by J. Kenner
How convenient that fate had given me the tools to make that dream come true. I could end the son of a bitch, and I could do it for revenge and in the name of God.
How sweet was that?
Trouble was, it didn’t feel sweet at all. It felt bitter. Bitter and cold and wrong.
Not for the first time, I had to wonder if I wasn’t all wrong for this job. What kind of prophecy hung the fate of the world on the shoulders of a girl like me? A fucked-up one, that was for damn sure.
My mishmash of thoughts irritated me, reminding me of just how much I didn’t want Clarence to continue seeing inside my head. That meant I had two choices. I could quit trying to compartmentalize the demonic essence I took in, or I could look for this Secret Keeper that Madame Parrish had told me about. Because option number one was unacceptable, I went for door number two.
As far as I knew, a Secret Keeper was something you bought at Target, so I tried the Internet first, punching in a broad search request. When that yielded a million entirely irrelevant results, I went hog wild and added “demon” to the request.
Amazingly enough, I got a decent hit. A character in one of those role-playing games. A creature known as a Secret Keeper. I poked around and found out that in the game, the demon took in secrets from other players, shielding the secrets from the giving player’s enemies. Interesting.
I did a few more searches, but found nothing else. Figuring that fiction often imitated life, I moved from the computer to an ancient, battered text that Clarence had given me. There was no convenient index, but I flipped pages, skimming the calligraphy-style text and getting more and more discouraged until, finally, my eyes caught the word secret as I was about to flip a page. I stopped, read the text carefully, then smiled broadly.
I’d found my man. Or, rather, my creature. An Alash-tijard. Not a demon itself, but a demon’s servant.
And to be fair, I hadn’t found him; I’d only identified him.
But it was the first step. Because once I located one, I could kill it. And once I’d done that, I’d be a Secret Keeper, too.
And there was no way Clarence would get into my head then.
The thought made my smile even broader. Clarence might be my handler, and he might be one of the good guys, but I definitely didn’t like him in my head. And the knowledge that there was a way to keep him out that didn’t involve me losing my humanity went a long way to improving my mood.
I decided to celebrate with another preservative-laden Twinkie, and as I headed back to the kitchen, I noticed that the message light on the phone was blinking. I punched the button to play, more for the distraction than because I cared. There were eleven messages, the first making my stomach twist with guilt. Gracie. Her frantic voice sounded choked with tears, and I wanted to kick myself for not thinking about her. Of course she’d be worried. Even though it seemed like a hundred years ago, it had been only a day, and because Wednesday had been my day off at the pub, I hadn’t seen her to reassure her. All she knew was that I’d been in a fight Tuesday night, I’d been freaked about my missing attackers, and then I’d raced the hell out of there.
I glanced at the clock, wanting to call and let her know I was okay, but not willing to do that at almost two in the morning. I told myself she’d be just as relieved to learn I was okay at a reasonable hour, and that there was no point in waking her up. And the truth was that although I hated that I’d worried her, the fact that there was someone in this new life who did worry about me made me all warm and fuzzy.
The next message was from Brian, also worried, but not as tearful as Gracie’s call. I smiled a little, sorry I’d worried them, but enjoying the warm feeling of having people who cared.
After Brian came a hang-up, and the two after were from Clarence, looking for me after the mission. Obviously, he had both talked to Zane and found me, so I deleted them.
After that, one more hang-up.
I frowned, wondering if Alice was plagued by telemarketers, or if the hang-ups were something more nefarious. In a sudden burst of technical savvy, it occurred to me to check the phone log, and as soon as I did, my stomach clenched. I knew that number.
My number.
Rose’s number.
With a shaking hand, I put the phone down, remembering how I’d called just to hear her voice. She must have checked caller ID, too. And she’d decided to call back, curious. And, possibly, a little scared. Why wouldn’t she be? She’d been stalked by Lucas Johnson, hadn’t she? And now I’d put that fear back into her. Me, the girl who’d gone to the mat to try to protect her.
It was fucked up. All the more so because I couldn’t tell her who I really was, and I couldn’t really befriend her. Not if I wanted to keep her safe. But I could call her back. I could at least call as Alice and fess up to the earlier call. I could explain that I’d been looking out for her. That Lily would have wanted me to.
The plan made me feel somewhat better, and I headed toward the bedroom, figuring that snuggling under the covers with a magazine was just the ticket. I never got the chance, though, because it struck me anew that it was early Thursday morning. Otherwise known as late Wednesday night for those of us not yet in bed (or who no longer needed to bother with going to bed).
And I had a commitment for late Wednesday.
I had an appointment with Lucy and Ethel.
Damn.
I changed clothes—the ones I’d been wearing were in tatters, anyway—then rummaged in Alice’s drawers until I finally found an address book with Rachel’s phone number and address. No key taped conveniently in place, but on my way out the door, I thought to open the tiny drawer in that little tiled table. Five keys, each with neatly labeled tags: Spare, Pub Bk Dr, Laundry Room, Noah, and Rachel.
Thank you, Alice.
