by Lily Luchesi
Mark patted Danny’s hand in what he assumed was supposed to be a comforting manner, but to Danny the touch was cold and distant. Mark was going to be reunited with his husband in just a few days, a fortnight at most. It was terrible for him to be jealous, but there it was: Mark was going to have a reunion, while Danny would be going back to his cold house, to gaze upon Angelica’s empty coffin and all her books that lined one wall of his sitting room.
“She did it because she loves you,” Mark reminded him. “Not many people would be so selfless. I don’t think I could be.”
Danny nodded. “You’re right, I know you’re right. I just...it’s been one month. I’ve got another thirty to forty years of life to live without her. I don’t know what’s worse: thinking I’ll feel this pain for that long...or that I won’t.”
Mark shrugged. “She could come back. She said you would probably be dead. That doesn’t mean you will be. She can’t see the future, Danny.”
“Again, you’re right. ...So, onto happier subjects, I am glad Brighton will be back soon.”
Mark’s eyes brightened and a blush suffused his face. “One month at the most! We’ve been literally inseparable since we met in both lives. This is the longest we’ve ever been apart.”
Danny was about to reply when his phone rang. He checked caller ID and saw a London area code. His heart have a traitorous leap in his chest as he wondered if this could be Angelica, being selfish and wanting to hear his voice as much as he was wanting to hear hers. It was nighttime out there.
“Mancini,” he answered, old habits dying hard. He’d never be able to say ‘hello’ ever again when picking up the phone.
“Danny, this is Inspector Linwood. Don’t say my name, just listen,” the gruff, heavily accented voice said in his ear. “Are you with Mark?”
“Yes, I am,” he replied, bewildered. Linwood was the Scotland Yard DI who assisted the London branch of the PID with cases.
Linwood sighed. “Fuck me sideways. ...I have really bad news, and I don’t think I can be the one to tell him.”
Bad news was the last thing Danny wanted to hear. “You need me to do it instead? I’m not a courier, you know.” His attempt at being witty got him a bark of dry laughter from the Inspector, but Danny could hear remorse in that bark.
“Leave the room, give him any excuse,” Linwood said.
Danny stood up and said, “I can’t hear you. Let me go into a room with better access to the outside world.” He smirked at Mark and the director laughed. Angelica had made the PID have a lot of false windows and covered many others for the safety of her vampiric employees, hence there was actually terrible reception. First rule of lying, stick to the truth as much as possible.
Danny went into another room, an unused office, and shut the door behind him. “Okay, I’m alone. What happened, Inspector?”
Danny’s hands were getting clammy. He had been on the receiving end of bad news many times, and he knew from the Inspector’s stalling that this was not just going to be a case of Brighton needing to stay in London longer, or that he was in the ICU.
“Brighton...Brighton died.” And with those words the inspector burst into tears on the other end of the phone. “Mabuz bled into his wounds, it was death or be like Mabuz, a crazed killer. Brighton chose death. You— you can’t tell Mark that. You can't tell him that the man he loves killed himself again.”
Danny’s body seemed to be going numb, the only thing holding him in reality was his hand, which was digging painfully into his denim-clad leg. It wasn’t true. It couldn’t be true.
“Mark just talked to him an hour and a half ago, he said it was done and he’d be home soon,” Danny said, his protest weak.
Linwood took a shuddery breath. “The home he mean was not on this plane, Danny. He wanted to talk to Mark before he died, to hear his voice and say goodbye, I guess.”
Danny felt sick. He wanted to faint, cry, and vomit, but he did none of those things. He was too numb to do anything but sit there, staring into nothingness. He and Brighton had gotten off on the wrong foot, but he had been assured that Brighton did that with everyone, even Angelica. Brighton had trained him, taught him to utilize his abilities. He had been a friend, a teacher, and a confidant. He was part of the team, and now he was just...gone.
