by Kim Fielding
“Oh, he’s still alive. A good man. He mostly does work around Arizona and New Mexico ’cause that’s where he’s from. But he doesn’t drink anymore. He found some other way to control his problem.”
That also intrigued Abe. He’d met only four other people who saw spirits as he did, and none of them knew any solution other than booze—and even that didn’t always work. The Irish woman said she’d welcomed the ibbur because it was either that or be overcome eventually by an evil spirit.
Crespo cocked his head. “I can introduce you to him if you want. From what I gather, his skills come in very useful for the Bureau.”
Abe acknowledged the offer with a quick nod and shelved that for later too. His head was thudding, and he didn’t know whether that was the previous day’s possession or that Emil was trying again. Or maybe something else was going on. His father had complained about a headache for months before he started having seizures and losing his vision. He’d died not long after. Abe’s mother had never forgiven Abe for the fact that his father went to his grave still disappointed in him. His father hadn’t been disappointed enough to come back as a spirit, at least—but Abe couldn’t tell his mother that.
Thomas wasn’t pacing, but he looked like he wanted to. Crespo sat in his chair with all the easy grace and coiled power of a tiger. Abe drank. Suddenly a prayer came to him, an ancient echo from his youth, and although it had been over two decades since he’d held any belief in religion, he found himself quietly reciting it. “Baruch atah Adonai, Eloheinu melech haolam, asher kid'shanu b'mitzvotav v'tzivanu lirdof tzedek.”
“What’s that?” Thomas asked. “A spell?”
Abe chuckled. “I guess you could think of it that way. It’s a blessing about pursuing justice. Not that I expect it to do any good, but….”
“Don’t dismiss it,” said Crespo. “If sincerely meant, blessings are words of power.”
That struck true in Abe’s heart. It wasn’t his place to judge whether God existed and, if so, what was God’s will. But Abe knew of goodness and evil—he’d seen them himself. Felt them. His own soul had weighed them and chosen between them, and although he hadn’t always chosen well, sometimes he had.
He recited again, this time a text that had been among his father’s favorites, Psalm 27. Abe said the verses in Hebrew but thought of their meaning in Hungarian, in his father’s voice.
When evil-doers came upon me to eat up my flesh, even mine adversaries and my foes, they stumbled and fell. Though a host should encamp against me, my heart shall not fear; though war should rise up against me, even then will I be confident…. For though my father and my mother have forsaken me, the Lord will take me up. Teach me Thy way, O Lord; and lead me in an even path, because of them that lie in wait for me. Deliver me not over unto the will of mine adversaries; for false witnesses are risen up against me, and such as breathe out violence….
“Is that about justice too?” Thomas asked, seeming genuinely curious.
“It’s about facing your enemies with your chin up and defeating them.”
Thomas responded with his fiercest, most beautiful grin.
Maybe Abe would have ended up leading them all in a full prayer service, but heavy footsteps echoed in the corridor. “Townsend,” Thomas hissed a moment before a knock rattled the outer door. Abe gestured at him to let Townsend in.
Although Townsend might have intended to exude confidence as he entered the inner room, there was a definite falter when he saw Abe sitting behind Thomas’s desk. Townsend frowned at Crespo, then hung up his hat and overcoat and settled into the chair beside him.
“I take it we will not be having a repeat of our last unpleasantness,” Townsend huffed.
Abe and Thomas stared at him until he shifted uncomfortably. He turned his head to look at Crespo instead. “Who’s this?”
“One of Mr. Donne’s clients, from back East,” Abe said.
“Mr. Donne has no clients.”
“Until recently. Now it seems he has several, each with deep pockets.”
While Crespo managed to look as neutral as a person could, Townsend scowled. “I’m a busy man and I don’t have time to play games. Give me the item I hired you to find, Donne, and I’ll pay you. Then we’re done.”
Abe gave him a sweet smile. “How much was it that you offered again? Mr. Donne?”
“Fifty thousand,” Thomas said.
“That’s right. Fifty,” Abe agreed. “A lot of money. Probably even more than it costs to hire a police detective to murder someone.”
