The Deeps (Book Three of The Liminality)

by A. Sparrow

  “Oh my God! Your hands are freezing. Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” I said, my voice croaking. “I just got back in the Deeps. Takes me a while to adjust to the heat. I need some water. Please?”

  She rushed back into the kitchen, dodging around Urszula who stood pressed against the door frame, smirking.

  A wave of dizziness made me swoon and groan. Somehow, involuntarily, that groan acquired melody. Like a dog imitating a siren, I wailed a string of notes that should have sounded flat or sharp if they hadn’t resonated so perfectly with my soul.

  Urszula joined in, her pitch quavery at first, but quickly locking into a sort of harmony.

  “You guys … what the heck?” Ellen hustled back, sloshing an overly full glass of water onto the carpet. “You giving me a concert?”

  “It’s … from the Deeps,” I said. “It’s what they do … in the Deeps.”

  “Riversong,” said Urszula. “It has been a long time since I have summoned it. Good to know it is still inside me.”

  “That sounded so weird. Like … Middle Eastern or Ethiopian or something. But … that place can’t be all bad. I mean … if folks have time for singing.”

  “How long have I been gone?”

  “I don’t know … a couple hours, I guess,” said Ellen. “You missed lunch. But there’s some extra chowder in the pot. I can dish you out a bowl.”

  “Sure. But first … I need to cool down.” I guzzled half the glass she had given me and poured the rest over my head.

  “Jeez. Would you like some ibuprofen?”

  “It’s not a fever. It’s just part of the transition. Bodies are different … in the Deeps.”

  “Hmm. Maybe some wet cloth … and some ice.”

  The girls fetched some towels and a tray of ice cubes from the kitchen and fashioned cold packs that they stuffed under my shirt.

  “You do realize it’s not even warm in here. I mean … I’m wearing a sweater.”

  “It’s all relative,” I said. “Just takes a little time to adjust.”

  “Some texts came in on your phone, by the way. I didn’t bother to check. That’s your business. But there’s plenty of chowder left, in case you want some.”

  “Umm. Sure. Guess I should try and eat.” I picked the iPhone off the end table, and thumbed it on. There were two messages, both from Wendell.

  The first one read: ‘Holiday’s over. Back to work. Call me for the details.’

  The second message acknowledged my absence.

  ‘My familiar informs me you ain’t all here. Call, soon as you get back.’

  I stared at the phone. I didn’t feel like talking to the man, but what could I do? He would know I had returned. His familiar was crawling around here somewhere. It might even be that fly buzzing along the wall. So I rang him up.

  He answered promptly. “Hey bud. Good to hear from you. Welcome back.” It sounded like he was in the middle of eating. “Just wanted to let you know … waypoint number two is a go.”

  “Laurent?”

  “That’s a street name. St. Laurent Boulevard to be precise. It’s in Montreal. The coordinates on your GPS will lead you right to his doorstep. Kid’s name is Simon Robichaud. Age 25. A willing target. Easy as pie. Can’t walk. Can’t talk. But a mind is as sharp as a whip. Lives with a very protective family. Nice people. Well-intended. But they’re preserving him in a living hell. He’d rather spend his days fully mobile in Frelsi than a quadriplegic in Montreal. Can you blame him? He just got over a pneumonia he hoped would take him, but no dice. Fucking antibiotics saved him. He’s getting tired of hanging around the glaciers. He’s aching to get back to the Sanctuary. Next two days would be optimal. Family’s shipping him off to Ottawa on Friday to see a specialist.”

  “So how … what do you want me to deliver?”

  “No deliveries. This time, the method’s up to you. It’s the next phase of your apprenticeship. On the job training. You call the shots. Gives you a chance to be creative, show off your talents. Anything goes. But the bottom line? End his life. Just … be merciful. Our client’s appreciate a clean separation. But you’ve got all the chops you need. Figure it out.”

  “Wait. You want me to decide how to murder him?”

  “There you go using that ugly word again. Remember, these are transitions we’re facilitating. Heck, you go back and forth. You should know the deal. These transitions just happen to be … permanent.”

  My nerves kicked up and made me antsy. “I don’t like this,” I said. “I’d rather you just tell me what to do.”