Danny had known loss. His parents, his ex-fiancée (though she did not stay dead), his old partner at the Chicago Police Department. Never had he felt as awful as this. Brighton was thirty-six, he had his whole life ahead of him. He and Mark had been thinking of adopting a baby and he had been on the verge of a medical breakthrough with his blood replenishing elixir. He had brought life into a dull room. And now he was just gone.
As a Catholic, Danny knew Brighton was not gone, but in Heaven. However, Sunday School doctrine did not help alleviate the grief that was settling on him like a dark cloud.
“I don’t even know what to say,” he said, his voice hushed.
“Nor do I,” Linwood replied. “I have to go. Mahon— he was Brighton’s brother in his past life —needs me, even if he does not want to admit it.”
Danny hung up his phone and put his head in his hands. He had quite a lot of experience in telling people their loved ones had died: murder, car accidents, suicide. As a bluesuit, he’d had to do quite a few house calls that ended in tears. He was trained in basic grief counselling. Not enough to be certified, but enough to make his job easier on him when he had been doing it. Never had he had to give such news to someone he knew, about someone he knew.
Just as he was trying to force himself to go to Mark, he heard a knock on the door and Mark stuck his head in.
“Not trying to intrude, but you’ve been gone quite a while and I— fucking Hell, what happened?” Mark rushed to Danny’s side, but the detective pushed him away.
“Sit down, Mark. I’ll be right back.” Danny stood up and, moving like a man under mind control, walked to get the bottle of brandy they had been drinking and handed Mark a double shot of it.
Mark looked at it, and then back at Danny. “What happened?”
“Drink.”
Mark did as he was told, his eyes never leaving Danny.
“That was George Linwood,” Danny said, unable to look at Mark any longer. How could he look into the eyes of a friend and tell him that the man he loves was never coming home again, right after they had discussed said homecoming? “Mark...I’m so sorry. I— he’s gone. Peter Mabuz got one last lick in before Brighton killed him. I— I don’t know what to say.”
There was one beat of pure silence before Mark’s partially full glass fell and hit the carpet, bouncing off of it and spilling the amber liquid, turning the carpet the color of old blood. Mark slid off of the chair he’d sat down on and fell to his knees on the floor, hands splayed to brace himself.
There was a look in his eyes that Danny recognized, that he had seen dozens of times in his career, possibly hundreds. A mix of horror, disbelief, and realization. His eyes were unseeing, focused on the growing stain on the carpet. His breathing was fast, and Danny hoped he wouldn’t hyperventilate.
“No. No, no. That’s not true,” he gasped out, fingers digging into the carpet. “I just talked to him. He’ll be home in a month, maybe less.”
Danny felt his heart squeezed by sympathy. How painful this was, the first time you actively dealt with the death of a loved one. It was as if a piece of your soul has died, never to come back to life. And you carried that emptiness with you for the rest of your life.
He bent down by Mark’s side and placed his hand on Mark’s back, hoping to be comforting while mentally berating himself for having been envious of Mark just ten minutes ago. Angelica might be gone, but with her being alive, she could come back. Unless Mark stood at a crossroads, bartering his soul, there was no coming back for Brighton Sands.
“How can he be gone?” Mark gasped, slow tears falling from his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” Danny repeated, wishing there was a way to be a bit more comforting than re
peating the same, dull phrase over and over. He had heard it when his mother died, when his father died, and when (he thought) Miranda died. No one telling him they were sorry had ever made him feel a modicum better.
Mark sat up and leaned against Danny, too weak from shock and grief to support himself. All the life had gone from his eyes, and Danny could bet from his heart as well.
When you’re a child, everyone tells you about love and happiness. Not for the first time, Danny wondered why they didn’t also prepare you for the inevitable death grip of loss and pain. Because, in his opinion, love was fleeting. Pain was forever.
Chapter Two
One week later
“In the Name of God, the merciful Father, we commit the mortal remains of Brighton Arthur Sands to the peace of the grave." Father Freeman laid his hands on the black coffin. “From dust you came, to dust you shall return. Jesus Christ, our Savior, shall raise you up on the last day.” The priest said the Our Father and then threw three handfuls of dirt onto the coffin as it was lowered into the freshly dug grave at the cemetery. "Give him, O Lord, Your peace and let Your eternal light shine upon him."
