by Tanith Frost
A man stands on the rough pebbles, hands held up in front of him as though they’ll offer any protection against what’s advancing on him. It’s got its back to me, but I have no doubt it’s one of Tempest’s zombies—the lurching gate, the inadequate clothing, and the horrified look on its intended victim’s face, visible between his red toque and the collar of his coat, tell me all I need to know. The human’s not quite middle-aged. We probably won’t be lucky enough to see this one eliminated by a heart attack.
He doesn’t see me. Neither does the zombie. I pick up a rough chunk of rock from higher up on the beach, heavy enough that I have to lift it with two hands, just light enough that I should be able to control it.
My gun will be too loud, my daggers too slow.
I approach quickly but quietly, and the wind and waves are enough to nearly drown out the musical plinking of chipped stone beneath my feet. The human—the living human, that is—continues to back away. He steps on a raised rock and twists his ankle, falling and landing on his ass as the zombie lunges. The guy might not have much in the way of grace, but he’s got luck on his side. Though glass breaks in the plastic grocery store bag he was carrying, his body is spared for the moment. The zombie misses him, and the man crab-crawls away, dragging the bag still looped around his wrist.
But nothing slows these things for long, and the zombie regroups.
The human’s eyes widen as he catches sight of me, and the zombie turns, snarling. Instead of the blow to the back of the head I was aiming for, the rock comes down on its forehead, cracking skin and breaking bone. The zombie screeches, a noise that chills me to my bones and confirms just how inhuman it really is, and stumbles sideways.
Finish it quickly, destroy the brain. I tune the human out, pin the creature’s body beneath me at the edge of the waves, and raise the rock again.
It’s one of the zombies I accidentally helped create on my way out of Tempest. Beneath the bloodied forehead, its skin is burned. The wounds don’t show any sign of healing, though, and the vampires of Tempest obviously made no effort to help it in that regard. These creatures are disposable, low, unthinking, to be used and destroyed.
I bring the rock down again and again, shutting out all thought of what this thing might feel. Skulls are hard, and these creatures are far hardier than they were before death, when it seemed as if a stiff breeze was enough to send them leaping at the prospect of eternal rest. He keeps fighting long after a living human would be unconscious and damaged beyond repair. Waves lap over spatters of blood, brain, and bone. The creature’s movements become unfocused and meaningless. I turn the body over and aim one good blow at the back of the skull where it meets the neck, and a few seconds later, the twitching stops.
I’m shaking. It’s not that I feel sad or guilty. It’s not personal. I didn’t owe anything to this monstrosity. I’m disgusted, though, and angry with Bethany and Lachlan for turning a thinking, feeling creature into this mess.
Speaking of messes…
I turn back and find the human cowering next to the slope back up to the road. He doesn’t look as if his legs are going to carry him far, but though he’s fallen silent, he’s watching me with the same wide-eyed horror he fixed on the zombie a minute ago.
“Don’t move,” I order, and he nods frantically.
I’m going to have to deal with him, but I can’t leave this body here. There’s a wooden wharf nearby; it will have to do for now. I shed my coat and drag the corpse over, wade hip-deep into the freezing water, and submerge the body, blindly wedging it under a slimy crossbar to keep it from rising to the surface. I’ll send Eric back to collect his sample for the department and hope that the tide washes away the mess on the beach.
It’s the best I can do. I’ve got other fish to fry.
I’m soaked from head to toe, dripping water that smells like salt, seaweed, and less pleasant things as I pick up my coat and return to the human, but at least the blood is gone from my hands. I crouch a few paces away from him. His eyes are closed, his lips moving rapidly.
Heaviness closes around my chest. Gentle pressure, and not accompanied by the feeling of rapid dehydration I’d feel if I stepped into a church, but the effects are unmistakable.
Light. He’s praying.
“Hey,” I say, and he opens his eyes. The sensation vanishes. This isn’t sacred ground, after all. “Are you okay?”