  “If you’re gonna freelance with us you’re gonna need to figure this shit out. I’ll give you a hint. The kid just got over pneumonia. He’s got breathing problems. Weak lungs. Maybe even a touch of asthma. But that’s just one of the possibilities. There’s all sorts of things you could do. If I were you I’d head up to Montreal tonight. It’s only a couple hours drive. That’d give you two full days to play with. And I’ll tell you what, I have a guy there I’ll hook you up with. He can talk you through it, give you pointers. His name’s Nelson. Don’t freak out when you see him; he’s a little rough around the edges. Anyhow, I’ll catch you on the other side. Got some nifty new toys for you when you do good. You ever ride a motorcycle?”

  “Not really. I rode a minibike once. Crashed into a tree.”

  “Well, time you learned. Nothing better for getting out of a jam. Ciao.”

  I put down the phone just as Ellen came out of the kitchen with a tray loaded with steaming chowder and hunks of crusty bread, her expression flat and sullen.

  “That was him, wasn’t it?” she said. “You just talked to Wendell.”

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s not another job, is it? Already?”

  “Yeah. Montreal.”

  “Well, you’re not going there without us. Not this time. Not any more.”

  I just stared back.

  “You okay? What’s wrong? You look ill.”

  I didn’t know what to say. I couldn’t express how I felt. I didn’t want to go anywhere or do anything for anyone. But it seemed like I had no choice, like I was trapped in a whirlpool of destiny too powerful for me to ever escape. It was going to take me down into the abyss, no matter how much I resisted.

  I just looked back at her blankly as the ice water dripped from my melting cold packs and puddled on the hardwood.

  ***

  All three of us piled into the Subaru. That was the arrangement. No more leaving anyone behind. I told Ellen I would just go through the motions, make it look like I was doing Wendell’s bidding to give us time to figure out where to make our stand or run. In truth, I had no idea which we would end up doing. I was simply following the path of least resistance until I could get my ass out of the Deeps.

  I had never been to Montreal, or Canada for that matter. But I insisted on driving. It was my car. I had earned it.

  We caught Route 89 North in Burlington, driving through some otherworldly scenery even for someone like me who had actually been to other worlds. First there were these forests of lichen-crusted evergreens unlike any piney woods I had ever seen. And then, just after the border station where we got to flash our fake passports, the hills gave way to a landscape of big skies, enormous fields, lonely farmhouses and decrepit villages. All of a sudden, all of the signs were in French. All of this, just a hop, skip and a jump from Burlington.

  I found this shit mesmerizing that the city of Montreal totally snuck on me. All of a sudden we were surrounded by office parks, apartment buildings, warehouses and shopping malls. And then the city proper loomed across one of the widest rivers I had ever seen. I was agog with it all. Me, who had visited three existences and half of Europe. Agog.

  We booked a room in a hotel near McGill called the Omni. Nice place, but it must have looked weird, a guy and two women booking one room. But Urszula refused to share a bed and insisted on building a nest on the floor from bedspreads and spare towels.

  I sat by the
window with a map of Montreal in my lap and locked onto some satellites with the GPS. Turned out St. Laurent Boulevard was only a few blocks away.

  Somehow, Wendell must have known we had arrived because my phone chimed with an incoming text:

  ‘Tomorrow morning. Meet Nelson. Odd side of Laurent. Eleven fifteen sharp.’

  I didn’t sleep much that night.

  ***

  I was hoping and counting on Ellen to talk me out of it over breakfast. But she was weirdly quiet. Urszula, at least, was her normal surly self. She expressed no qualms about the hit. She was just along for the ride. All she wanted was another crack at Wendell, any way she could get it.

  It was ten-thirty when I paid the bill and laid my napkin down on the table.

  “Shall we?”

  Urszula nodded, scraping back her chair eagerly. Ellen rose from the table with extreme reluctance. Until now, she had made a point of all avoiding eye contact with me.

  “We don’t all have to go, you know. You guys can just hang out in the—”

  Ellen flashed me a glare. “Excuse me? We had a deal!”

  “Okay. That’s cool. You can … come along.”

  I had parked the car deep in an underground garage beneath an office building. The Metro rumbled unseen beyond the walls. It made me think of Reapers.

