Swim Like Hell: A Visit to Superstition Bay

by Benjamin LaMore

  As I’m standing there wrestling with the forces of mentality the first man is starting to groan and his eyelids begin to flutter.

  “He’s waking up,” I say. “I don’t think we want to be here when he does.”

  “I agree.”

  Behind the building is a small delivery driveway which leads to Helena Street, the main stretch of road that runs the length of the coast in Superstition Bay. Across Helena the parking lots begin. And where there are parking lots there are people. Lots and lots of people.

  I don’t like the idea of bringing Bruce that far into the open. Even if he’s still screened from view, I’m not. Any of the people we crossed paths with tonight could be there, a foot away from us and still unseen. Worse, who knows what or who else could be there that we don’t know about and can’t identify. Hell, forget magic users. It doesn’t take any kind of spell to come up behind someone in a crowd of hundreds and stab or shoot him in the back.

  The only other choice is going back up to the boards and waiting it out, and I don’t love that idea. I’m not one for sitting still and waiting for trouble to find me.

  “My Jeep is only a couple of blocks from here,” I tell Bruce. “If we keep low, with a little luck we should be okay.”

  “Luck hasn’t exactly been on my side today,” he points out with a wry half-chuckle.

  “Just one day?” I reply. “It’s been years, for me.”

  I begin to lead Bruce down the sidewalk. It’s shoulder to shoulder, a nonstop jostle where every step is a battle. I end up walking almost sideways, keeping Bruce in my peripheral vision as we plow determinedly forward.

  “I’ll be glad to be rid of this job,” he mutters as we walk. “How far away is Madeline?”

  “Not far,” I say, keeping watch on both pedestrian and vehicular traffic. “We have to make a quick stop before we see her though.”

  “What kind of stop?”

  “I promised a friend he could have a moment with the Cleave before I delivered it to its rightful owner. Don’t worry, he doesn’t want to keep it.”

  “Why does he want it?”

  “He just wants to use it for a second.”

  Bruce’s glance turns sour. “I heard you weren’t like that, Mr. DeLong. You saw what it did to that man. It’s a cruel way to kill.”

  “No, no. It’s not like that. He doesn’t want to kill anyone.”

  “Well, what then?”

  “It’s a long story. But believe me, he doesn’t want to use it for that.”

  “What’s your friend’s name?”

  “Remy Danaher.”

  He stops walking abruptly. I stop when I realize it. “What’s the matter?”

  “Is he going to attempt a resurrection?”

  “Do you know him?” I ask.

  “There aren’t many necromancers in the world, and few of them are as infamous. You say he’s not going to use the Cleave to kill. Is he going to do the reverse? Is he?”

  I hesitate, and that’s all the answer he needs.

  “He can’t do that,” Bruce says firmly. “Do you know what will happen if he does?”

  “What? What will happen?”

  “Once a human soul passes to the afterlife, whatever afterlife it believes in, that is where it stays. The beyond worlds are always shifting and flowing, great tides in the realms apart from ours. But they must remain constant, it’s a fundamental building block of the universe. The balance of souls is always preserved. It must be.”

  “So, what happens if a soul is taken from the afterlife?”

  “The balance will be maintained. Another soul from this world will take its place. Suddenly and permanently.”

  “A soul? You mean from a living person?”

  “Exactly.”

  “How is it chosen?

  He shrugs. “I don’t know. Nobody has that answer. As far as anyone has been able to guess it’s random.”

  I look in his eyes. I want to make sure there’s no chance that I’m not hearing this right. “So, what you’re saying is that if a person is truly resurrected, brought all the way back from the dead, then another person somewhere in the world will die? Just like that?”

  “Just like that. It could be anyone, anywhere. But it’ll be a soul whose time hasn’t come, from a person who’s not yet supposed to die. Essentially, renewing one person will be murdering another.”

  I have to force my mind to slow down. It’s reeling under this new information. For maybe the first time in our lives I know something that Remy Danaher doesn’t. “I have to tell him,” I say.