Townsend didn’t say anything, but his mouth pursed and his eyes narrowed.
Abe continued cheerily. “Yes, definitely a lot. But not as much as a hundred thousand, which is what Mr. Nunes has offered.” Fausto Nunes, a jolly young man who liked to crack jokes and talk about pretty girls, had been an acquaintance when Abe lived in New York. Crespo resembled him a little, despite being considerably older.
“That’s preposterous,” Townsend sputtered.
“Is it? So you’re saying the Prince is worth killing over but not a hundred grand? How much is a human life worth, Mr. Townsend?”
Townsend’s cheeks had gone an unhealthy blotchy red. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Of course not.”
Abe was feeling this, and it was good. Powerful. It was very similar to the little click in his mind when he knew he’d sized up a séance guest just right and the guest was now fully under his spell. Thomas and Crespo were proving capable assistants. He planned to play a little more—just for the fun of it—but another knock sounded, making Townsend start.
“Who’s that?” he growled.
“Another addition to our party.” Abe’s headache turned up several notches, nearly driving him to his knees, but he walked over and opened the door. Emil was dressed a little more hastily than usual, his hair escaping the shellac and his tie uneven. He smiled at Abe anyway. “My boy! What kind of trouble have you put yourself into? You look ghastly.”
“Hello, Emil. Come join us.”
Emil had always had a weirdly long stride, as if he were attempting to touch the floor as few times as possible. It took him only a few steps to cross to the inner office, and then he halted in the doorway. “What’s this, Abe?”
“Have a seat.”
Although clearly reluctant, Emil took the last remaining guest chair. “I’m afraid I’m at a loss. Will someone kindly provide introductions?”
Abe walked behind the desk, picked up the gin bottle, and used it to point. “Townsend. Nunes. Donne you’ve met.” He waved toward Emil. “This is Magnus.”
Donne remained stone-faced, but everyone else in the room had distinctly unhappy expressions. In Crespo’s case, it was an act—the sparkle in his eyes said he was having a grand time—but Townsend and Emil were most definitely not happy to meet.
“What is going on?” Townsend growled.
One long swallow finished off the gin. “Another facet to our negotiations. Emil, Townsend offered fifty grand for the Prince of Gandhara. Nunes is willing to pay a hundred. What’s your price?”
Emil’s face, naturally pale in any case, turned gray. “I told you to stay away from that thing.”
“So you did. But words and actions are two different things, aren’t they?” Abe turned to Thomas. “Hand it over, please.”
After a long look, Donne reached into his pocket and held out the amulet, still wrapped in the handkerchief. Abe took it and let the cloth fall to the floor. The amulet was warm, and he could swear it beat in his palm like a heart, slow and steady and deep. He held it up so everyone could see.
The reaction was interesting. Donne frowned, but his gaze was on Abe and not the bauble. The other three men all leaned forward in their seats. Crespo looked like an eager student in a particularly interesting class, but Emil and Townsend…. Their mouths hung open and they stared with wide pupils, the same way a person stared when he was stupidly, burningly lusting for another.
The amulet’
s vibration strengthened and traveled down his arm, now matching the pounding in his skull beat for beat.
“Power, right? The ability to command countless others. The person who uses this amulet can bend the country—maybe the world—to his will.” He looked at Donne. “Imagine it. In the right hands, this could mean men and women no longer have to hide who they are because others call their love a sin. No more children need to go hungry while the wealthy wallow in gold. No more wars.” His voice cracked as he said the last word.
Thomas tightened his jaw. “Abe,” he whispered. But he didn’t move.
Emil was working his lips soundlessly, and Abe felt it clearly now—the dybbuk clawing at his head, trying to get in. It was cold enough to make him shudder, cold enough to burn him, and it was scratching scratching scratching at his skull. The Prince was also burning him, but with its scorching heat. He staggered back, clutching the edge of the desk to keep his balance, and his stomach twisted and turned.
“My parents turned away from me because I disappointed them so deeply. They said I’d never be anyone worthwhile. None of you know what it’s like to be a boy who goes to bed hungry because there’s no money for food, who shivers through the winter because he doesn’t have warm clothes. And none of you sees me as a person, a man. I’m a barrier or a tool and nothing else. Someone to fuck, not someone to care about.”