  And it made me wonder. Was I as much a Reaper now as those loathsome, lumbering beasts in the tunnels of Root? Or that wicked storm, the Horus?

  We drove several blocks, past the McGill campus and around the green mound of Mount Royal. We parked in a side street in a neighborhood dense with apartment buildings. Upscale, to my eyes, with their ornate brickwork and well-maintained pocket courtyards bounded by black-painted cast iron fences.

  A couple, arm in arm, strolled by on this fine spring morning. I stepped out of the car.

  “So you’re actually going to do this?” said Ellen.

  “I’m gonna check it out at least. You don’t have to come you know.”

  She shoved open the passenger side door and bustled out. Urszula was already standing by the curb.

  “I want to see for myself how willing these victims are,” said Ellen.

  “He lives around the corner, down half a block.”

  Urszula joined us and we ambled down onto Saint Laurent Boulevard through a mixed commercial/residential neighborhood. Most buildings had shops and restaurants on the first floor with apartments up above, but there were a few strictly residential buildings strewn among them.

  Simon Robichaud lived in one of the latter situations—one in a row of triple-decker townhouses. We lingered in front of a charcuterie and a lingerie shop trying and failing not to look awkward. A homeless guy on the corner kept peering at us, trying to judge, I supposed, whether we were worth hitting up for a dollar.

  “What now?” said Ellen.

  “We wait,” I said. “I’m not going to his door and ringing his doorbell.”

  “Why not?”

  “What if somebody else answers? What do I tell them? I’m here to facilitate your Simon to the afterworld?”

  “It’s the truth.”

  “The truth … is … awkward.”

  “Then don’t bother. Let’s just leave. Drive north till we run out of road. To … Labrador … if we have to. Let’s see if Wendell follows.”

  “He will,” I said. “He’ll come after us. Or send his familiars.”

  “Let him,” said Urszula. “I am ready. Let him come. And then we make our stand.”

  “No. Not in the wilderness. He’s too powerful, and out there he would have no constraints. In the city at least there would be limits to what he could do to avoid collateral damage. And there would be witnesses to worry about. But … not here, either. Not Montreal. I don’t know this place. I’m not comfortable here. If we do it … it’s gotta be the right place.”

  The homeless guy ambled over, sporting a broad, rubbery smile under a droopy mustache. Tufts of white hair protruded beneath his tuque. His nose was bulbous and webbed with purple veins.

  He stuck out his hand. I fished around in my pockets for some loose change, but the way he held his hand, he clearly wanted me to shake it.

  “Hello there,” he said. “I’m Nelson. Nelson Prioleau.”

  “Wendell’s guy?”

  “Yep. You must be James. You’re a heck of a lot younger than I was expecting. I mean, you’re just a kid. And who are these gals tagging along with you? Fans? Groupies?”

  “Listen. I don’t need any help. I can handle this on my own.”

  “Yes, of course. But Mr. Franks asked that I come by and offer you some coaching. Don’t worry. It’s not a bother at all. You see, Quebec is generally my territory. Since you were in Vermont, he thought this might be a good opportunity for you to have a little practice. I don’t mind. There’s plenty of work these days. Plenty to go around. Almost too much, in fact.”

  “Listen. I don’t need any coaching. I don’t even know if I’m gonna—”

  “Yes, well that’s too bad. Mr. Franks asked me to coach you and so I will coach you. So far so good. You’ve come to the correct location at the appointed time. Demerits, perhaps, for being so conspicuous. A block away I had you pegged as a foreigner. And you might want to ditch the entourage. Pretty girls attract too much attention.”

  “Excuse me.” Ellen bugged her eyes at him. “We are not his entourage, and we are most definitely not groupies.”

  “I’m just saying … it’s better for him to work alone.”

  Urszula rolled the shaft of beechwood between her palms and glowered at the man.

  “Ah! So this must be the Duster girl! Mr. Franks told me about her, but frankly I didn’t believe him. It seemed too unbelievable. Oh, look at that glare. That pout. You’re not turning me to dust, are you dear? Right here? On the streets of Montreal? Look at her. She hates me simply because I hail from Frelsi. As if I was responsible for the suffering of her tribe.”

