Here

The day-old snow glowed a soft, almost lovely blue in the dawn light, but the sight of it still gave Kit the chills. She kept her face stoic, ignored the cold metal pressed against her back that she could feel through her windbreaker, the feel of it reminding her that no matter how fast she could run, she couldn’t outpace a bullet, couldn’t beat the half-dozen men she knew stood behind her.

On the edge of her field of vision, she could see Damon, the barrel of an assault rifle against his spine, his right hand gripping the chain-link fence that ran beside him. He was shaking, and Kit wondered how much of it was cold, how much of it was fright, and how much of it was nicotine withdrawal. In her case, it was fright, no matter how loathe she was to admit it. She whispered almost inaudibly, mouthing her Our Fathers and Hail Marys more than speaking them, forcing herself to focus on the words, to calm her mind.

It wasn’t enough. Her mind flickered with thoughts. *God, please don’t let him come, please let him come, please help, I’ll be good, I shouldn’t have run away, but let us be okay, please, don’t let him come and get killed, let him come and save me. . .*

She swallowed hard. No prayers anymore. No worrying. She was too scared, and her mouth was dry, and. . .

“Can I have a piece of gum?”

The tip of the rifle dug into her back sharply in response, and for a moment she was angry. She’d opened her mouth to respond, but as she drew breath, a solitary figure became visible in the near-twilight, following the line of the fence towards them, leaving footprints in the snow like pools of shadow in his wake. Her stomach clenched, and she felt as though the cold ground was lurching below her as she recognized the man’s build, his gait.

*Dad!*

He’d come alone, dressed in an orange hunting jacket that the still-blue light muted until it looked like a strange shade of brown. There wasn’t even a weapon in his hands. As he saw Kit standing there, eyes wide, his face broke into a mask of relief, tinged with acceptance.

Her initial, faint hope faded as she recognized the look on his face. No weapons. Guards with rifles. He was going to—

Kit started forward the instant before she heard the gunshot, made it half a step before the man holding the rifle to her back grabbed her arm, wrenched her shoulder as her legs gave way and she fell half-keeping into the snow. She tried to shrug him off, forced her head up, saw the splatter of blood and grey on the snow, and, slumped against the fence, the body—

A wave of something white hot blazed through her and she forced herself to her feet, tried to shrug the man off. When it didn’t work, she started kicking, could hear herself screaming, a long stream of profanity and threats and pleas that in a strange, detached way she knew were useless. She could feel Damon’s green eyes on her, huge and terrified in his face. She could hear words being spoken around her, commands, threats, but she couldn’t think through her tears, couldn’t stay focused on them.

“Fuck it.” The one holding Kit took her in one arm, held her fast with some effort. “This ain’t worth it. I’m gonna shoot her.”

“Orders were to let ‘em go once we got him.” The voice came from the group of men behind her.

“It’ll compromise—“

“We’re not getting paid to kill kids. We got paid to do a job, and it’s done. Let the brat go.”

Kit found herself violently pitching forward, hit the ground hard enough that even the snow didn’t cushion her, knocking the breath from her lungs and cutting short her screams. At the same moment, the man holding Damon let him go; the boy went to her side, tried to help her up. She shook him off, gasping, looked up at the soldiers , eyes blue and burning in her head as she started to mouth words that weren’t prayers, that swore revenge in a language that no one present recognized. Damon took a step back, regarded her as though she were a stranger.

The soldier who had called her a brat cocked his rifle. Kit jerked, went silent, and then suddenly her face filled with fear and confusion. She grasped Damon’s arm, a sob starting in her chest.

“Go home, kid.”

She looked up at the black visor covering the man’s face, trying to meet the whispered, “I’m sorry.” Then she and Damon stood and ran across the fields and back to her house, her tears freezing on her face in the morning air.

July, age 18

“I knew he was gonna be late.” Kit sighed, looked at her watch and stole a glance at the sun sinking on the horizon. The sun set, the grass was green, and Damon would *always* be late.

No matter how many times he was late, though, Kit never stopped hoping he’d show up on time. Maybe with flowers. Or a card. Yeah, right.

*Face it,* she thought, looking up to see him walking out of the forest in front of her, towards the playground equipment she was sitting on. His auburn hair looked blood-red in the sunset, and the angle of the light made his eyes appear dark, almost cavernous. *He’ll never be more than your friend.*

“Whatcha doing in there?” Kit looked up at him, head tilted and feet swinging above the woodchips.

Damon met her eyes, his face intense. “Come with me.”

A tremor of unease ran through Kit’s body, but she quashed it, discounted it as nervousness. “Um. . .okay. . .hey!” She yelped as he grabbed her wrist and pulled her off the equipment; his hand was hot and dry against her skin. He ran, and she followed; they went into the center of the stand of trees, the only thing that could pass as woods in the midst of the fields and plains. Even though Kit knew there were only a few dozen yards of trees separating her from the fields, she felt isolated, alone.

“D? Um, dude?” Her voice shook slightly. “Why did you just, like—“

“Stop pretending that you don’t know me.” His voice was low, and the start of a smile curved his lips. “I know that it’s you, after all.”

