The Way Home Read online

  The bus driver bristled. “It would be left by the side of the road, that’s what. You’ll wait like everyone else. Now if you’ll excuse me.” He went stomping off, presumably to find someplace private where he could have a smoke.

  Thomas was weighing the value of having a place to sleep against the cost of his remaining worldly possessions—which wouldn’t have been such a problem if he hadn’t put all his notebooks in the suitcase for safekeeping—when a hand touched his elbow. He managed, barely, not to go for one of his throwing knives before turning to face the hand’s owner. “Yes?”

  The hand belonged to a pleasant-faced woman in a pale blue dress. “I’m terribly sorry for eavesdropping, but I couldn’t help hearing your accent. Are you related to Mr. Healy over at the library?”

  “We have family in common,” said Thomas, with careful honesty. He was quite sure that if he followed the Price family tree through all its possible twists and bends, he would find a distant cousin who had married a Healy twelve generations back. There were none within the past eight generations, but that didn’t matter much in the face of the Covenant’s careful genealogy and planned marriages.

  “I thought so,” said the woman, smiling broadly. “As soon as I heard you, I said ‘that’s a Healy boy, come home to his folks.’ Is your name on your bag?”

  “Ah, yes,” said Thomas. “There’s a leather tag reading ‘Price’ on the handle.”

  “I’ll wait here and pick it up for you. Wouldn’t do to have your first day here in Buckley get all complicated, now would it?”

  He hesitated. On the one hand, he would be leaving his bags in the custody of a stranger. On the other hand, if she proved to be dishonest, at least he’d know who he was tracking down. “Thank you for your kind offer. I’ll be right back.” He started to turn, and then paused, looking back at her, and asked, “Which way is the bank?”

  The woman pointed. Thomas took off at a quick walk. After he had safely crossed the street, he turned it into a run.

  Thomas Price arrived in front of the Buckley Township Bank and Trust ten minutes before five o’clock in the afternoon. The sole teller who was still at her post looked up at the sound of the front door banging open, and blinked at the sight of the tall, wiry man who was now proceeding across the lobby toward her. He had dark hair, which didn’t appear to have been combed in some time, a ground-in tan, and the sharpest cheekbones she’d ever seen on a living person. He was also frowning, and the look on his face made her want to crawl under her counter and hide.

  When he was close enough to speak without shouting, he said, “Excuse me, miss; my name is Thomas Price, and I believe your manager is holding something for me.” He had an English accent, much stronger than Mr. Healy’s at the library, but still recognizably from the same part of the world. He sounded exhausted. England was a long way from Michigan.

  “Are you Johnny Healy’s older brother?” she asked, curiosity getting the better of her. Then she shook her head, answering her own question. “No, you can’t be, different last name. Cousin?”

  “Friend of the family,” he said mildly. “Please, it’s very important that I get this all sorted away before you close.”

  “Yes, of course, Mr. Price,” said the teller. “Please wait here. I’ll be right back.” She slid off her stool and trotted for the manager’s office at the back of the bank.

  For the first time since arriving in Chicago, Thomas was actually alone.

  He took a deep breath of the slightly stale lobby air, trying to force some of the tension out of his shoulders. He’d need to set up a sparring dummy first thing, something he could use to stay limber and relaxed. It would be better if he could find an actual person who was willing to spar with him, but that would require one of the Healys to think keeping a Covenant agent in shape was a good idea. Somehow, he didn’t consider that very likely.

  The sound of footsteps approaching caught his attention. He raised his head and stood a little straighter, trying to look respectable despite the miasma of travel that hung around him like a fog. The teller had returned, along with a portly, red-faced man in his late forties whose thinning hair had been brushed over his scalp like a prayer to the gods on male pattern baldness for a reprieve.

  “Mr. Price?” asked the man, whom Thomas assumed must be the bank manager. “I didn’t think you were going to make it today.”