  Urszula hefted her scepter, cradling it in her arms like a rifle.

  Mr. Prioleau chuckled. “These Dusters and their sticks. So quaint. I don’t suppose you can summon any spell craft with that my dear? Now that would be a fine trick for a dead girl in the land of the living.”

  A custom van pulled up to the curb across the street. It bore handicapped plates and had been retrofitted with a wheelchair lift in the back.

  “Ah! The guest of honor has arrived.”

  I checked my watch. It was a few minutes shy of the time Wendell had asked me to arrive.

  “Alright then,” said Mr. Prioleau. “So let me set the scene. The man getting out of that van is Simon Robichaud’s father—David. The family has just returned from church. Once he is helped out of the van, on nice days like this, while lunch is being prepared, Simon likes to sit out on the curb and watch the world go by. In fact, it commonly affords him the solitude he requires to bring the roots a calling. It’s been some time now since he’s had the pleasure. He’s been very ill, you see. And that was cause for excitement because there was a good chance the infection would claim him. But alas, he survived and a little optimism can be cruel in how it keeps the roots at bay. I suspect his mother will object to his sitting out today considering he’s just gotten over pneumonia. But it’s such a fine day. How could she not indulge him?”

  “You guys expect me to off him right here in public?”

  “Of course. And how you accomplish that is entirely up to you. Nothing messy or painful, of course. That is not how we do things. We try and keep hands off as much as possible. No projectiles, sharp implements or traceable toxins.”

  “Why does Wendell even need me, if you’re here?”

  “Because you are the apprentice. How else do you expect to learn our trade?”

  Across the street, Simon’s dad lowered the motorized wheelchair to the curb with a hydraulic lift. Once on the sidewalk, Simon powered up and zipped behind the van, backing into a tiny brick-paved nook in a garden facing the street.


  “He’s got some control,” I said. “He’s not a total quadriplegic.”

  “Yes. He can use his left hand a little, God bless him. But he was quite an athlete before the injury. Still is, as a Hemisoul.”

  “He’s … quite handsome,” said Ellen.

  “Ah, but you should see how he looks restored to full vigor in Frelsi. Even as a Hemi he has made quite a splash with the ladies of the Sanctuary.” Mr. Prioleau frowned. “Oh … pardon me … does this one … does she know of—?“

  “She knows enough,” I said. “Not first hand, thank God.”

  A little girl was unbuckled from a child seat and set down on the sidewalk. She ran over to Simon and kissed him on the cheek.

  Ellen gripped my arm.

  “You can’t do this,” she whispered. “Look how much his family loves him. They take such good care of him.”

  “For some of us, that would be enough,” said Mr. Prioleau.

  Last out of the van was an old woman who waddled up to Simon. She spoke to him like he was a baby. She even pulled out a handkerchief and daubed some the drool from his chin.

  “Ah, the grande dame and matriarch, Madeleine. Unfortunately, she’s not all with it these days.”

  Simon’s father took her by the elbow and guided her into the townhouse.

  “Alright, then. Your window of opportunity is now open. In thirty minutes or so they will bring him inside and we won’t see him again till tomorrow. How do you propose to complete your task?”

  “I … uh … I have no clue.”

  “You’re telling me you came here with no plan?

  “I could short out his chair. Make it roll into the street.”

  “James!” said Ellen, appalled.

  “I wouldn’t recommend that,” said Mr. Prioleau. “Too messy. Too Painful. You can do better. But you’d better think of something quick. Loiter too long and neighbors get nosey. Police get called.”

  “Listen. I think it was a mistake coming up here.”

  “Cold feet? Not unusual for your first true facilitation. Your little errand in Burlington was just an icebreaker. An initiation.”

  Ellen took my hand. “Let’s go,” she whispered.

  “Oh, come now. It’s not that hard. Look at him sitting there so vulnerable. The poor boy is just aching to die. A sad story, I mean, we’re all a sad lot, those of us summon Root. But Simon was a talented young man. A damn good cellist and an even better collegiate hockey player. Spring break, he and his friends were diving into a pool from a balcony if Fort Lauderdale. Great fun until his heel caught on the top rail and he missed the pool. He’s mostly paralyzed from the chest down.”