The congregation said, “Amen.”
Danny looked around him. The sun was shining and it was the pleasant, biting cold of mid-winter in Chicago. It was not the day to be burying a brave young man who chose a noble death after avenging his lover. It was not the day to be burying a friend, a brother, and a husband.
Mark was staring blankly before him at the priest who was saying a final prayer, and then at the open hole in the ground. There were few other people Danny knew, but he knew George Linwood, who was holding the hand of the man who had been Benjamin Quinn’s biological brother in the eighteen-hundreds, Mahon Quinn. George had tears caressing his face, but Mahon was standing in the same way Mark was: head high, eyes on the grave, and their emotions either buried deep or they were both so numb that feeling was beyond them.
Danny found himself looking around, remembering the last time he attended a funeral in this cemetery: his old partner at the CPD, with Angelica at his side, giving him strength. It hit him then that she was not here, that she had no idea one of her closest friends had just died.
The mourners left after they had tossed dirt onto the grave, each of them saying a kind word to Mark as they did so, until only Mark, Mahon, George, and Danny remained. There was to be no gathering afterwards. Mark had said he could not bear it.
Danny felt somehow as though he was intruding, and he could tell George felt the same way. Despite George being a psychic vampire and having known Brighton in both his incarnations, Mahon and Mark were much closer to him. Mahon had been his protector, his benefactor, and his rock. Mark had been...everything.
Danny touched Mark’s shoulder and said, “I’m going home. Look, I know you’ve got Mahon to cry on each other’s shoulders, but if you need me, I’m always a phone call away. Any time, day or night.”
Mark nodded, his eyes still vacant. “Thank you, Danny.”
Danny began to walk away, looking out over the beautiful cemetery. He recalled being a little boy, terrified of cemeteries. Now, after all he had been through, he could appreciate their quiet sense of peace. At least, he could as long as all the residents stayed in their coffins.
He let the breeze waft through his still brown curls, carrying the scent of Lake Michigan, which was only a few miles away. He closed his eyes, trying to finish processing this terrible day of mourning. Cemeteries are energy hubs, carrying the memories of the dead, and he was able to feel so many things, from the living and the dead alike. Sadness, despair, anger, and hope all mingled together in his heart and for the first time since Brighton died, he allowed himself a moment to cry for the loss.
Drying his eyes, he began to walk toward where he parked his car, planning a long night alone with the mindless drone of a Twilight Zone marathon in the background. At least those stories were crazier than his reality.
“Excuse me?”
Danny looked up when he heard the voice, turning to his right and seeing a very pretty, if plain, woman standing a few feet from him. She had auburn hair and green eyes, her skin a healthy shade of peach. She also looked vaguely familiar.
“Detective Danny Mancini, as I live and breathe,” she said, smiling. He could see her thoughts projected like a beacon for just a moment: relief, surprise, grief. “You probably have no idea who I am, do you?”
He shook his head ruefully. All her thoughts, not one could give him the information he sought, but he did see her at the CPD station, which was why she still addressed him as ‘Detective’. “You used to be at the station, right? Sorry, I’ve been through a lot since twenty-twelve and a lot has escaped my mind.”
She smiled ruefully. “I’m Helena Collins, daughter of your former captain. I used to spend my time studying at the precinct after school or when college classes ended.”
Realization hit him like a brick. He remembered the skinny little redhead who used to have books spread out on whatever empty desk she came across. Sometimes, if he was not busy, which was rare, but it happened, he’d help her with her American History work because her father had been hopeless when it came to parenting, and her mother had been deceased since Helena was a baby.
“Yeah...you grew up,” he said. “I could never have recognized you without a pile of books in your face.”
She giggled, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ears. The wind was kicking up, as it often did in early spring in the Windy City. “Why are you at the cemetery? ...Sorry. Stupid question.”
“A friend of mine passed away last week,” Danny said. “He was young, probably your age. Married, and ready to adopt a baby.”
