Meg Cabot - Awaken

But there was a stillness within John and myself that, now that we were truly back together, no amount of external mayhem could disturb.

I love you. I love you. I love you.

There was no need to say it out loud anymore. We could read it in each other’s tear-filled eyes.

“ We’ll find a way to fix it,” he said, correcting himself as he looked back down at Kayla. “I swear we will.”

The fight had gone out of Kayla. She was staring down at her feet, her riotous mane of multicolored curls falling over her face. “I don’t know how you’re going to do it and have him be … the same.”

“We’ll find a way,” John assured her. “Kayla, you have to believe me. But killing this piece of trash … that isn’t going to help anything.”

They were so intent on their discussion, neither of them saw the piece of trash they were discussing sit up and look around, notice the knife lying next him, then reach for it.

But I did.

“Not this time,” I said, and struck Mike in the chest with the tip of my whip.

Mike cursed and dropped the knife to clutch his heart with both hands. His face twisted in pain as smoke began to pour from his chest.

John and Kayla stared down at Mike as he lay curled at their feet, moaning. John knelt to lift up the knife.

“What did you do?” he asked me in wonder.

I’d jerked the end of my whip back to me. Now I held it up so the sunlight caught the winking, shining object on its tip: the Persephone Diamond John had given me.

“This works much better,” I said. Then I noticed another Fury behind them. “Hold still.”

Crack. The Fury, who appeared to be around our own age, dropped the switchblade he’d been holding and ran away, grabbing his arm, from which a thin trickle of black smoke began to stream.

John turned to grin at me. “Well done.”

“It was Henry’s idea, really,” I said. “I modified it a little. I can’t take all the credit.”

John glanced around at all the many Furies who were still roaming the cemetery. I could practically see the plan forming in his head. “We’ll be able to reach more of them more quickly on horseback.”

I wasn’t sure I liked this plan. Alastor and I had formed a détente, but it was still an uneasy one, based mainly on mutual sadness over John’s death. Now John was alive and well. I swallowed.

“Great idea,” I lied.

John whistled, and Alastor came thundering up, a Fury clutched in his jaws by the neck of his shirt. John shook his head in disapproval, and the horse reluctantly dropped the man, who fell panting in front of the massive silver hooves. I quickly flicked him with the end of my whip, and he cried out in pain, rolling into a ball, though the diamond had barely scratched him. A puff of smoke floated into the air from the back of the man’s head. Alastor whinnied approvingly, enjoying the sight of another’s pain. That’s the kind of horse he was.

“Nicely done,” John said admiringly to me.

“It was nothing,” I said.

“Mr. Liu?” John called.

The gentle giant came lumbering forward, dragging two Furies by their heads. “Yes?”

John handed a still-shaken Kayla over to Mr. Liu while I quickly touched the tip of my whip to his two captives. “We’re going to put an end to this. Would you look out for her?”

Mr. Liu dropped his dazed Fury friends and nodded at Kayla, his expression, as always, implacable. “My pleasure.”

Kayla looked up at him with tear-swollen eyes. “Let’s go kill someone.”

“Kill?” Mr. Liu shook his head. “Maim is better.”

Kayla shrugged. “Okay.”

John mounted Alastor, then reached a hand down from the saddle. “Step on my boot,” he said as I grasped his fingers, “and swing yourself up ….”

I gave Alastor the evil eye, which he returned, but he allowed me to swing myself up into the saddle in front of John … undoubtedly because John was right there, watching.

If I’d known I’d be riding a death lord’s horse around the Isla Huesos Cemetery, swinging a whip at people possessed by Furies, I probably wouldn’t have chosen to wear a dress. But things never seemed to work out as I planned.

I’m not going to lie and say there weren’t parts of it that were fun. It was hard work and required a lot of concentration. Swinging a whip from the back of a moving animal isn’t as easy as they make it look in Westerns. But I wasn’t trying to rope cattle, all I was trying to do was touch Furies … who, granted, made pretty challenging targets, since they were running away from a thundering hell horse. Several times I misaimed when they dodged and was certain I got them in the face. Not that I didn’t think they deserved it, but I had to keep in mind what Mr. Smith kept saying, that they were humans possessed by demons and didn’t know what they were doing.

Maybe.

Reed and Chloe and the others soon caught on, and then it was a matter of them herding the Furies into areas where Alastor could reach them. And all I had to do was flick them.

“You know, Pierce,” John said in my ear, his arm tight around my waist as we chased down a woman in an Outback Steakhouse uniform who was running from us without fear, her gaze as dead-eyed and glazed as every Fury before her, “I think we’re winning.”

“Against the human Furies, maybe,” I said. I caught the woman, sending her sprawling, moaning, into a pile of decorative funeral wreaths, smoke funneling up from her right shoulder. “But not them .”

I raised my gaze. The ravens were still gathered overhead, squawking angrily.

“Wait,” John said, pulling Alastor to a stop. “Look. Do you see that?”

“What?” I shaded my eyes with one hand and looked.

At first I didn’t see anything. The sun was so bright, and the sky so achingly blue, it was difficult to see anything but the black vees the ravens made against it. But then I saw what John was talking about. A flash of white, fluttering amidst the black specks.

“John,” I said, sinking my fingers into his arm. “Is that … ”

A fat mourning dove, pure white except for a few inky black feather tips on her wings and tail, suddenly swooped down to land between Alastor’s ears. The horse, startled, reared up a little, snorting.

“Hope!” I cried, reaching for her. The bird allowed me to snuggle her against my cheek, cooing happily. “Oh, Hope, where have you been?”

Hope only cooed some more, rubbing her face against mine, then began to search my hair, obviously looking for food.

“I don’t know where she’s been,” John said. “But wherever it is, she found some friends.”

He pointed upwards. There were now white vees visible amongst the black ones. First only a few, then more white birds than black ones, and the white ones seemed to be battling the black ones. The ravens, under attack by a larger and superior force, quickly gave up, disappearing from the sky at a rapid rate.

Only the white birds weren’t completely white, I noticed, when one swooped close enough for me to get a better look at it. They were —

“Pigeons!” I cried in surprise.

“Mourning doves,” John corrected me. “I told you. Hope’s a mourning dove. They vary in coloration.”

The one that had swooped close to me was much larger than Hope, and gray … as silver-gray as my diamond when there weren’t any Furies around. As silver as John’s eyes. It was black, however, on its wingtips and tail. It landed, exactly as Hope had, between Alastor’s ears, but since it weighed so much more than Hope, its landing was nowhere near as graceful.

Alastor gave an angry whinny and shook his head, attempting to fling the bird from it, but the mourning dove was determined to cling to its roost and hung on, cooing loudly, in what I considered a decidedly masculine manner.