  “So, call him.”

  I think about it, then shake my head. “He won’t believe me,” I say. “He doesn’t trust me as it is; he’ll never even consider that I’m telling him the truth. But if he hears it from you, a former priest who knows the true history of this thing, he’ll have to face it. Come on.”

  When I touch his shoulder he pulls away from me. “I’m not going anywhere with you,” he insists. “How can I be sure he won’t find a way to just take it from me? I won’t allow the Cleave to be used to murder an innocent person.”

  “I’ll never let that happen.” I promise. “I had no idea that an innocent’s death would be a consequence. Hell, Remy doesn’t even know. He’d never go through with it if he did.”

  “You’re lying to me,” he growls at me. “You’re friends with one of the most powerful necromancers alive today, and you gave him your word you’d deliver the Cleave unto him. How can I possibly trust you now?”

  I can see how frantic he’s becoming, and that is dangerous in and of itself. A lot of magical predators sense hysteria the way sharks sense blood. “Bruce, you have to calm down I’ll bring you back to Madeline first.”

  “I think I’m better off on my own,” he says. “I don’t think I can trust you anymore.”

  “Bruce,” I said, reaching out for him.

  “Stay the hell away from me.” He turns and starts keeping pace with a crowd of people crossing the street. In seconds he’s lost to my sight.

  I consider following him. I consider tackling him. But there are hundreds of people around us, and any of them might be hunting for him. Even if there aren’t, a public fight won’t do anything except get us both thrown in jail. I might be able to get Madeline down to the SBPD headquarters to get him out before something ate him, but I couldn’t be sure of that. I also wouldn’t put it past Captain Bayle and Detective Matthiassen to just toss me into a cell to stew for a few hours before letting me make a phone call. Plus, if the Cleave wound up in their property room there are dozens of things around that could sneak it out within seconds.

  I have to let him go.

  “Madeline’s at the Beachfront,” I call after him. “You can meet her there.”

  “I don’t believe you,” he yells back as he disappeared into the throng.

  I watch the spot where he disappeared for a few minutes, hoping he’ll cool off and come back, but he seems to be set in his ways. Finally giving up, I find a bench near the SBPD substation and make a call on my cell. Half an hour later a well-used green Saturn pulls up in the loading area. I push myself to my feet, walk over and slide into in the passenger side seat.

  “You were supposed to call me,” Claire Carlisle says. She’s wearing tan Capris and a white sleeveless blouse unbuttoned over an emerald tank top, regrettably keeping her enigmatic tattoo solidly under wraps. She’s got black-and-purple running shoes on, her strawberry hair pulled into the shortest ponytail I’ve ever seen. She’s wearing no makeup. It’s quite the change from the stark severity of her EMT uniform.

  “I wish I had,” I answer. I give her a quick rundown of my evening.

  “So that’s what he wants it for? He wants to bring his dead wife back to life?” she asks once I’m finished.

  “Summed up, yes.”

  “I know this might be a dumb question, but why not let him do it?”

  I hope my expression is as indignant as I feel. “Did you not hear the part a
bout it costing an innocent person their life?”

  “Yeah, but Ian…” she hesitates. “I mean, she was an Envoy too, right? She fought the forces of darkness and all that?”

  “Yes,” I say cautiously.

  “Well… it’s just one life, Ian. Maybe it’s worth it?”

  My voice is low and dangerous. “I’ll pretend you never said that,” I said with finality. “Nothing is worth an innocent life.”

  “Fair enough,” she says. “Okay. So what happens now?”

  “Well, I have an idea about that.”

  “And what would that idea be?”

  “I can’t simply let Bruce go. Even if Madeline hadn’t come to me, I couldn’t in good faith let him walk away with a weapon like that, but I’m done chasing him. He doesn’t want to be found, and he’s pretty good at hiding when he wants to be. Fine. Let him hide. We’re not going to look for him. We’re going to make him come to us.”