  “I wasn’t sure myself,” said Thomas, gripping his valise a little tighter and trying not to think about his suitcase. “I was told you would have the necessary paperwork for my taking ownership of my new home?”

  The house had been purchased, sight unseen, by the Covenant’s accountants. The money had been wired from a dozen untraceable accounts to a single, large account in his name, established in New York City and left intact just long enough for his new life to be bought and paid for. The car he was intended to use while in town would be waiting in the garage of the house, and if there was anything to make it perfectly clear that he was by no means forgiven, it was the fact that the car had been bought in Buckley. His handlers could have made that purchase in Chicago and allowed him to drive himself, but no. That would have been too easy, and too kind to a man who was, after all, in disgrace.

  “That’s correct,” said the bank manager. “If I could see some ID…?”

  Thomas presented his passport.

  Ten minutes, twenty signatures, and several prying questions later, the bank manager handed over an envelope containing the deed to a house on Old Logger’s Road and two sets of keys, one to the house, and one to the car. “There’s a map, if you need it,” said the bank manager, who had never bothered to give his name. “It’s a bit of a walk, but you should be able to get there before sundown.”

  “Thank you,” said Thomas. “Truly.”

  “Welcome to Buckley Township, Mr. Price,” said the bank manager. His smile was professional; it had teeth. “Mind where you step.”

  “I shall,” said Thomas, and fled the bank for the bus stop, where he hoped the woman—or at least his suitcase—would be waiting.

  The second time Alice crawled back to consciousness, it was late afternoon—late enough that the sun was starting to flirt with the tops of the trees, as if it might set at any moment. She glared at what she could see of the sky. It was bad enough that she’d apparently spent most of the day passed out in the middle of the woods. The last thing she needed now was for the sun to go down before she’d figured out exactly where she was and how to get home. The woods were a lot more dangerous at night. There were…things…that didn’t appreciate the sunlight, but were more than happy to eat you in the dark.

  Speaking of things that wanted to eat her: she turned to look back toward her vegetable attacker. It was still open, petals spread and perfuming the air around it with that curious apples-and-strawberries perfume. She wished she had a sketchbook with her, so that she could try to get the shape of the petals right.

  “Grandpa is going to be really curious about you,” she informed the flower, feeling more confident now that she knew for a fact that it couldn’t climb trees. She swung her legs as she spoke, confirming that they were back in working order. They felt fine—strong, normal, and fully equipped to bear her weight. Well, that was a good thing. It was hard to find the way home when you couldn’t walk.

  Carefully, in case she was being overly optimistic about her legs, Alice shimmied down the tree. The frickens, which had been singing the whole time she was asleep, fell silent as they watched her go.

  It was easier to get back to the ground than it had been to get away from it: in short order, Alice was standing at the base of the tree, looking warily around for signs of trouble. The big Alice-eating flower spread its petals a little wider, just in case she could be coaxed into coming back. Alice shot it a glare and moved a few feet away from it before looking up at the sky. The sun was low. Too low for her to feel confident about getting out of the woods before it was fully down. Worse, it was too low for her to use it to tell her whe
re she actually was.

  Buckley Township was a great place to grow up, according to her grandparents, located as it was in the dead middle of nowhere. It was a terrible place to grow up as far as her father was concerned, for basically the same reason. He didn’t like Alice having unfettered access to woods and lakes and other places that could potentially be full of things that wanted to treat her to a quick and messy end. She sort of understood why—her grandparents had spent enough time trying to explain it to her—but most of the time, she came down firmly on the side of loving her hometown, and loving the woods around it even more.

  Trouble was, there were literally miles of woods to love, and she didn’t know where in them she was. The salamanders had been faster than she’d expected, and had chased her with such surprising dedication that she hadn’t really paid any attention to where she was going. She’d just run, as hard as she could, until she’d slammed into the tree and stopped her own escape.

  The salamanders must have given up while she was still running, she realized, or she would have been melted off her bones before she could have woken up. But that meant they could be anywhere back along the way she’d come from—assuming she could even figure out which way that was.