“Hnungh,” he croaks. I squint and look closer. His eyes are glassy, and the burning smell of rum is rising from the bag next to him.
I offer a hand and help him to his feet.
“You… what…” he stammers. “I just…”
“You’re going to be fine now.” Probably a lie no matter what we decide to do with him, but it seems like the right thing to say. “Is your home nearby?”
“Uh…” He has to think for a few seconds. “It is. I was on my way there. Just picking up a few things at the grocery store.”
I’m sure that what’s in that bag isn’t sold at the local Co-Op, but I’m not going to challenge him on it or ask why he’s disguising his purchases. I honestly don’t care. “Which way? I’ll help you get there. You look a little unsteady.”
“Yes, thank you.”
He leaves the bag reluctantly, it seems—I almost expect him to speak a brief eulogy over his fallen comrade—and leads me along the beach, up the embankment, across the street, and around to the back door of a cozy-looking little bungalow with a view of the water. His hands are shaking too badly to fit the key into the lock, so I do it for him.
I don’t have to wait to be invited in, but I do. He’s freaked out enough.
“Would you, ah—hot tea?” he asks.
“If not something stronger,” I say, and he smiles.
“I’ll get you a towel. A blanket. I don’t have clothes for you to… Huh.” He leads the way into a dated little kitchen with dark cupboards and a green linoleum floor. “I might just sit down for a second or two if you don’t mind?”
I lay my coat on the table, take him by the elbow, and guide him through the doorway into the living room. A lamp is already lit next to an armchair that he collapses gratefully into.
“Allow me,” I say, and he doesn’t argue.
I pause by the built-in bookshelf that covers one wall of the living room. Most of the titles are unfamiliar to me, but the theme immediately becomes apparent. Hands That Hold, Hands That Heal; Stumbling Towards Golgotha; The Highest of Callings. I scan lower. Minding the Shepherd’s Flock; Preaching Beyond the Choir.
I haven’t just saved a human with a conscious connection to the light. I’ve saved some kind of pastor.
Okay, then.
I grab a towel and squeeze some of the water out of my hair and clothes, but there’s not much else to be done. My phone was in the back pocket of my jeans and is soaked with salt water and won’t turn on. Fantastic.
I leave it to dry on the kitchen counter and fill the kettle on the stove, set it to heat, and dig through the cupboards until I find the bottle of Screech he must have gone out to replace. Not quite empty yet. Bless him for his planning skills.
I pour two glasses—a big one for him, mine smaller and watered down as much as it can be while still holding a little colour. He refuses at first when I offer the glass to him.
“Nothing to be ashamed of,” I say. “It’s medicinal, right?”
He sighs and pulls the knitted blanket from the back of the chair over his shoulders, then accepts the drink with one shaking hand. “I guess the cat’s already out of the bag.”
“Your one vice, I’m sure.”
That gets me a little chuckle. He sips, settles back in the chair, and looks me over.
He’s sobering up, assuming he was really all that drunk to begin with and not just pushed over the edge by terror. I really wish he hadn’t broken that bottle.
“You saved me,” he says as though he’s just realized that this is what happened. A little surprised, but more in awe. “From that… what was it? Not
human.”
“It was, though. You must have been seeing things.” I sip from my glass, hoping it will encourage him to do the same. He does, draining the glass, and points to the left-hand cupboard under the bookcase. I open it and find a bottle of well-aged Canadian whisky from an Ontario distillery—much more my usual speed. I pour a generous helping into his glass, finish off my rum-water, and pour a dose for myself.
“Emergency supply,” he whispers, eyes shining. “I’d say this qualifies.”
“If ever there were a time, this would be it,” I agree, and raise my glass to him. He drinks again even when I don’t.
He leans forward. “It wasn’t human, though. What I saw in its eyes… Was it a demon?”
I can’t help smiling at that, knowing what I do about the reality behind those stories. “Not at all. I doubt you’d realize it if you met one of those.”
