It hurts. It hurts.
Lilith announces her return by rushing through the door with a tall, rickety barstool in her hands. She launches the stool at the barrier—a sound like a dragonfly hitting a bug zapper, and the stool is thrown back the opposite direction, missing Lilith by a hair’s breadth. As she pants, shaken, the corners of her lips pull back like zippers opening up her cheeks, showing teeth on teeth on teeth.
Equal resistance, I try to say, but instead I hear a noise like a stalling train and I’m frankly embarrassed to know the sound’s coming from me. Then Samael is cutting again and I’m so distracted I let myself use magic again—by the time my senses return to me, blood is caking my hairline, I’m dizzy and disoriented and choking on black smoke, every hack of my throat sending another throb of pain through my flayed skin.
The smoke is coming from Lilith; she’s trying to push the barstool into the barrier, seat-first. The barrier whines high and scratchy, the heat of it reaching me even from that distance.
“Lilith, stop,” I manage to choke out. “Equal resistance—you push the barrier, it pushes back—have to enter—gently—” That’s what she said, ha ha ha.
Lilith throws down the barstool, and it splinters on the concrete floor. “Witchy, have you seen this thing? ‘Gently’ will get me burnt to a crisp!”
“Thasss…the point of the desssign…” Wow, I made thing good. I made smart. I think I might be passing out. Samael stops cutting, walks away, and bends to retrieve something from the floor. And then he dumps a bucket of ice-cold water over my face. I gurgle and cough, fighting the water that’s trying to slip down my windpipe with gravity.
“I need you awake for this, witch,” Samael chides. “Stay alert.”
“Harry!” Lilith is slamming the broken barstool into the barrier again, deliberately now, trying to get my attention. “Harry, how do I get through the barrier? I need an answer!”
A single word condenses in my consciousness, a solution, a rescue. “C-c-counterspell,” I sputter, trying to blink the ceiling lights into definition. “You need—counterspell—”
“I can’t learn and make a counterspell in the next thirty seconds!”
My throat is filling with either mucus or spit, I have to swallow intermittently to speak, and Samael is still cutting, cutting, cutting away. My vision is swimming, swirling and reeling. “Seals of Solomon—you’re a demon—you should know—counter—”
“I’d never even written a contract before you! I don’t know how to counter Seals of fucking Solomon!”
Samael takes a moment to wipe his knife on its cloth, whistling mockingly. “Like a virgin, eh? You sure know how to pick ‘em, Lee.”
Lilith is on the floor. Has she given up? There’s a shrill, panicked part of me that’s screaming, Help me HELP ME there’s no one else and I’m fucking dying SAVE ME—but it’s drowned out by the other bit, the one that’s kind of huddling on the floor next to her to whisper, I’m sorry, I fucked this up for the both of us, you have to run now. If you stay he’ll get you and I’ve shown him exactly how to trap you, run please run while you still have a chance. You don’t want this, even if you think you want to save me. You don’t want to be bound to a man who treats torture like a stale habit, to have his fingers cracking open your spine and digging in your guts and his breath in your ear as he laughs and laughs at how stupid you were to let him in. If he gets you once you’ll never really lose him, you’ll never ever—
Lilith tosses her head up, revealing her face. She’s gritting her teeth together, eyes flashing yellow and black and yellow as her biceps strain. Two black, ridged horns come out of her hair to curve skyward. Another set of arms bursts from her sides and slam into the floor, and with twenty fingertips dug into the concrete and heaving with demonic strength, cracks appear in the solid rock. A whole chunk of it is lifting, lifting—her hands are shining with blood—
“I would have told you not to bother, but I didn’t want to interrupt that marvelous feat of strength,” Samael calls. “The barrier is a sphere that extends in all directions, including underground. It’s a foolproof design; I have to say I’m impressed.”
And then he’s back to skinning me alive. My head is a shrill screaming landscape of white, muddy pain, pain, pain, tearing fat and snapping tissue—
I’m scared to fucking death and in shock and in tears and I’m so, so angry. I can’t believe that, after all of this, I failed. Fought a whole warehouse of armed mercs, evaded a junkie vampire, KO’d a fucking Council mage, and I’m still dying by the hand of the man who’s going to kill my best friend and imprison the one demon I’d ever come close to trusting.