  “Lost in the woods with two knives, one pistol, and no trousers,” said Alice. Then she shrugged, philosophically. “Could be worse. Could be raining.”

  When the sky did not crack open and dump an ocean on her head as punishment for her insolence, Alice smiled to herself and started walking. She stuck her tongue out at the giant flower as she passed it. It seemed only fair.

  The woods around Buckley had two states: proper forest, and practically a swamp. The woods near her house tended to be proper forest, since they were a good distance from the lake. The woods nearer the lake tended to practically a swamp, thanks to the proximity of the water—but since the town had been built around the lake, the swampier the woods got, the more likely she was to find her way back to civilization. That was, of course, unless she had managed to get so far off course that she was moving toward a different lake, one that was maybe less attached to a town and more attached to a family of skunk apes or the like.

  “Probably gonna die out here,” said Alice, as much to hear her own voice as anything else. She didn’t believe in moving quietly unless she was hunting or hiding. At the moment, she wasn’t doing either, and giving good warning to any bears or wolves or tailypo that might be lurking seemed like a good idea. Besides, it wasn’t like she was actually all that worried. If she didn’t find her way out of the woods by sunset, her father would probably come in looking for her. That was when the real trouble would start.

  Alice walked a little faster.

  Jonathan Healy wasn’t what you’d call a bad person—not really. According to her grandparents, and to the mice, he’d been a bold adventurer once. Why, he’d fought hives full of Apraxis wasps, and he’d brokered peace between groups of gorgons, and he’d even helped a whole town of finfolk figure out how to ease their way into the modern world. To hear the mice talk, he was a hero in every sense of the word.

  Alice thought she’d met that man, once upon a time. What the mice said rang true on a deep level, the level where she still kept her memories of her mother, and the tattered scraps of her belief in Santa Claus. Maybe her father had been a hero, once upon a time…but all that had changed when her mother had died.

  They lived in Buckley, because her grandparents insisted, and because there wasn’t anywhere else that they could go without the specter of the Covenant of St. George hanging over them. According to Grandpa, the Covenant would be more than happy to snap up a half-grown Healy girl and take her in for “reeducation”: she was still young enough that they could at least try to mold her to their cause. The Healys had been good little killers for generations, and the Covenant didn’t like letting go of their toys. Leaving Buckley would mean putting themselves in harm’s way. As much as her father hated the temptation her grandparents represented—the temptation to learn the things her mother had known, to be the Priestess the mice entreated her to be—he hated the Covenant even more.

  Alice hated them too, as a matter of principle, but sometimes she thought she loved them at the same time. If it hadn’t been for the Covenant, her father would have carried her away as soon as her mother was in the ground, and she would never have known how much she loved the woods. According to her grandmother, everything in the world existed for a reason, providing some sort of balance in the ecosystem it belonged to. Maybe that extended to the Covenant.

  She’d still shoot on sight if she ever met anyone from there. She wasn’t stupid.

  Alice continued to walk, noting with trepidation that the ground wasn’t getting squishier, but the sun was definitely getting lower. It was possible to walk for miles without hitting a road or town. It was harder to walk for miles without hitting a lake, but if she was at the exact right wrong angle, she could still do it.

  “Maybe I’ll walk all the way to Canada,” she grumbled.

  Something rustled in the bushes to her left.

  Being a sensible girl who had managed to live to the ripe age of sixteen despite twice-weekly unsupervised trips into the deep woods, Alice froze. The rustling was repeated, and a small possum ran out into the open. It sat down a few feet in front of the bush, rubbing its cunning little paws over its muzzle and looking as endearing as it was possible for a possum to look. Alice narrowed her eyes.

  “No,” she said. “I know what you are. Shoo.”

  The possum rubbed its muzzle again. Alice stooped and picked up a good sized rock, hefting it in her hand.

  “No,” she repeated.

  The possum moved forward a few inches. Alice chucked the rock at it.