“Hmm.” He looks over the books on his shelf and shakes his head, then takes a long gulp of his drink, which I immediately top up. Then he laughs—gently at first, but it quickly builds until tears stream down his cheeks.
I freeze, unsure of what to do.
“Sorry,” he says when he’s calmed himself. “It’s just that I’ve been praying desperately for a sign. My faith has been—” he hesitates. “I’ve had questions. Doubts. Did you know that already?”
“How would I know that?”
He smiles again. “You’re an angel, aren’t you? Come in human guise to… not just save me from that thing, but to answer my prayer. This is my sign.”
I don’t know whether it’s better to argue or not. I sure as hell wasn’t sent by some higher being, but if it helps him…
I wait for him to finish his drink again and offer another top-up. The drunker the better at this point. “I’m not an angel. But I’ve met one. He wasn’t anything like what I’d ever imagined. They’re complicated creatures. We can’t possibly understand them.”
“Hmm. But you.” He points at me with the hand holding his glass, sloshing whisky down his sleeve. He doesn’t seem to notice. “You’re associated with them. You’re angel… adjacent.”
“Sure.” I lean forward. “Listen, mister…”
“Franklin. Pastor Franklin Watford O’Dell.”
“Listen, Franklin. It’s going to be okay. Do you hear me? Whether this vision inspires you or whether you forget all about it, whether you swallow everything you’ve learned whole or pick it apart to question every piece, the li—I mean, God isn’t going to turn his back on you.”
Tears sting my eyes. I don’t know why I’m bothering. He’s a human. He’ll live; he’ll die, and what happens will happen. It’s no longer my business.
Maybe it’s because he’s been brave enough to question and doubt. I remember how scary that felt when I was alive, the fear I’d be lost if I swam too far out into the sea of what if. It’s fucking terrifying in a way that someone who’s never believed in damnation will never understand.
This guy knows, and he’s still asking, still searching for truth beyond what feels comfortable and safe. He deserves something even if no angel is going to show up to bathe him in heavenly light.
“You’ll never know it all,” I tell him, and finish my drink. I won’t get drunk from this, but it burns pleasantly down my throat. “But keep searching, keep stumbling, keep helping others when they fall. It’s your privilege as a human.”
He frowns. “Did you say this vision?”
“Of course. None of this is real. It’s your sign, remember? You went out to get a drink, fell down on the beach, and bumped your head. You’ll be fine even if you don’t remember how you got home.”
I don’t have Daniel’s skills, but I can plant a seed that might keep him quiet until I call for backup.
“So I should…”
“Rest now. Know you’re not alone. Go on. Close your eyes.”
He does. I wait until his breathing slows, then stand to leave.
“What was its name?” he mumbles.
I turn back. “Excuse me?”
Franklin’s eyes are still closed. “The angel you said you met. What did it call itself?”
I won’t speak his real name here. Or anywhere, for all the good it will do me. “Gideon,” I tell him. “He called himself Gideon when he was walking among us.”
Franklin smiles, and a moment later, begins snoring.
I want to take a blanket or something to better shield me from the cold, but missing linens would be evidence of my visit that I can’t afford to leave. My coat, damp with melted snow from the beach and with the faint scent of dead blood clinging to it, will have to do.
I grab my phone on the way out and press the power button. The tiny screen lights up, then darkens again. I’ll just have to head back up the shore and see whether the others are still there.
The snow is still swirling when I step out onto the back porch, the Christmas lights up the hill still glowing. I head up the street, feet still sloshing inside my wet socks, hood up, head down against the wind.
It’s like wearing blinders, and I feel rather than see someone walking beside me. His familiar power is unfathomably strong even though I’m sure he’s masking it for my benefit. Half of it, anyway—the rest has to be locked away entirely. If he unleashed his light, I’d be turned to dust before I had a chance to greet him.