Rage and hurt made both the dybbuk and the amulet more powerful. Evidently the Prince didn’t need incantations to work; the right emotions, properly applied, would do just fine. It would latch onto his wounded, tarnished soul as firmly as a steel lock snapping into place.
“Abe.”
At first Abe thought Thomas was speaking to him, but then the voice came again—“Abe, don’t”—and the British accent wasn’t Thomas’s. There was Birdie standing very close to Thomas, invisible to everyone but Abe, who saw him as little more than a shimmer. But he was present, and he sounded sad.
That was enough to give Abe strength to resist a little longer. “Thank you, Birdie,” he said, making Thomas startle and everyone else frown in confusion.
Abe took a steadying breath. “One of you sent a policeman to kill me. One of you sent a dybbuk to possess me—to set my hands against two friends and against a stranger for whom I had no ill will. And to set me against Thomas. The question before us, then, is who’s responsible? Because right now, even more than money, I value truth. I will give the Prince to an honest man.”
When silence sat heavily for several moments, he pinned Townsend with his gaze. “Nothing to admit?”
Townsend lifted his chin. “I’ll tell you the truth. That amulet belongs to me. Roy Gage stole it, and that’s why I hired Donne—so I could get it back. I have never killed anyone in my life, boy, and I am the rightful owner of the Prince of Gandhara.” He huffed. “And I don’t know what a dybbuk is and wouldn’t have the faintest notion what to do with one. One or both of these other men are the evildoers. Give me my property and I’ll make sure the police investigate thoroughly.”
“The police do your bidding, Mr. Townsend?”
“I was Assistant Chief until recently. I still hold some sway there.”
“With Detective Munroe, for example.”
Townsend jutted his chin. “He was an old friend.”
“A good enough friend to murder if you asked him to?”
“I wouldn’t ask! One of these other men must have paid him off.”
Emil made a wounded noise. “My boy, how can you stand there and listen to such baseless accusations? I don’t know anyone named Munroe and I most certainly didn’t convince him to kill anyone.”
“Not me, Emil?” Abe asked. “You didn’t want him to kill me?”
“I don’t want anyone to kill you! Why on Earth would I? You’re my protégé. We’ve shared so much over the years.”
“I willingly shared my body with you, Emil, but I never offered you my soul.”
“I don’t—”
“You may not know any policemen, but you do know a great deal about spirits. And only you were aware of my particular vulnerabilities.”
Emil’s eyes had gone hard and opaque, as if he were made of marble, and his cheekbones stood sharper than ever. He attempted to smile nonetheless, and the effect was horrible. “You want truth, my boy? The only reason Roy knew about the amulet to begin with was because Townsend hired him to murder the man who’d brought it to the city. Apparently the fellow wasn’t happy enough with whatever amount he’d originally agreed to sell it for, and he was demanding more. I convinced Roy that allowing an immoral man such as Townsend to keep the Prince would be extremely dangerous, and I offered to take it from him. Just as I’m offering to take it from you.”
This hurt. Abe had never loved Emil, not really, but he’d admired him and considered him a close friend. He’d offered Emil his body and his deepest secrets. And yet Emil was willing to destroy him.
The dybbuk clawed harder. Abe could hear it now, gibbering in a language he didn’t understand. He felt its want, which was very much like the want Abe felt for Thomas. Only the dybbuk craved devastation, desired to feed off living humans’ misery and agony. Abe realized something else as well: thus far Emil had controlled the dybbuk, but it had become much stronger over the past several days. If it crawled into Abe now, Emil would no longer be able to manipulate it, and it would never, ever leave.
“Tell me your truth, Nunes,” Abe said quietly.
Crespo shrugged. “I don’t know what any of you are talking about. I just want the amulet, and I’ll pay good money for it. More than either of these fellows.”
“Do you believe these two when they claim they’re not responsible for what’s happened?”
“Well,” Crespo said, “I guess I believe they’re guilty about as much as I believe in dragons.” He blinked slowly, and for just a flash of time, his irises turned green-gold and the pupils became vertical slits. He blinked again and looked as ordinary as anyone else.