  “Okay, that sounds great,” Claire murmurs from beneath a raised eyebrow. “Now, how are we going to do that?”

  “Well, to be specific, you’re going to do it.”

  “I am? How? I’m just a witch.”

  “No. You’re a siren.”

  She blinks twice. Opens her mouth to protest, but closes it again.

  “You can do it, can’t you,” I say. It isn’t a question. “You’ve done it before.”

  “How’d you know?”

  “It’s how your line came around. Luring men was their specialty. I figured some part of that heritage has to have been handed down. Besides,” I finish, “you were a teenager once. You wouldn’t have been human if you hadn’t used your powers to get a guy.”

  Her blush is adorable. “I’m not admitting anything.”

  “I’m not asking you to. How do you do it?”

  She takes a deep breath. “The same way I do everything else. I sing my song, focus on what I want. The magic follows my voice. If I picture Bruce coming to me, that’s what he’ll do.”

  “He doesn’t need to be in earshot?”

  “Not if I picture him and him alone. I could do a general lure, but then I’d have every guy in half a mile lapping my ankles. Except you.”

  “Except me.” I check out the area. “What do you need to do it?”

  “Well, some privacy, for one thing. With my song being focused like that I might not summon every single guy in town, but I’ll still make a bit of a scene. I’ll be singing, loud. We need to find someplace where we can operate without drawing a crowd.”

  I think for a moment, then an idea hits me.

  “Come on,” I say. “I know just the place.”

  Fourteen

  “Jesus Christ, Ian,” Claire mutters darkly. “We can’t do it here. Isn’t this place still a crime scene?”

  We’re standing outside the empty house where Azrael had killed two men and dribbled me like a basketball across the lawn. Bruce’s rental car is gone, certainly a resident of the SBPD impound. The police tape is still strung up along the front bushes and is completely sealing off what remains of the front door, but there are no gawkers or looters checking out the place. We are alone.

  “Technically, yeah, but why not? We can use the back yard. The other houses here are vacant, and we’re far enough out so the rest of the town won’t notice.”

  “Yeah, but isn’t it a tad… morbid?”

  “Maybe, but it’s our best choice. We’re not all that far from the Crawl, but there’s nothing in this area that should draw attention from anyone looking for him.”

  She crosses her arms defiantly. “I’m not going in that house,” she insists.

  “Fine,” I huff. “Come on.”

  Out of respect for the dead, and in deference to Claire’s stomach, we bypass the interior of the house completely and use the side gate to let us into the back yard. It’s low-cost but pleasant enough – nice, even sod, an unused flower bed, a wicker bench. She prowls the yard, giving it a thorough once over.

  “Do you need a rock to perch on?” I ask, not entirely sarcastically.

  “Actually, that would help.” There are no rocks, but there is a sizable stump of a felled oak tree that has never been pulled, and that’s what she settles down on. She puts an unopened bottle of water on the ground beneath her and sits, curling her long legs around the stump and scrutinizing the portrait Madeline had made for me.

  “He’s a priest?”

  “Former. Madeline said he left the church but didn’t explain why. I think I get it, though. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that something like the weapon of the Angel of Death would fall into the hands of a holy man and not some deviant.”

  “Lot of good it did him,” she says, handing me back the picture. “Give me a little space, okay?”

  I step back a few feet, settling in to watch the show. It’s worth watching.

  She fills her lungs through her mouth, lets the air flow out through her nose, fills them back up again. Her eyes close, seemingly in concentration, but her lips purse ever so slightly and her head tilts back half an inch, extending the soft hollow of her throat. Her face relaxes, her nostrils flare, fingers gently clench the old soft wood of the stump. She has the look of someone enjoying pleasant memories of a past love, immersing herself in them. She lightly licks her lips. For all the world she looks like she was waiting to be kissed, expecting it, wanting it. Her skin flushes, eyes draw tighter, a small dew of perspiration beads on her flesh.

  Then her lips part and she begins to sing.