“Of course you know me, we—“ Kit stopped, blood running cold. She remembered the news stories—the possessions, the chaos, the friendly reporters reading from lists of symptoms. “Oh, God, Damon. . .”

He laughed, a rich sound that set Kit’s hair on end. “You really don’t remember. Just like that time in St. Malo’s.” He reached out to touch her cheek, smirked as she tried to move away, only to find her back against a tree. “I found you first.”

“You’re—you’re *sick* D, we need—we need to get, like, a priest or something, we--” She stopped as Damon’s hand made contact with her, took her chin in an iron grip, and forced her to meet his eyes.

“Remember.”

She blinked.

Part One of the Backstory

June, age 0:

She was alone in the warmsoftplace and it was bad because she was never alone and so she drew breath and cried and the warmsoftplace filled and became brightshining and she was up in the air above the warmsoftplace and it was wrong.

Her cries weren’t answered. Cooing and armholding and she wouldn’t quiet even when she felt the hotdops falling on her because she needed to hear her companion. Not booming voice, not music voice, but another shrill, keening sound. And no cry back, no form huddled near, her lungs gave in, and the room faded mid-cry.


September, age 4:

She shifted nervously on the mat, sitting Indian-style and waiting her turn to be called on. Miss Cindi called her name and she sat at a table, legs dangling from the chair.

“Okay, Caitlin, your turn. Can you tell me your name?”

“Caitlin Leah Ristow.”

She looked back down at the form; Caitlin tried to look at it, but Miss Cindi moved it out of her sight. “That’s right. And tell me your mommy and daddy’s phone number?”

“Three-zero-nine-three-seven-six-three-two-six-one.” She rattled the numbers off quickly, as though afraid she would forget them before she had a chance to finish.

“Very good! And your address?”

“Three-zero-one double-you Washington Street, Carlock, eye-ell, six-one-seven-two-five.”

“Good job!” Miss Cindi made a mark on a piece of paper. “And your mommy and daddy’s names?”

“John and Sue.”

“Okay, that’s it, Caitlin. You did very, very good.”

She frowned. “You didn’t ask me about my brothers and sisters. You asked Alycia.”

Miss Cindi smiled. “But you don’t have any brothers and sisters, Caitlin.”

“I do so!”

The teacher furrowed her brow, wondered if her information was incorrect. “Okay. Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

“Uh-huh! I have a brother!”

“Okay. And what is your brother’s name?”

“Um. . .” She looked around the room, her gaze stopping on a small boy with reddish hair who was busy playing with . “Him! He’s my brother!”

The teacher suppressed a small laugh. “Damon isn’t your brother, Caitlin. He’s your friend.”

“I *do* have a brother!” She crossed her arms

“Caitlin, you know what we say about liars.”

Caitlin looked at Miss Cindi, her small face set in determination, blue eyes glittering like jewels as she searched the teacher’s expression. After a moment, she narrowed her eyes and nodded.

“You did very well. You can go sit down now.”

The girl stood, strode back to the carpet with a strange, stalking grace, then sat back down, cross-legged again, and buried her face in her hands.


January, age 14


Kit sat on the rafters, swung sneaker-clad feet over the barn floor, and tried not to inhale the smoke drifting off of Damon’s cigarette.

“You know, doing that in here is, like, a total fire hazard, right?” She shivered, gripped the beam she was sitting on tightly, and secretly wished she’d worn more than a windbreaker.

“Then go outside and wait.” Damon took a long, greedy pull, hands red and shaking. “Except, we’re not supposed to even fucking be here, so. . .”

“You were so wanting to get out too. You know it. It isn’t like the militia’s gonna jump out of the corner or something.”

“I’m not scared. God. . .” He exhaled violently. “I was just saying.”

“I know.” Kit turned towards the window, let the late-afternoon, cloudy blue fall on her face. “But, like, maybe I am?”

Damon looked at her from the shadows, the end of the cigarette glowing between his fingers. “What do you mean?”

“He’s still doing it. I mean. . .they still have the meetings at night, and people staying over, and he’s gone a lot, and. . .” She closed her eyes. “. . .and I just get scared, okay? Cause he says that things are bad, really bad, and—and then my mom gets upset and they fight, and. . .I know he’s doing something big, okay?”

“Do you think he’s running fugitives?” Damon’s face lit up.

“I don’t know. Maybe, like, I dunno, nekos?” She laughed, though it came out high-pitched and dry as the straw under Damon’s feet. “That would be kinda cool.”

“But you think it’s more. You think he’s some kind of leader or something.”

Kit turned red and started climbing down from the rafters. “It’s totally freaky when you do that, you know.”

“Do what?”

“Know what I’m thinking.” She grins. “Hey, maybe you’re, like, a wizard!”

“Don’t even fucking *joke* about that.”

Kit stuck out her tongue and darted outside, blinked in surprise at the snow starting to fall heavily around her. “God, it’s snowing. Come *on*.”

There was no answer, no sound from the barn behind her. “Da—“

Strong arms came around her in a bear hug, held her steady, and she drew breath to scream as a bag was shoved over her head. Then she felt a prickling on her backside. Then nothing at all.