking down. She was revealing her true self and it was… not very nice at all. God. Why was she even surprised? But that didn’t matter right now.
Scarlett grabbed the edges of her desk and growled. “Get. Out. All of you.”
“I’m outta here,” Matt mumbled around the arm in his mouth. But instead of leaving, he just stood there.
Scarlett frowned at him. One of his legs was jiggling, his Nike bouncing rapidly on the floor tile, like he was trying to walk but was getting short-circuited. Like he was in a video game and had lag. Or he was bugged. Nobody else was leaving either, even though more than one other person was twitching just like Matt.
And for the first time, Scarlett saw the tentacles piercing everyone in the room. Coming out of people’s eyes and ears and mouths and assholes. Leaking out of their clothes. Wrapped around their necks. The room was a horror. The floor was covered with the oozy, throbbing tentacles wrapped around people’s feet and legs. Every time someone tried to take a step, the tentacles tightened. That’s what was causing the twitching.
What the hell are those? Why couldn’t I see them? Hell, why am I seeing them now?
The girl that Heather had tossed over the desk was still lying on the floor—the tentacles almost completely covered her. Only her two waving arms were visible, and the bottom half of her gasping face. Isn’t anyone going to help her get up? But nobody but Scarlett could see what was really happe
ning, and the negative energy was killing every kind of even remotely human impulse in everyone else in the room.
Scarlett struggled to her feet. It was hard. Something heavy was on her back and across her arms, trying to drag her down. Enormous tentacles were pressing down on her shoulder. A thick, wet, twisted cable of them. The end of the cable pressed against her cheek like it was trying to give her a sloppy puppy-dog kiss. She grabbed the end of the cable and flung it away. It slammed into greasy-haired Matt’s chest and knocked him over. Oops. The end of the cable started feeling around Matt’s chest and oozed under his shirt and down to his crotch.
Great. Just great. This was turning into a crazy Japanese sex manga. And her other shoulder was still under another one of those huge cables of negative energy, which was gently caressing her ear. Ugh.
“What’s going on here?” Mr. Vogel asked in his monotone, as if nothing abnormal were going on at all—just high school high jinks, yes, sir!
Scarlett ignored him and shoved the other tentacle off her shoulder, not as hard this time, making sure it landed on the floor instead of on top of someone. She climbed up on top of her metal and plastic chair-desk, not really caring how stupid she must look, just needing to get as far away from the floor as she could. She needed a second to think. Just a second. She needed to figure out how to get out of this situation still looking human. She didn’t care about detention. Just… keeping things contained. Keeping people safe. She had to figure out how to stop those tentacles.
The room was growing hotter and hotter, and Scarlett knew it was coming from her.
The two guys holding Heather were shoving their hands inside her shirt and pulling it apart. Riiip. Their faces looked shocked. Like they couldn’t believe what was happening. Her bra was lacy and pink, and her face was blotchy from crying. Casey was kneeling on top of a tall, skinny guy and slamming his head against the floor. He was unconscious. Mr. Vogel’s mouth was full of wadded-up paper. The shy, almost midget-short girl called Tiny, who never said anything to anybody, was viciously tearing homework into shreds and shoving more in with an obvious and ugly satisfaction. And he was letting her.
Something touched Scarlett’s leg. Not just a tentacle. Something real.
Before Scarlett could figure out what was touching her, one of the football jocks—maybe the quarterback, she didn’t know, one of the good-looking ones anyway—grabbed the bottom of her desk and tried to heave it upward.
He couldn’t. And that was weird. She must be heavy. But it made her stumble anyway, and she had to shift her feet to keep her balance.
She heard a small whip as a piece of paper slid across the desk. Under her foot. The football player was retreating with sweat dripping down his face. Streaks of sweat stained his uniform polo top, making it look like he was in a sauna.
“Now,” Jamie said from somewhere close. Too close.
And then the football player charged at Scarlett. Slammed into her legs.
No!
Scarlett felt herself tip. She struggled to keep her balance… almost…
And then the paper was jerked out from under her foot, and she was falling. Over. The world spinning around her. She curled into a ball as she fell. Not trying to protect herself. Trying to hold it all in.
“Pax!” Scarlett wasn’t sure if she screamed aloud or just in her head.
She slammed into the floor. Into that nest of dark energy.
And went under.
Akllana’chikni’pai felt the girl lose consciousness amid the dark tentacles. She felt the negative energy that made up half of Scarlett’s being rise up and take over, trapping Scarlett’s mind. The tentacles poured into what was left of Akllana’chikni’pai’s pacha. All of them turned to chisels as they came, ready to pierce Akllana’chikni’pai’s being and destroy her.
Akllana’chikni’pai released the energy she had been holding and the world exploded with light.
