Inked. Part 24

I shook my head, unsure what to say. "I came back to save those kids from something that happens more than sixty years from now, and I don't know if it worked. It all feels wrong. Winifred said-"

"Winifred?" Jean straightened, frowning. "You talked with Winifred?"

"Yes," I said slowly. "In the future. I told you that earlier."

She shook her head. "Winifred is mute. It's an actual deformity of her vocal cords, according to her family. She can't talk."

"Surgery?"

"I don't know. No one seems to think so."

She can't talk. I swayed, light-headed. Sixty years was a long time. A long, I swayed, light-headed. Sixty years was a long time. A long, long long time to find a cure. time to find a cure.

But if she hadn't?

Then who the h.e.l.l were we talking to?

"I gotta go," I breathed, pus.h.i.+ng away from the wall.

Jean grabbed my arm. "Wait."

"I can't," I said, and flung my arms around her, squeezing so tightly she made a small grunt of protest. I had so much I wanted to say, but no time. It would take a lifetime. It would take more than I could spare, even though time was mine. The future was not going anywhere.

My clock, however, was running faster than the rest of the universe. I needed to see Grant and that old woman. Now.

I stripped off my glove, even as I stared into my grandmother's eyes. "Write me a letter. Warn me. Keep warning Ernie to be careful. Same with Samuel and Lizbet. And Winifred. Make him promise to you, again, that he won't come find me. No matter what."

"I'll try," she said, and then her eyes went distant, and she began mouthing numbers. "That year you gave me. You'd be my-"

"Don't," I interrupted. "Just think of me as your friend."

Jean hesitated. "Will I ever see you again?"

It was the same question Ernie had asked me, but this time I smiled and snared my grandmother in my arms, holding her tight.

"You won't be able to get rid of me," I whispered.

And then I pushed away, my eyes burning with tears. I could not look at her-I could not-but I did anyway, at the last moment. Soaking in her impossibly young face, those glittering eyes that were already grieving. My grandmother. Jean Kiss.

"Be happy," I said to her, grabbing my right hand, thinking of Grant and the hospital.

And then she was gone-just like that-and the darkness took me.

11.

THE journey felt shorter this time, or perhaps I was finally becoming accustomed to the weight of eternity collapsing around my body. When I finally saw light again, I was not sick. My head hurt only a little. journey felt shorter this time, or perhaps I was finally becoming accustomed to the weight of eternity collapsing around my body. When I finally saw light again, I was not sick. My head hurt only a little.

I was outside St. Luke's. It was night. The same homeless man I remembered from before was still asleep on the sidewalk, in the same position. The girl with the Gatorade was walking away. It had not been that long. Not long at all.

The boys ripped free of my body, driving me to my knees. I started running, though, before the transition was entirely complete-shedding demons from my skin in smoky waves that coalesced into hard, sharp flesh.

I found the emergency room, and within minutes was directed to a quiet area in recovery. Grant was there, perched on the edge of his chair-his head tilted toward the door as though listening for something. Maybe me. I skidded to a stop when I saw him. He looked so normal. All of this, normal, familiar. But in that moment all I could smell was mildew, and all I could feel was the heat, and I remembered the sounds of Shanghai at night and the n.a.z.is with their laughter as they smiled at my grandmother.

"Maxine," Grant said, staring at me. "Your aura."

"Later," I said softly, staring past him at the old woman resting on the bed. Giving her a good long look that drew readily from fresh memories.

She seemed so ordinary. Such a sick, wounded, ordinary woman. Wrinkled, shriveled, with oxygen lines running directly into her nose, and heart monitors disappearing up her short sleeve to her chest. It was a miracle she still lived.

Or maybe not so much a miracle. I saw the truth. I saw it in a way that I never would have, had I not looked the Black Cat in the face. Despite the odds, despite her advanced age, this was not Winifred Cohen.

The woman lying in the bed in front of me was the Black Cat of Shanghai.

"This is not who we thought," I whispered.

"I know," Grant replied solemnly, rising with a wince from his chair. "Look at her arms."

I had not even paid attention, but I looked. Scar tissue covered her arms; rough, as though an electric sander had been taken to her skin. Or a knife. Something sharp that had cut and peeled.

"The doctors found those scars everywhere, as though she had been skinned alive," Grant said, his voice tight with disgust. "They asked me about it, but of course I knew nothing. It got me thinking, though. And then, the longer I was with her, and the more I studied her aura-"

"That dark patch you saw."

"Something...demonic. Buried so deeply, she might not even know it exists. There are many odd things about her aura. Fragments, just...floating. I'm not sure she knows who she is."