My best friend, who gave me a prophecy.
Goldfish.
A demon trying to save my life, the same demon who gave me the key to that prophecy.
Goldfish don’t have stomachs, so they never know when to stop eating. That’s why they explode.
I stop struggling for a half-second—just long enough to feel the tickling presence of soft petals against my forehead.
Some of our worst convicts look like Disney princesses by the time we get them processed.
I try to stealthily gather my magic into myself, but I’m interrupted by a flood of white noise static in my brain—what was I trying to do again? It’s almost a salve, that oblivion, a warm safe cozy snuggle of don’t think don’t feel don’t exist—until the torture comes bellowing back and I think I die halfway, feeling the pain hit me all over again. By the time I get my shit back together the magic is gone and my skin is ripping. But there it is, another budding rose just at the edge of my vision—
Lilith is staggering across the floor, a chunk of cement as large as herself held in her four hands. She’s feeding it into the barrier, slowly—trying to break through with a material that technically shouldn’t burn, my smart brain says. But magic fire doesn’t play by those rules, and the block of cement is turning ash-black and crumbling where it makes contact with the barrier.
I wait. It’s a million-year moment, it hurts so much, there’s saltwater streaming down the sides of my face but I wait, I wait until he grabs the skin and tears—
I send my magic exploding outward with no aim or purpose, just making as loud a BANG as possible. The thorns sink into my head—I feel them scrape my skull—the brambles wake, thrive, twist and coil like vipers. The shifting, squirming wight of half a dozen rosebuds sprouting—the static venom sinking back into my mind, pouring without end. I’m terrified I wasn’t strong enough, I wasn’t—
The crown wails a high-pitched, screeching, terrifyingly human klaxon. The thorns shrivel and the stems snap and the roses burst into a flurry of shredded petals, vomiting out all of my half-digested poison magic in a tidal wave. The wave meets the fiery barrier—there’s a moment of resistance—
And then the barrier shatters like a glass chandelier.
I twist for cover as best I can, shards bouncing off me like hot coals. I see glimpses of Lilith and Samael ducking, Lilith dropping her block of cement—and in the flurry of falling red, their heads snap up in the same moment. Lilith blurs toward Samael—Samael turns, knife gleaming with my blood—a thin cry of pain, a guttural scream, and they both go down.
I take a halting, much-needed breath. Feel the blood running down my sides and chest, the loose skin and screaming muscle. My eyes burn with tears and smoke and the dissolving, microscopic remnants of the barrier. I turn my head to the side, feeling my head crush the bits of dry, dead bramble left on the table.
Lilith is swaying back and forth like a child on a rocking horse. Her formerly white dress is splattered red and black with gore. Her each movement is accompanied by a meaty, repetitive THUD—she’s holding Samael’s head in all four hands, slamming it into the floor. There’s dents in his skull. Big dents, more than one. Thud. Thud. Thud.
“Lilith,” I whisper.
Her head whips around. Her hair is drenched in blood, tangled around her horns and hanging down over her cheeks like vines. Her
mouth is crowded with enormous teeth, and I can hear her breathing through them as she stares with wide, blown-out pupils. The pupils blur; streaks of water shimmer on her face, cutting cleanly through the blood and grime on her cheeks. She hiccups.
“Lilith,” I say, in a clearer voice than I should have after so much screaming, “he’s dead.”
Her hands shake, but her grip on Samael’s head only tightens.
“It’s okay, he’s—he’s gone, he’s dead.”
She turns her head just barely. The light shines across a line of open skin cutting diagonally across both her collarbones. I jolt up in alarm, almost blacking out from the pain that triggers in my stomach.
“Lilith—Lilith you’re bleeding. You’re bleeding, Lilith.”
Lilith looks down at herself. Drops Samael, hovers a thumb over the wound on her chest. Looks up at me again. There’s a faraway sheen in her eyes. She wavers upright, catching herself on the edge of the table. She takes a halting step toward the door, then stills.
