Thirsty - M. T. Anderson [39]
I turn the other way and jam my wrist in my ear. I close my eyes. My arm is uncomfortable, twisted so my wrist will fit in my ear. I turn the other way.
Something scuffs the rug.
I open my eyes. A man is in my room, staring down at me.
I sit up, yelping. It is the Thing with the One-Piece Hair. It approaches me. Its hands are spread outward, ten fingers raised in a fan. It has no expression on its face.
“No! Shit! Get out!” I scream, scrabbling with my sleeve to reveal Chet’s symbol.
The Thing keeps walking toward me.
“What’s your problem?” calls Paul. “Can you shut up?”
“Christopher,” says the Thing with the One-Piece Hair in its voice like many speaking. “Do not be alarmed or attempt to flee. I am a servant of the Forces of Light.”
I babble, “No, you’re not! You broke in! Get out! You’re . . . This is illegal!”
“I am a servant of the Forces of Light, and I have been instructed to approach you.”
“No, you’re not!” I scream, holding out the sigil on my arm. “Get out! You can’t do this! This — this is breaking and entering.”
It gazes at me. “As I am a five-dimensional construct, the concept of ‘entering’ has no useful application in this scenario.” It walks toward my bed. Its knees are by the edge of the bed. It bends down over me so its dead eyes are close to my face. I can smell its steely breath as it speaks.
“Get out!” I scream. “Help! Help!”
The door slams open against the wall. My mother storms into the room. “Chris!” she says. “Good god, what’s wrong?”
“Help me! It!” I say, inarticulately.
“What?”
“Hey, what’s the matter?” yells Paul from the lawn. “You okay in there?”
“He’s fine,” my mother calls. “A nightmare or something.”
“As you may observe, calling for help was ill advised and futile,” the Thing points out, straightening up.
“Chris, what’s the matter?” my mother asks, concerned.
The Thing is prattling obliviously, “I have come to make inquiries of the whereabouts of the Arm of Moriator, which was taken illegally from our arsenal twenty-eight days ago.”
“The Arm . . . it was taken illegally?” I stutter. “I-I mean . . .”
“Who are you talking to?” my mother asks. “Hello? Earth to Chris.”
“Never mind,” I say to her. “I’m fine now.”
“You’re fine now. Great. Why is this family so crazy? Why, and I ask why, is this family so crazy?”
“You have seen the Arm of Moriator?” asks the Thing.
I nod.
“Who are you nodding at?” asks my mother. “Who are you nodding at?” She shakes her head. “I don’t know. Chris, why don’t you come out and talk to us like a normal human being when you’re done being a psychopath. Okay?” She closes the door behind her.
The Thing starts in again. “You have been in contact with a being of some power. I encountered him and attempted to warn you that harm would come if you assisted him. Please identify this being.”
The Thing waits.
“His name is Chet,” I say.
“His name is not Chet. Chet is not his name at all.”
“If you know . . .”
“His name is a pattern of thought. You cannot replicate it?”
“No,” I say. “I guess we weren’t formally introduced. I mean, by brain or anything.”
“He remains unidentified. His purpose is unclear. You will now clarify?”
My jaw opens and closes while I think. I am frightened, but my mind is working quickly. What can I safely tell the Thing with the One-Piece Hair, I wonder — and does it serve Light or Darkness?
“There are some vampires,” I say. “He promised me . . . Well, anyway, these vampires, they’re trying to cast a spell that will interfere with the rituals for binding Tch’muchgar.”
“Continue.”
I hesitate. I can’t explain about where the Arm is. If the Thing is evil, it might not know yet about the Arm. I don’t know who I can trust. Chet is not here. For all I know, Chet is not anywhere.
“How do I know you’re from the Forces of Light?” I ask.
“We do not require that you believe us.”
“Who are you? Why have you been following me?”
“I repeat: I am a servant of the Forces of Light. Twenty-eight days ago the being you refer to verbally as ‘Chet’ entered our arsenal and, deceiving us as to his identity, received