Finally Abe turned to Thomas, who’d been observing all of this closely, an unlit cigarette between his fingers. “And you? Your truth, Mr. Donne?”
Thomas didn’t change his impassive expression. He lit his cigarette and tilted his head back to blow smoke toward the ceiling. “I’ve killed plenty of people, but I wouldn’t harm you. I guess that’s because I love you.”
Not one person in the room looked especially surprised by Thomas’s declaration, but the dybbuk momentarily lost its hold on Abe, and Birdie’s spirit momentarily shone brighter and more solid.
“Truth is a funny thing,” Abe said. “I’ve spent my whole life telling lies so well that the people I tell them to want to believe them. That’s the best con of all—the one where the rube never realizes he’s been had. Right, Emil? Took me a long time to work out your con.”
Emil was going to say something, but Abe silenced him with a hand. “At least some of you are conning me right now. Maybe you all are. But if that’s the case, I’m going to choose the best one. The one I most want to believe.”
He walked to Thomas, pulled open his suit coat, and dropped the Prince into the inside pocket. Then he turned to Crespo. “I guess you can arrest them now.”
At first nobody did anything—except Thomas, who took another drag of his cigarette.
Then chaos broke loose.
Townsend leapt out of his chair with astonishing speed, and although Abe expected him to go after Thomas, he grabbed Abe instead, pulling him against his chest, an arm around Abe’s throat. Before Abe could fight or wiggle free, he felt metal pressing against his temple. A gun. Of course Townsend would be armed.
But he wasn’t the only one. Crespo and Donne drew their own weapons and pointed them at Townsend, who didn’t ease his grip. “I’ll pull the trigger, Donne,” Townsend said calmly. “Wouldn’t be the first time for me.”
“Or me,” Thomas growled.
“Oh, I know. But you’re as likely to hit him as you are to hit me, and in any case, his brains will be spla
ttered all over your office. I don’t think you want that.”
Thomas didn’t drop his gun, but he didn’t fire either.
Then Townsend turned his attention to Crespo. “Arrest me? You’re not with the department.”
“I’m a Fed. The Bureau of Trans-Species Affairs.” Crespo’s eyes did that odd fast shift again, and at the same time the skin on his face and hands turned an unnatural gray-green. He twitched his shoulders irritably, but like Thomas, he remained frozen in place.
“I’m fully human,” Townsend scoffed. “So were all the people who died. You don’t have jurisdiction.”
Crespo had a sharp-toothed smile. “Our jurisdiction is very broad, Mr. Townsend.”
The arm around Abe’s neck was tightening, restricting his breath. But that wasn’t his primary concern, nor were the three guns aimed in his direction. What worried him more deeply was Emil, who’d backed to the far side of the room and was frantically chanting something Abe couldn’t hear.
Although he didn’t have to hear it; he felt it as the dybbuk dug at his skull and pushed into him, more painful than any bullet, and more dangerous. He tried to push back, to fight, but he’d been opened to spirits too many times lately and he lacked the strength.
“Shoot me,” he gasped, begging any of them, all of them. A swift death would be far preferable to the dybbuk taking him over for good. “God, please, just shoot me.”
But nobody did—they glared at one another and brandished their guns, and Emil chanted and chanted, and Abe felt as if he were being flayed from inside. He couldn’t even scream because he now lacked the oxygen. His lungs flamed, his heart was a ball of molten metal, and his muscles clenched as if in a death rictus.
“Avi,” Birdie said urgently—directly in front of Abe now, his shapeless form fizzing and sparking in the air. “You’re a magician, not a fighter.”
“Let him go!” Thomas barked, but his voice was faded and far away, like the call of the Alcatraz foghorn.
Birdie’s voice was clearer as he said Abe’s name. In fact, he looked more distinct too. Sad-faced and very young, with springtime eyes and a muddy green uniform, his blond curls plastered down by fever-sweat. “You know how, Abe. Let me in. I’m a soldier, remember? I know how to fight.” A rifle appeared on his shoulder and a pistol in his hand.