“I…” she says, her voice cracking. The demonic dual-tone flickers in and out like bad feedback. “…I can’t leave.”
“What?”
She turns to me, slowly, like she’s fighting her own body. The whites of her eyes are returning, and her teeth are retreating back into her mouth. Haunting shadows slide across her face as her horns disappear into her hair. “The ward worked. You won the bet. I can’t leave until I’ve answered your question.”
I don’t know what to say. I know I must have had a question to ask her. It’s why I started this bet, wasn’t it? My head is still spinning from the agonizing pain, but I manage to land on the right memory.
What’s your real name?
I get to ask that question. I won the bet. I won. I won.
Her face is blank. There’s none of that unapologetic glee she showed after dropping a brick on the attempted assassin. I know that look. Like her body is still here but her mind is running away, like she’s shutting away this basement and the rotting meat inside of it in a compartment of her memories six feet under. She’s standing in a room with her first contract and her first kill, and she just wants out.
I’m not your personal Supergirl.
I swallow and lick my cracked, bleeding lips.
“How do I look?”
A surprised spark returns to her eyes. “Huh?”
“I said, how do I look?” I try twitching up a corner of my mouth. It hurts, but then again everything hurts, so there’s not much of a difference.
Lilith’s forehead wrinkles. “You look like… shit. Parts of your face are purple. And your skin is kind of…” She raises a hand to her chest and mimes a peeling layer. I stretch my neck to look down at my chest, grunting at the flash of pain that results.
“Wow. Yeah, that is pretty bad.” I glance at Lilith again. “Still hot though, yeah?”
Lilith’s brows knit together. “…Kind of? Maybe? If you’re into that sort of thing.” Her shoulders are still half-tense, but she’s emoting again at least. “That… was it?”
“Yeah.” I smile fully at her.
Her foot catches on something on the floor; she absentmindedly kicks it away, her eyes still trained on me. “…Why?”
I shrug as best I can. “I dunno, I’ve lost a lot of blood, my brain’s not exactly functioning right now. You should probably take advantage of that and sneak away, like you usually do.” She turns toward the door. “Oh shit, wait—could you find me the key to these chains before you go?”
She comes over, her second pair of arms folding back into her sides, and takes the chain at my left wrist in both hands. She pulls it apart, one of the links flying away with an audible metallic SNAP.
“Oh—thank you, that’s good, too.”
She does the same with the chains attached to my right wrist and ankles. The ones around my legs start to unravel, and I kick them off, letting them slither down to the floor.
“Thank y—”
She’s gone.
It’s quiet without her. Samael’s body is done squelching and now it’s silently and unobtrusively leaking onto the floor, some of the blood spreading all the way over to David in the corner. I’m technically free but the manacles at my wrists and ankles are still trailing chains, and it takes some effort to untangle myself from them. My stomach wound complains the whole time. I hold my own skin to my chest as I struggle to sit up, eventually slipping off the table like a wet dishrag. I catch myself right before I collapse. I’m afraid that, if I hit the floor, I might never get back up.
One foot in front of the other, in front of the other, in front of the other. I make it to the doorway, look down the grimy but brightly lit hall. There’s a stairway leading up at the end of it, and one more door just before that. One step in front of the other. I lean on the door with my palm flat against it, taking a breath. I open it.
Light shines into the darkness. There’s skeletons of metal shelves to each side. A figure slumped against the back wall between them, like a mannequin dressed in a tattered sweater and a long black skirt. Limp, firetruck red hair hanging over its face.
“Joy,” I whisper hoarsely. I stumble forward, suddenly impervious to pain, falling to my knees in front of her. “Joy. Joy, it’s me, Harry. Come on, wake up, I’m right here…”
She stirs. As her head lifts, the shadows over her shift, and I see her sleeves have been torn off. Her arms, all the way from her wrists to the insides of her elbows, are covered in neat, scabbed cuts. Her face is milk-white as she looks up, her hazel eyes barely open, taking forever to focus on me. She exhales, her breath rattling horribly.