  She might not have had as much training as she would have liked, but she had always had excellent natural aim, and she had practiced as much as she could get away with, using her slingshot, her knives, and the pistols her grandfather pretended not to know she’d stolen from the armory. When she threw a rock, she threw it true. It hit the possum, which squeaked and went limp.

  “I know you’re not dead,” said Alice, crossing her arms. “Come out of there and stop trying to scare me. It’s not going to work.”

  The possum twitched before sliding backward into the bushes. A few seconds later a tortoise the size of a small boulder clomped out into the open. It had an oversized head, the better to contain its sophisticated tongue-lure, and if a tortoise could be said to glare, this one was glaring at her. Alice dropped her arms.

  “I’m too big for you to eat and you know it,” she said. “Don’t try that again.” Secretly, she was pleased. If there was an angler tortoise in this part of the wood, then she wasn’t going to run into some of the bigger, faster predators. Bears didn’t really enjoy the company of angler tortoises, for instance. Something about the big reptiles having jaws strong enough to bite paws off. Bat-leeches also tended to avoid angler tortoises. She didn’t know why that was, and while she supposed she’d be curious about it eventually, right now, she was just relieved.

  The tortoise looked at her before beginning to plod away. Alice glanced once more at the sky, and then kept moving. It was almost sunset. She was going to be in a world of trouble if she didn’t find her way back to town soon.

  The woman—whose name was Shelly—was still waiting when Thomas returned for his bag. That was a small mercy, quickly eroded as she latched onto his arm and began telling him all about Buckley, which she swore was a bustling metropolis masquerading as a sleepy Michigan township. She worked at the beauty parlor, and baked a mean cherry pie, which she would be happy to share with him if he ever wanted to drop by. In the end, he escaped with his suitcase and his skin, although he was dimly afraid that he had agreed to come over for dinner sometime after he was settled.

  Ah, well. It wasn’t like he was equipped to cook much of anything that didn’t involve a campfire. He’d buy kitchen equipment eventually, and until then, a few meals with friendly t
ownspeople wouldn’t go amiss. It would make him seem more like he was fitting in.

  According to the map he’d received at the bank, his new house was located at the outskirts of town. To get there, he would walk down Main Street to Woodview Drive, and from there to Old Logger’s Road. His new home was, naturally, the last house on the map. Anything closer would have been too convenient for someone who was, after all, in disgrace.

  “Charming,” muttered Thomas, and began to walk.

  It was quickly apparent that while the streets on the map were correct, the distances were approximate at best. His suit had been chosen to look respectable, not to remain comfortable after walking more than a mile. His shoes were much the same. And all the while the sun was dipping lower, until he was walking past endless fields of corn and grain in the gloaming, with the forest looming ever closer on the horizon.

  “Charming,” he muttered again, this time with more venom, and hoped that the Covenant—while not inclined to do him any favors at the moment—had at least seen to having the power turned on when they purchased the house. They wanted him to understand that he was in disgrace. They didn’t want him dead…or if they did, they had certainly chosen a roundabout way of accomplishing it.

  He reached his new home almost two hours after his bus had pulled into Buckley, and for a moment he simply stood and stared at the ramshackle, almost asymmetrical structure. It was difficult to tell whether it was three or four stories high; the windows seemed to move when he looked away from them, the shadows and the lines of the house conspiring to make them impossible to count. The porch listed at one end, and the chains that had once held a swing still dangled, rusty and abandoned. Someone had taken the time to freshen up the paint when they heard the place was to be sold. The end result was that the house appeared to have contracted a bad case of leprosy.

  “Charming,” he said, for the third and hopefully final time.

  The porch steps creaked under his weight, but they didn’t break, and his key fit the lock. There was a switch inside. He flipped it, barely aware that he was holding his breath until the living room light came to watery, flickering life. It was weak, unsuitable for reading or for fine handwork. It was sufficient for him to see what was there to be seen.