I did not care. The real Winifred Cohen was probably dead-and if so, this woman had killed her, or paid someone else do it. Set up the others, even as she took over the woman's life.

Should have finished the job. Should have finished. I felt my grandmother's consternation. I shared it, thinking of Ernie. I had not done enough. Not enough, by far. I felt my grandmother's consternation. I shared it, thinking of Ernie. I had not done enough. Not enough, by far.

I walked to the far side of the bed where the shadows were thick, and tapped my foot on the ground. Zee rolled free, giving me an uneasy look.

"You knew," I said. "You must have. You pretended she was safe. Why the h.e.l.l would you go to so much trouble?"

"Many reasons," he rasped, but a nurse chose that moment to approach the room, and he rolled back under the bed-leaving me fuming. The woman who entered took one look at my face-and then my ragged, ill-fitting clothing from 1944-and said sharply, "Is everything all right here?"

"Just fine," Grant soothed, a melody in his voice. "If you could give us a moment?"

The nurse shot him a piercing look that lasted for all of two seconds. She swayed, touching her head. Grant said something else to her, his voice little more than a buzz to my distracted mind. The woman nodded absently, dreamily, and backed out of the room. He shut the door behind her.

I said, "Can you wake her up?"

Grant limped close, studying my face, probably seeing all kinds of ugly emotions rising from my heart. But there was only compa.s.sion in his eyes. "You went somewhere. Back."

"Back," I agreed. "Can you do it?"

Grant hesitated, staring from me to the old woman. His eyes grew distant, thoughtful.

"She's aware of you," he said, limping to the side of the bed. "Even unconscious, a part of her is reaching toward you."

A chill raced over me. I watched the old Black Cat's slack face. Remembered her golden eyes, the vibrancy of her lush curves. That cruel zombie smile.

Antonina, I told myself. I told myself. Not the Black Cat. Not the Black Cat.

And yet, I could not separate the two. It was impossible.

Grant bent over, and placed his mouth close to the unconscious woman's ear. He sang to her, softly, but his voice rolled through me like the ghost of a summer storm, rich and heavy with thunder. I moved closer.

Her eyelids flickered. Her mouth moved, tongue darting over cracked lips. Grant motioned for me to grab a bottle of water from the nightstand, and I was ready when the old woman drew in a long, rasping breath. I rested the mouth of the bottle against her lips, and she instinctively tried to drink. I was careful only to let her sip. She finally opened her eyes, and met my gaze.

She recognized me immediately, but I could see now that it went deeper than that. I should have noticed before-realized something something was wrong. The first time I had met this woman, believing she was Winifred Cohen, she had known things about me. I a.s.sumed, erroneously, that she had witnessed my grandmother in action. Only half right. Winifred had seen little or nothing. But the zombie, on the other hand, and her host... was wrong. The first time I had met this woman, believing she was Winifred Cohen, she had known things about me. I a.s.sumed, erroneously, that she had witnessed my grandmother in action. Only half right. Winifred had seen little or nothing. But the zombie, on the other hand, and her host...

"I know who you are," I said softly to the old woman, when I was certain I had her full, conscious, attention. "Antonina. Black Cat."

The faintest hint of a smile touched her mouth, sending a chill through me. I wanted to back away, but held steady, forcing myself to hold her gaze; golden-flecked, with s.h.i.+mmers that rose from the very human brown of her eyes. I would never forget those eyes.

"Hunter," she whispered. "She was so taken with you."

"The demon who possessed you," I said.

She wet her lips. "My protector. I searched for her. For years. I felt her close sometimes, as though she was watching me, but she never...came home. Not after that day. You kept her from me. Both of you did."

I ignored that. "You've been up to your old tricks. Hurting people."

"Making right," replied the old Black Cat. "I forgot you all, for a time. I forgot so much, but the Kuomingdang would not believe that. They did many things to me, trying to make me talk. All I could tell them were stories about Siberia. But one day they pushed me too far. I killed those men. I didn't know how. Just that they were dead. I got out, and forgot them, too."

The Black Cat closed her eyes, sighing. "I had such terrible dreams, Hunter. I wanted a new life. I wanted to be someone else."

"You cut those tattoos off your body."

"Part of the bad dream." Her voice softened so much I could hardly hear her. "But I kept them. You don't...throw away pieces of yourself. Like trash."

Grant placed his hand on my shoulder. I straightened, fighting for my voice. "It was all a lie. You set Ernie up. You killed Samuel and Lizbet. Finally, you killed them. And you had yourself shot."