  I can’t name the tune. I doubt it has a name. Even without the influence of her magic the appeal of her voice is undeniable, throaty and heartfelt and lustful all at the same time. She takes her voice and molds it like clay on a potter’s wheel, shaping and caressing it before flinging it into the night.

  For a time there’s nothing but the song. The melody lilts, purls, winds through the darkness and the summer night like a river through a forest. Then the river swells, overflowing its banks, filling the night with its vibrancy. The darkness itself seems to pulsate, quivering under the caress of her song. The stars bend themselves to her attention, the sky draws itself closer to her, the allure of her magic undeniable and irresistible.

  To everyone but me, of course. I feel nothing of its power, no matter how her lips move as they worked the song, or how the skin of her throat shines under its light dew of moisture. It’s nothing to me how her chest swells with each inhalation, how the soft skin of her thighs unconsciously slides against themselves as she puts her whole body into her song, or how her hands gently squeeze the curve of her wooden perch as she sings.

  But her song has no effect on me.

  After keeping the melody alive for more than fifteen minutes she ends it without warning. The sudden absence of music is like leaning on a wall that suddenly isn’t there, and I almost stumble in its empty wake. Claire’s head dips suddenly down, and I can see the gleam of sweat on her cheeks and throat. She swallows hard, her chest heaving. When she can speak, it’s with a dry voice roughened by hard usage.

  “Got him,” she growls.

  Puzzled, I glance around. That’s when I see him. The man is standing just inside the gate, eyes wide and uncomprehending. His mouth moves as he asks silent questions, his face slack as he tries to force an understanding of his situation. I walk gently up to him and rest what I hope is a comforting hand on his shoulder.

  “Are you okay, Bruce?” I ask. He looks sharply at me, and I realize that he hasn’t even registered our presence yet.

  “You should record that song,” I say to Claire. “It’d sell millions.” She flips me off and takes a deep, soothing drink from her water bottle.

  “What’s…” Bruce begins. He closes his mouth as is afraid to speak. “Where am I?”

  “You don’t recognize it?” I say. “You were here yesterday.”

  He searches the yard with his eyes, comprehension just beyond his grasp. “How did I get here? And what are you doing here? Didn’t I tell you to leave m
e alone?”

  “I’m trying to help you, Bruce, like I’ve been saying all along. This is my… partner, Claire. We’ve been looking for you.”

  “I told you, I won’t let you give it to him.”

  “I’m not going to give it to him. Forget what you might have heard about us, but believe what you’ve heard about me. I won’t let an innocent person die as long as I have a say in it, no matter who or where they are. I promise you, Remy Danaher will never get the Cleave from me or anyone I have influence over.”

  He looks me over thoroughly, measuring my speech. Finally he nods his assent.

  “I believe you,” he says, his shoulders drooping in relief.

  “Thank God,” I said. “You still have it, I assume?”

  “Of course. Like I told you before, I’d never let it out of my sight. I’d never have brought it to this damned town at all if I could have prevented it.”

  “Why did you ever even come here?” Claire asks.

  “I don’t know,” Bruce says, and his voice rings with truthfulness. “We were coming from the airport in Panama City and it was my turn to drive. When we got near Superstition Bay Peter and Ernest suddenly fell asleep. I found myself turning off the highway and into the town. I could see what I was doing, but I couldn’t stop it. Like I was sleepwalking or something, except I was awake.”

  I recognize the symptoms. I’ve seen them all too recently. “You were possessed.”

  “I… what?”

  “You were possessed,” Claire repeats. “Someone used magic to overlap your consciousness. Kind of like mind control.”

  “I know the symptoms,” he said, “but I work for Linear. The car we were in had fifteen different protective spells on it, three of which were designed to repel mental attacks. Nobody could have broken through that.”

  “And yet, here you are,” I pointed out. “All right. Who possessed you?”

  “I don’t know, but whoever it was, he must have had a hell of a lot of power to be able to get to me. You know about Linear’s protective spells.”

  “How couldn’t you know? Whoever did it was in your body, right?”