I turn to find him disguised as he was when we first met—dark hair a little too long, striking green eyes, astonishingly attractive even for a vampire, which he’s only pretending to be.
The wind dies, and the headlights coming up the street freeze. The snowflakes that were falling halt in their descent, hovering in the air as if someone has paused the world.
Speak of the devil, it seems, and he shall indeed appear.
10
“Be not afraid.”
I glare at Gideon and keep walking. “I’m not.”
He keeps pace easily beside me. “Then what are you? You certainly don’t seem pleased to see me.”
My fingers clench tightly around the dead phone in my pocket as I stop and turn to him. “Pleased? No, not exactly.” In fact, it’s hard to sort out what I feel. Anger, certainly, hot and seething. Resentment. None of that is helpful, though. “What are you doing here?”
He narrows his eyes. “That’s not what you really want to ask me, is it?”
I clench my jaw, close my eyes, and count to five—I can’t afford ten these days. Fortunately, my brain also works a bit faster than it once did. I won’t shout at him, though I want to.
I just need to figure out why seeing him is pissing me off so much.
“Why are you here now?” I ask. “I tried to call you when I really needed you, when I was scared and confused and had to make a decision that was going to change everything, but you didn’t come. I figured that meant we were really done, like you said. Fine. Fair enough. But now that I’m free of all that and back here, after I’ve dealt with a zombie or three and all that’s left is a pathetic, drunk human…” I trail off, at a loss for how else to explain the rage that burns through me, the certainty that I’d be better off if he hadn’t come at all instead of taunting me with the fact that he could have done so at any time.
“Right,” he says, rocking back on his heels in a casual motion that doesn’t fit the hard glint in his eyes—one that does make me afraid. “The graveyard.”
“You were listening?” Two words from him and my voice has nearly disappeared.
“You spoke my name, wanting me to come to give you answers.” He doesn’t sound as if he has much pity for that past version of me. “I didn’t come, but someone else did. Someone who revealed your true feelings to you.”
My mouth goes dry. “You… sent Gracie?”
“Your sister was already in the parking lot before you spoke my name.” It’s more a question than a statement, somehow, tempting me to look past the obvious impossibilities.
It’s my turn to narrow my eyes at him. “You’re implying that you had something to do
with it, though. You see things. Possibilities, if not the future. Are you saying that you—”
“I’m not saying I did anything.” He flashes a hint of a smug, infuriating smile that still fails to soften the threat in his eyes. “It was impossibly convenient timing for her visit, though, wasn’t it? And your story’s been full of that lately.”
I think back. “The car we stole after we escaped?”
“Full tank, keys in the ignition. In theory, all it would have taken was a little temptation—a suggestion to the driver that the car would be far nicer to return to on such a cold night if it were left running. Perhaps a whisper of the idea that there was no one around to take it, that paying for gas would only take a moment.”
My stomach sinks. It was convenient, of course. I called it luck, and if I’d written the timing of Grace’s visit to my grave off to anything, it would have been fate.
I clear my throat. “And the, um… the evidence that led to my pardon?”
“Another helpful coincidence. But I suppose a higher being could have made certain paperwork turn up when it otherwise might not have.”
“Elizabeth didn’t keep a diary, did she?”
“She did now.”
My hands clench in my pockets. “If you did all of this, why not just say so? Why not let me know I wasn’t alone?”
Gideon takes a step closer. “Because I’m under no obligation to obey your commands or act like a genie to be called on when you need a wish granted.” He holds my gaze, then looks away. “That doesn’t mean I haven’t been helping you on my own terms.”
I don’t say anything for a minute. I can’t. “I don’t know whether to apologize or thank you,” I say at last, with a great deal more humility than I greeted him with. “Though you haven’t actually taken credit for any of it, have you?”
His stern expression cracks just a little. “That would ruin the eternal mystery of it all, wouldn’t it?”
I sense that there’s more to it that he’s not saying, but I won’t press him on it. Not yet, anyway.