The Tattooed Heart: A Messenger of Fear Novel. Майкл Грант

lamely and stepped back into the girl’s world. Her name was Samira. I saw it on her text. The person she was texting was named Zarqa.

      Zarqa: Heard u were hassled. RU OK?

      Samira: It was nothing. Just jerks.

      Zarqa: What happened?

      Samira: They pulled off my abaya. NBD.

      Zarqa: It is a big deal. U shd tell sum1. Bullying.

      Samira: No.

      Zarqa: Grl we have to stand together.

      The microwave rang and Samira cut the conversation off with a quick GTG and a heart emoticon.

      Samira set her phone aside and removed her meal.

      I stepped back to Messenger. “Her name is Samira. I think that was another Muslim girl texting her.”

      “All right, I admit it: I’m mystified.”

      The words were what I was feeling, but they did not come from me.

      Oriax had appeared.

      Oriax is a female. She’s a female in much the same way that a billion is a number, or a Porsche is a car, or a twenty megaton nuclear bomb going off is fireworks.

      Age? Whatever age she wants you to see. She may be eighteen. She may be older than human civilization.

      I knew enough of her to know that she is sadistic, cruel, evil, and not really human, and incredibly beautiful. Dark hair, dark eyes, an outfit of scraps of leather melded seamlessly to form a dominatrix look that fits her like it was painted on—and might well be. Her boots were extreme high heels but minus the heel, a look only possible when you have hooves.

      “Well, hello there, mini-Messenger. What was your name again? Pawn? Puppet?”

      She had a throaty purr that sounded like an intimate whisper. The illusion is so real that when she punctuates the p sound in puppet I swear I can feel her breath on my ear, and it makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

      “Mara,” I said. “My name is Mara.”

      She moved like a tiger, sinuous, precise, dangerous. She was beside me and though I’m straight I felt my throat tighten and my breathing become labored, such is her animal appeal.

      “You know, Mara, you don’t have to dress like a schoolgirl. I could arrange for something a bit more . . . well, let’s just say something that would make it harder for Messenger.” She laughed wickedly at that, then with a wink, added, “I mean harder for Messenger to ignore you so completely. As a young woman.”

      “I’m not . . .” I began, and then realized there was no safe way for me to conclude that sentence. Instead I blushed and fell silent.

      “I don’t think he’s even really noticed the way you look at him sometimes, or the way your heart speeds up when he comes close or—”

      “What is it you want, Oriax?” Messenger asked wearily.

      “Oh, you, Messenger. Always. You’re just so very delicious. I could eat you up.” She licked her lips, which today were glowing mauve, and leered, but for a chilling moment it occurred to me to wonder if she might not mean that literally.

      I had stood by helplessly while she had tricked a boy into accepting a punishment that left him shattered as a human being. She had laughed and sung a grim little song as he was made to experience being burned alive. Was there anything too foul for her? Was there any sort of limit? I doubted it.

      “I’m fine,” I said, responding way too late to her offer to improve my appearance.

      “Why this girl?” Oriax gestured at Samira, who had gone on eating, disregarding the three of us. “Because someone pulled her silly scarf?”

      “Don’t pretend to be blind to the connection, Oriax,” Messenger said. “Hatred grows like a cancer, spreading ever outward from its source. It’s a poison in the human bloodstream that spreads far beyond its origin. ‘If you prick a finger with a poisoned thorn say not that you are innocent when the heart dies.’ Isthil teaches that no one who does evil can ever be blameless for the consequences.”

      “Oh, well then,” Oriax said, dripping sarcasm, “if Isthil said it—”

      And just like that, without a word from Messenger, without any sort of warning, we were back in that void between two realities.

      On our left, still within Samira’s reality, an irritated Oriax realized we’d given her the slip. She seemed not quite able to find us, though we could still see her.

      On the other side of the void, Trent was with Pete. The third boy was no longer with them and in fact I never saw him again. I hoped he’d seen the malice in his friends and chosen a better path for himself.

      Trent and Pete were sitting on swings at a park playground. Trent glared and frightened off the younger children who approached.

      “Have you heard from your dad?” Pete asked.

      Trent shook his head angrily. “He’s gone. Up in North Dakota, looking for work.”

      “Yeah, but—”

      “Hey. Douche nozzle. You think I want to talk about my dad? He’s gone. Maybe he’ll come back, maybe not. Okay? We done?”

      Pete swung a little, a short arc, with his feet dragging the ground. “Okay, man.”

      “Probably just drinking,” Trent muttered. “Up there drinking and not giving a damn about anything.”

      “He used to be kind of cool before he lost his job,” Pete observed.

      “Yeah, well, he did lose it. So that’s that, right? They gave it to some Mexican.” At that point his talk turned scatological and racist and I won’t attempt to repeat it.

      There was a depth of barely contained anger in Trent. His friend, Pete, seemed like a more balanced person, but one who was under the sway of his larger companion. “My dad’s okay,” Pete said. “He still—”

      “Do I give a damn?” Trent asked with weary mockery.

      Pete was taken aback but forced a sickly smile and said, “No, man, even I’m not really interested in my dad.”

      “He’s got a job anyway.”

      “Yeah, but he kind of hates it because—”

      “But he’s got a job. Right? So he’s not off somewhere all messed up from being out of work. Right? So shut up.”

      Pete shut up.

      I’ve often wondered about people like Pete. I have never understood why angry thugs like Trent seem able to attract more normal followers.

      But then I winced, remembering. I had been a bad person. I had done a terrible thing. And yes, I’d had friends and acolytes the whole time.

      Self-righteousness rises in me sometimes, and then I remind myself that I do not have the right to look down my nose at others. I am the apprentice to the Messenger of Fear, and as such I deliver a measure of justice. But it had begun when I accepted the truth of my own weakness. My position as apprentice was not an entitlement, it was a punishment.

      “Oriax can’t see us?” I asked, mostly just to distract myself from painful memories.

      “Eventually, but not immediately. Her powers are different. Very great, but different. But she will find us in time.”

      “Then let’s use the time to figure this out,” I said.

      “The time?” He cocked his head, waiting.

      It took me a few seconds to grasp the hint. “Yes, the time. But I don’t think I want to see more of Trent. I want to understand the connections. I want to see what led to the death of that poor boy with his face blown away.”

      Just like