Messenger of Fear. Майкл Грант

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СКАЧАТЬ I said, practically spitting the word, as the images of our brief contact still churned vilely in my memory. That word, demon, wasn’t in my thoughts until it came out of my mouth and I realized it was true. Or realized at least that I believed it.

      “A demon?” Oriax repeated, disbelieving. “Our Messenger a demon? Don’t be ridiculous. No, no, no. He’s not a demon. I know a few demons, well, what you might call demons, and sadly our Messenger of Fear is no demon, unless demons mourn for their lost Ariadne.”

      “Leave us, Oriax. You’ve had your fun.”

      “Mmm, not yet, I haven’t,” she said. “But eventually.”

      She was gone, and I was filled with fear and a deep disturbance that seemed to have a physical effect: I was trembling. Trembling all over, in every part of my body, from my knees to my heart to the muscles of my face, as though each individual cell was shaking.

      “I am sorry I touched you, Mara,” Messenger said. “It would have been kinder to let you fall.”

      I felt deeply unsettled. The vivid memories of that touch had begun to fade and I was glad of it. The memory of Oriax, too, seemed to lose some of its sharp detail, and for that I was sorry because I had never seen or imagined anyone quite like her. I wanted to hold that image in my mind until I had come to grips with it and decided just how . . .

       Let her go, Oriax.

      What did Messenger mean by that? How had she “had” me that she needed to let me go?

      I recalled a sense of being released, and of that release filling me, however briefly, with a sense of loss but also a sense of relief. I had fallen when she released me, but she had never laid a finger on me.

      Too much. Too much now crowded my brain. Too many feelings, too many wild emotions, too much fear, and . . . and something that was like fear but also held within it seeds of pleasure. I found that part of me wanted Oriax to come back. Even more of me wanted Messenger to speak to me, to explain, but also just to speak.

       You’ll crave him desperately, oh yes, you will.

      No, that at least would never be true. I had burned myself on that hot stove and did not need a second reminder that Messenger was not to be touched.

      But did I still want him to explain? Did I want him to reveal? Yes.

      “Why is my memory all fuzzy?” I asked him.

      He considered me for a moment and reached some kind of decision. He drew a deep breath, and this simple biological act lessened my fear somewhat, for I had begun to believe my own blurted remark—that he was a demon, or if not a demon, then some other nameless supernatural horror.

      Did demons breathe in that particularly weary way? Did sadness and loss reveal themselves in demons’ eyes?

      I was confused. My feelings were all astray, rifled and tossed like a room that’s been burglarized. My memory, my emotions, all of it was too much, but I had already fainted once and would not allow myself to do so again. Whatever else this was, it was a test of my strength, my will. I would not be weak.

      “Your memory has been disturbed by the transition.”

      “Well, I need my memory.”

      “Do you?” He tilted his head and looked at me as if my image was evoking something from another time and place. He wasn’t looking at me, Mara; he was looking at something I reminded him of.

      “Look, Messenger,” I said, trying to sound determined, “I don’t know what you want of me, but I won’t cooperate unless I know who I am and . . .” I hesitated there, for the next words would perhaps reveal too much of the vulnerability I felt. Then, with a sigh that fluttered in my chest, I finished, “. . . and what I am.”

      I swear that then he almost smiled. It was nothing that I could see, but the slight lessening in the rigidity of his features allowed me to think that he was possibly smiling.

      “Yes. Memory,” he said.

      And then, I remembered.

5

      I saw what I looked like. I saw my face. My body. And with it, memories of earlier stages of my life. Me a year ago. Me three years ago. Me as a little girl taking gymnastics.

      My locker combination was 13-36-9.

      My grade point average was 4.0.

      I was five feet, five inches tall and hoped against all odds to grow taller.

      I weighed 121 pounds.

      I knew my social security number.

      I knew my student ID number.

      I knew my driver’s license number, which surprised me because I didn’t think I’d ever memorized that.

      It was as if every number I’d ever known was coming bubbling up into my brain. My home was at number 72. My birthday was July 26. My phone number . . .

      “That’s not what matters,” I said.

      “I thought you wanted to see your memories,” Messenger said.

      “Those aren’t the memories. Those aren’t what I need. Did you do that to me? Can you turn my memory on and off?”

      He surprised me by giving a direct answer. “Yes.”

      “That’s not fair!” The words were out of my mouth before I’d even begun to think about them.

      “Fair.” He said the word with something like reverence. Like the word had deep significance to him. “I’m sorry you find me unfair, but I think you are mistaken. You don’t yet understand, and whether it is fair or not in your judgment, I will hold your memories. I will hold them back.”

      “What? Who says? I mean, what?”

      “It’s part of the deal you made,” Messenger said.

      I froze.

      “What?”

      He did not repeat himself. So I did.

      “What? What do you mean, it’s the deal I made?”

      “You must trust me, Mara.”

      “Trust you? I don’t even know your name. I don’t even know what you are. I don’t know where we are or why. Trust you?”

      “Yes, Mara. You must trust me.”

      I stared at him, and this time I did not lower my eyes but met his gaze. “What is this about?” I asked.

      He could have easily sidestepped such a poorly phrased question. But he did not. Instead he chose to answer, emphasis always on “chose” because though I didn’t yet know it, I was entirely in his power. At that moment, and for a long while after as well, I belonged to Messenger. СКАЧАТЬ