On the astral plain, in a pacha of his own creation, Terkun’shuks’pai wandered the small animal paths in the foothills below the old, tree-covered mountain, listening to the birds shouting elegant insults at each other. This might be one of the more perfect meadows he had ever created. The sun peeped through low, stormy clouds that threaded mist throughout the entire valley. The air smelled of pine sap and of the old, dry needles thickly matted below his feet. Small mountain flowers grew next to jagged, mossy rocks. Across the meadow was the mouth of a cave, dark, half-covered with fallen rock, as though it hid a darkness that could not be allowed to escape but might be glimpsed if one’s heart were pure. Above it, the peak of the mountain rose, cool and white.
Scrubby trees shuddered in the cool, stiff breeze. A small pond at the bottom of the valley threw back rippled images of the thick clouds racing across the sky, which seemed so close one might touch them.
Terkun’shuks’pai touched a peeling, ancient branch bent by the wind over centuries and then continued walking.
The pacha reflected his visualization skills, his ability to master physical forms, and his discipline over his emotions, which influenced the literal atmosphere of the place. It was easy to observe his skills in envisioning the pacha and his mastery over the physical—even in this imaginary place—were as sharp and clear as ever. It was equally easy to observe the turmoil in his emotions. If they remained this overwrought for much longer, the darkness of the cave would spread across the valley, filling it with shadows and populating it with monsters—splinters of his psyche that had gone mad from strain. The stronger one’s abilities, the more vulnerable one was to shattering.
Calm. He had to remain calm.
However, despite the dark clouds and strong breeze, the current atmosphere of the pacha was pleasant and refreshing. Perhaps it would rain, later. He rather enjoyed storms, as long as they didn’t go on too long.
Lightning flashed across the sky, striking an elegant, wind-twisted, ancient pine tree, which burst into flame and crumpled into ash within a scant moment.
A sign?
Terkun’shuks’pai watched the storm swirling overhead as if pondering what to destroy next. The earth groaned under him, and the cave filled with darkness shed a few small stones, some dirt. It might, perhaps, be wiser to allow the Earth and humanity to burn themselves out or be replaced. Some storms couldn’t be harnessed. They could only be endured and allowed to blow themselves out.
He needed them, though. Especially Pax and the girl. For at least a little while longer.
In the heart of the fire, in the center of Scarlett’s body, Akllana’chikni’pai was building a pacha.
A temple. Her temple. With its mountain blossoms and its cool, dry air that hummed with static, waiting for a spark. Its worn, carved steps had borne the weight of so many thousands of slaves, some carrying water, others carrying nothing more than the beating hearts within their chests, their skin anointed with oils meant to raise a pleasant scent to humanity’s twisted gods.
The temple she had purified.
In many ways, she was not as strong or as skilled as Terkun’shuks’pai. The stones were featureless, bland gray, the flowers stiff splatters of color against the green and gray of the mountainside. The slaves were fleshy blobs with great, dark eyes; the priests were not much better but were dressed in the bright plumage of jungle birds and their elaborate robes—she had the colors right, if not the textures. The sky was a pure, clear, even blue: even after Terkun’shuks’pai had pointed out to her the variation of the hues from end to end of the horizon in a natural sky, she had been unable to do much more, even at the best of times, than make it blue. And right now she was distracted.
But the altar was under her and the sky above her, and the slaves bowed and the priests chanted. And that was enough for her purpose.
Above her, an eagle swirled in the sky, drawing gyrating patterns that might seem poetic but were the na
tural result of millions of years of calculations driven by bloodshed: an efficient, elegant search pattern, as the bird looked for prey. The bottoms of its wings were streaked with black and white, its face surrounded by gray feathers. Its eyes shimmering like pearls.
The priests had trapped her within human flesh for a thousand years. And, when she was almost about to escape, they had tried, at the last moment, to sacrifice her to their gods.
Fortunately, their gods would have none of it. They were not nice gods. The eagle opened its mouth and screamed. From the blue sky, fire rained down.
Gone were the delicate mountain blossoms.
Gone were the worn, carved steps.
Gone were the slaves.
Gone the priests.
Gone the altar itself, melted into burning, splashed stone.
Gone, too, the strands of darkness.
All that was left was Akllana’chikni’pai, and Akllana’chikni’pai was free.
The noisy, useless crowd looked down at Pax, a number of heads haloed by the sunlight overhead. A beautiful day to get staked through his nonexistent heart by a religious nut. In the center—or just off to the left—of his chest was a splintery slat of wood attached to a poster that read DESTRUCTION IS IMMINENT. It didn’t hurt. It had at first, but he’d turned off the pain. It was easier than he’d thought. Easier than changing a setting on his laptop.
The woman who’d staked him was bending over him and drooling a thick, ropey string of saliva onto his hoodie. Her eyes were dark blue and, despite the brightness of the day, completely dilated. Her eyelids were drawn back so the white sclera surrounded her irises completely. Her eyes bulged like beads attached to a stuffed animal and twitched so the irises appeared to vibrate. In short, her eyes were completely mad. Pax had to wonder: had they been that mad before he’d sent her husband (he suspected the flying religious nut had been her husband, anyway) flying across the street and into the construction zone? Was it grief (understandable) or zealotry (ludicrous) he was looking at? Or both? Probably both.