“You were right,” she rasps. “She did find me.”
“Joy, it’s okay. I’m here now, okay? Can you stand? We have to get out of here, come on…”
She closes her eyes and smiles. “She did find me. Thank you for telling me to wait.” Her head starts to loll to one side.
“Joy! Joy, hang on, I’m sorry, I know you’re tired but we have to go, you’ve lost a lot of blood—”
Her lids flutter open again. She’s staring straight into my eyes. “The fairies. They’re all here. You see ‘em?”
I don’t see anything but a dark, abandoned room, but I make a show of looking around. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”
She snorts derisively, the barest hint of color rising to her cheeks. “Liar. It’s okay, I know you mean well.” She jerks her chin, indicating something just over my shoulder. “But they’re really here. Look, there’s one right behind you.”
I twist backward. “I don’t see anyth—” When I turn back around, Joy’s eyes have slid shut again, and her head is dropping against her shoulder and rolling forward. I grab her by the cheek, trying to support her.
“Joy? Joy! Joy, wake up, we have to go—Joy, don’t—”
She falls onto me, utterly limp. I can’t see for the tears blurring my vision.
“Joy, we have to—wake up, please—it’s not funny, just open your eyes, Joy, please, open your eyes—”
She doesn’t move again.
CHAPTER TWENTY
All's Well
My wound heals, but not cleanly. Some of Luce’s attendants must have gotten lazy, because the reattached skin feels tighter on the left side than the right. There’ll always be a visible displacement left, but hey, what’s another scar?
The Council wants to bury everything, but Bautista contacts Joy’s friends and clients, makes arrangements for a funeral. The guests congregate in a tented community under a bridge. One of Joy’s friends is in charge of the place: Mingus Oliver, a strange, tall, hunched-over figure whose bearded face is half-obscured by a ratty fishing cap with two twigs stuck on top like antlers. I’ve never met him before, but I remember seeing his name in Joy’s client ledger. He politely declines to shake my hand, saying that he’s sick and doesn’t want me to catch what he has.
Joy’s people trickle in gradually. We start with a gathering of maybe six people, then a dozen, then thirty. I see flashes of teeth fi
led down to points, charmed piercings and tattoos, handshakes with fingers that bend in strange directions. Upon closer inspection, Mingus’s twig-antlers aren’t attached to his hat; they’re coming out of his head, bursting through holes in his fishing cap.
Supernatural or not, the funeral guests eye one another with the sort of apprehension that always occurs when one is surrounded by strangers. But once people start talking about Joy, she’s all they can talk about.
Technically, there’s not enough elemental mages among us to perform a ceremonial burning. But we’ve got matches, gasoline, and a pouch of some specialized magic that Bautista sprinkles liberally over Joy’s body. We drop a cluster of lit matches into Joy’s cupped hands, close the casket, and push it into the river. A few confused civilians open their mouths to protest, but they read the proverbial room and shut up. We watch Joy float down the river—or what’s left of her, as her body will finish incinerating within a minute. Once the casket itself falls apart, Joy’s ashes will sink into the water. Maybe, by then, they’ll have made it into the ocean.
***
When I go back to the Powers’s place, Tricia invites me in with open arms. She’s in a bright yellow dress with lovely red patterning and a matching headscarf. She is, quite literally, radiant. She makes tea for the both of us. When she calls Aden over to see the visitor, he gawks at me.
“Holy fu—” His mother shoots him a glare, “—fudge, I said fudge! I seriously didn’t think I’d see you again!”
They tell me about therapy, about their plans to have Aden back in school after winter vacation. Aden keeps bouncing his leg, trying to interrupt his mother with questions about how I actually took down those nationalist terrorists who abducted him—I guess that’s the cover story the Council went with. I shrug and say, well, even mass murderers can lose in the game of love.
I tell the Powers’s about the people who died to make it possible for me to find Aden. A fortune teller named Joy Gillian, a pair of twins named Natalie and Nathan Talley… a private dick named Richard Moore. I tell them what Dick would have wanted them to know, that he died trying to make things right.
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