"Making right," she whispered again. "I dreamed of you, Hunter. All these years, dreaming of you. Feeling you, in my veins. And then one day I crossed paths with Winifred Cohen. I found her. I think I had been searching, all along. Quiet woman. But I could hear her." The Black Cat brushed fingers across her brow, but barely, as if the effort hurt and weakened her. Her hand fell limp into the covers, and her eyes drifted shut. "I...absorbed her. I made her tell me what she knew of the others. And your grandmother. I wanted to punish that woman. She loved those children.

"But it all became a dream again," she added, a moment later-sounding confused, and sad, and tired.

Grant drew me away. "Before, when we first met her, she truly believed she was Winifred Cohen. She believed everything she told us, right down to cutting the skin off a live woman. Which she did, apparently. Just to herself. Her immersion in that personality was flawless, even to me."

"And now?"

"It's like watching a quilt that has been cut into pieces. She's floating in and out. Part of her is reaching for the Winifred personality. Other parts are just...resting in what she was. She's crazy, Maxine. Well and truly scrambled. I think it's possible she ordered the hit on herself, believing she deserved it. That she was Winifred and needed to die."

I looked at the Black Cat. It had been only hours for me. Hours, since I had seen her as a young woman. And now she was shriveled, a sh.e.l.l, shot and maybe dying in a hospital bed. I had no idea what to do with a psychotic old woman who was part demon, who murdered, who believed herself to be both victim and predator. She had taken a f.u.c.king knife and cut the skin off her body. G.o.d only knew what else she had done in the past sixty years.

Dek and Mal were heavy in my hair. I looked for the others, and found them arrayed around the room, bathed in the fluorescent glow of the long bulb arranged in the wall panel above the Black Cat's head. Raw and Aaz ate popcorn as they stared at the old woman. Zee perched at the bottom of the bed, his claws bunched up in the covers surrounding her feet. Watching her solemnly.

Maybe she felt his attention. She opened her eyes, and stared right at him. Showed no fear. Just that faint smile, which s.h.i.+fted from sweet to cold, to cruel.

"Your highness," she rasped mockingly.

"Cat," whispered Zee. "Miserable Cat. Nothing left but threads."

Gold glinted again in her eyes, but stronger, brighter. Hot with fury. Grant stiffened, and in two strides I was back at the bed.

"You should have killed me then," she said, trying to sound threatening, though the effect was little more than an angry, bitter whine. "But you both were too weak too weak."

I could have said something about mercy. I could have told her that she had been an innocent, and that the formerly possessed should be given a chance to start over. But I looked into those golden eyes, fading even now into dull human brown-glazing over with forgetfulness and confusion-and kept my mouth shut. Mercy, again. Mercy, me.

I snapped my fingers at the boys, and they fled into the shadows. All of them, except Zee. I said to Grant, "Can she harm anyone else?"

"She's dying," he said simply. "I can see it all around her. She's fading. I doubt she'll last the night."

I nodded stiffly, sick to my stomach. Sick to death. I was walking away, again, but I wasn't going to kill in cold blood. Not like this.

I met the old woman's gaze. "Good-bye."

"No," she murmured, brow crinkling with confusion. "Not yet. I didn't finish. I didn't finish with you. Wanted to punish...her grandchild. Punish her her."

"You punished yourself," I replied, and left the hospital room.

GRANT and I went to my mother's apartment on Central Park. Everything was dusty. The white sheets that covered the furniture had turned gray. The windows were filthy. The air was cold and smelled faintly of mildew. But the electricity and water worked-paid for each month by one of the law firms that had overseen my mother's affairs since her murder. and I went to my mother's apartment on Central Park. Everything was dusty. The white sheets that covered the furniture had turned gray. The windows were filthy. The air was cold and smelled faintly of mildew. But the electricity and water worked-paid for each month by one of the law firms that had overseen my mother's affairs since her murder.

In the closet I found clothes wrapped in plastic. I found a locked chest full of guns. A box crammed with cash and precious jewels. And in the kitchen cupboards, Spam. Along with two forks.

"I feel like royalty," Grant said.

I tried to smile. Around us, Raw and Aaz were tumbling along the hardwood floors, tossing Dek and Mal through the air like spears-making the serpentine demons squeal with delight. I looked for Zee. I walked through the apartment, thinking of the last time I had been here with my mother. Wondering if Jean had ever come back.

I felt Zee watching me before I saw him. I stood at the window, gazing out at Central Park. Waiting to hear what he had to say. Knowing part of it already.

"Old Cat dead," he finally rasped. "Took care of it."

I had thought he would. I searched myself for regret, and found none. "Did she suffer?"

Zee climbed onto the wide sill. "Not in sleep."

"And the one who shot her? Who killed Samuel and Lizbet? Ernie?"