“I’m so sorry,” Helena said.
“Is this where your mother is buried?” Danny asked.
Helena nodded. “That’s not why I’m here though… Dad died of a heart attack, and I’m the only immediate family who can set up the funeral.”
Danny was shocked. He had not thought about Captain Mark Collins in years, not since Angelica had first recruited him to help fight Vincent. The man had ruined Danny’s life, though Danny could not feel hate toward him for that. Had their positions been reversed, Danny knew he would have had to act the exact same way. It still didn’t stop him from being a little bitter toward the old bastard, and now faced with yet another CPD colleague’s mortality, Danny found he did not even care.
Camille Fuller, his old partner, had been ordered to stay away from him by Collins, and therefore he had not even seen her for two years until he staked her in her coffin. Collins had made him a pariah.
“Sorry for your loss,” Danny managed to say.
Helena nodded her thanks. “Dad and I did not get along well as I got older, but he raised me. It’s hard realizing you’re an orphan, isn’t it?”
Danny nodded. “Oh yes, I know that it is.”
“Your parents are both gone, too?” she asked.
“Yes, for years now. Mom for twenty, and Dad for fifteen. It got easier for Dad, but I still miss my mother a lot, even now,” he admitted.
Helena looked away, chewing on her lower lip. “Glad I’m not alone. Look, it was really a nice surprise seeing you again. I’d love to catch up.”
“Oh, sure,” Danny said, not meaning it. He knew what it was like seeing people you hadn’t thought about for years. A bit of small talk like what had just occurred, a promise to call or email, and then nothing. You’d forget about them for many more years, until either death or chance brought them back into your life again.
Helena took out a card and handed it to him. “That’s my cell. I don’t even bother with a house phone anymore.”
He pocketed it. “I’ll give you a call. Nice seeing you.”
“Yes, it was nice. Oh, and the funeral is next Sunday, if you’d like to come,” she said.
Danny barely hid a smirk. “No offense, but I’ve had my fill of death lately.”
***
Five months later
The difference between a normal person’s dreams and a precognitive person’s dreams is that a precog always knows when they’re dreaming, even if it isn’t a vision. Danny was walking down a damp corridor and it felt like the middle of August: it was stifling hot and humid. His suit was sticking to his body and he tried to loosen his tie or take off his jacket to no avail.
His mind knew he was in danger, but he was unarmed. Ever since he became a cop he had never once gone outside unarmed. Since he discovered monsters were real, he never even went to the toilet unarmed. This was certainly a vision.
The corridor was tapering off to a single doorway. The door was hot to the touch, and Danny’s hand burned as he pressed his palm to it. Pulling it away, he saw his skin was burned as if he had put his hands on an open grill, but he couldn’t feel any pain now. The skin was blistering, one part of his palm had blackened like toast. Yet he felt nothing.
He forgot about his hands when he heard a tortured scream come from the other side of that door. He couldn’t tell if it was a man or woman who made it, but very few people who screamed like that lived very long afterwards.
“Like that’s going to break me. Try again,” a voice panted. Danny could hear the words, but his mind could not discern the voice. It sounded female, but at the same time it didn’t sound human. It was as if instead of tunnel vision, he had tunnel hearing.
He heard a resounding slap. Having been present at a few torture sessions with Angelica and many domestic disputes as a detective, he knew he was a leather strap or belt hitting bare flesh. The woman groaned.
“The knife didn't work. You think a strip of dead cow skin will?” she asked.
Danny used his clothed elbow to slowly push the door open so he could peer inside. He wanted to rescue whomever was being tortured, but he needed to know what he was up against. Inside the room were four brick walls, a table, and three chairs. Chains and shackles were attached to one wall, but it was otherwise bare.
In the chair with her back to him sat a woman clad in Gothic clubbing attire: a barely-there skirt, garters, sheer black stockings, and a black top that looked like it would sparkle if there was decent light instead of this eerie reddish glow. Her hands and legs were bound with shackles.