Fortunately for my mood, Lucy and Ethel were indeed dogs and not plants or fish. They were so excited to see me that I felt a twinge of guilt for the irritation I’d felt during the ride over, being much more inclined to sleep and brood than to play babysitter to the pets. Still, after the day I’d had, I needed some TLC, and who better to provide some anonymous comfort than a couple of fuzzy, squirmy muttlings.
The muttness of the dogs actually surprised me. Rachel struck me as the blue-blood type. The kind who would enter her dog in a show and then down a martini or three if she didn’t get a ribbon. Or if she did, for that matter.
Apparently my assessment skills weren’t up to par, because her apartment didn’t reflect nearly the level of snobbery that her clothing suggested. Or, perhaps I was a reverse snob, making assumptions based on wardrobe and little hard evidence.
In fact, the apartment was warm and eclectic. She had a variety of candles in various shapes and sizes, but they were all black. An interesting palette, especially considering that her striking red furniture screamed color.
Above her mantel was a series of photographs showing her selling jewelry as a child at street fairs, then smiling at the camera as she strung beads on a necklace. The middle part of her journey to fame and fortune was missing, and the time line skipped straight to Rachel holding her first corporate sales check, enlarged about a hundred times, her smile thin as the flash of the camera caught her eyes.
After that, the photos switched to pictures of family and the pub. There was even one showing the Haunted Boston tour guide with Egan, Alice, and Rachel. They were all decked out in Halloween attire, and Alice was grinning like a fiend under a gaudy witch’s hat while Rachel, in similar garb, shot her little sister an exasperated look.
I couldn’t help but smile. I’d aimed a similar look in Rose’s direction many a time, and I had to wonder what these two had been quibbling about.
With the dogs following at my heels, I gave up my snoopiness and put out food for them, then poured myself a glass of wine while they indulged. When we’d all finished our snacks, I found their leashes hanging by the front door. “Come on, girls. Let’s go do your business.”
I’d noticed that Rachel or her boyfriend h
ad spread the bathroom with newspaper, but it was clean and dry. Presumably, the little girls needed out. And I definitely needed to walk.
At that hour the park across from Rachel’s apartment stood empty, and that was where I headed with the dogs, letting them lead me with their churning legs and snuffling noses to all the good smells that littered the ground. They whined and tugged on their leashes, wanting to be set free, but because I didn’t know if they’d come back, I kept a firm hold. I still craved my long, hot bath—I really needed some thinking time—but standing there in the dark sufficed. And as the dogs snuffled and romped and did their doggy things, I let my mind wander. My curious fate. The darkness inside me. The mystery that was Alice.
And most of all, Deacon.
As if the whisper of his name in my mind were an incantation, he appeared, little more than shadow on the far side of the park. But it was him, there was no doubt in my mind, and when he stepped into dim light, what I already knew was confirmed. I could feel his eyes on me. Watching me.
And I could feel the desire in him, too, and I hated myself for returning it.
More than that, though, I felt a deep malevolence. An anger. No, a fury. That seemed to roll off him in waves. A rage, I realized, that matched my own.
I needed to go after him. To end this.
I needed to race to him. To draw my blade. And to sink it deep into his heart.
He’d killed Alice. He’d betrayed me.
Worse than that he’d played me.
He must have; everything I’d learned pointed toward him.
Everything except the way I felt in my gut.
I shook it off. Told myself that I wanted him dead.
But I didn’t go; I didn’t run.
I had the dogs, after all.
But as I stood there, my stomach in knots and my hands sweaty, I couldn’t be sure whether I was staying put because of the dogs, or because of me.
33
Rose had already left for school when I called the next morning, but Gracie snatched up her phone on the second ring and gushed with such relief that I agreed to meet her for a late breakfast at Dino’s before our lunchtime shift at the pub.
I found her in a back booth, already sucking down coffee. Her blue eyes brightened when she saw me, and she raised a hand, waving me over. She was up and in my arms before I could fend her off, her hug so tight I felt smothered. And loved.
“Hey, . . .aid. “I’m alive. I’m fine. And I’m really, really sorry.”
“What the hell happened to you? I mean, you were dead. They had to use those shocker things! You should have gone to a hospital, Alice. What the hell were you thinking?”
“I wasn’t. I just ran.”
She flopped back in her seat, then squinted as she looked at me. “From what?”
The waitress wandered over, saving me from answering.
Instead, I ordered a short stack of chocolate chip pancakes and lots of coffee. Comfort food. Gracie did the same, and as soon as the waitress left, she jumped back on me. “What were you running from?”
“To,” I said, because there was no escape from the interrogation. “I was running to something.”
“All right. To what?”
“Gracie . . . ”
“No.” She sat up straighter, looking remarkably firm for such a little blond thing. “Something’s up with you. You’ve been weird for days. Don’t you dare deny it.”
“I’m not denying,” I said, remarkably relieved to share something—anything—with someone outside the weirdness parameter of my life.
“Then what is it? What’s going on?”
“I can’t say. Really,” I added, when she opened her mouth to object. “But it helps just knowing you care.”
“I do.” Her teeth scraped over her lower lip. “I won’t pry. I swear. But tell me one thing. Are you in trouble?”
I shook my head. “No. I promise. But I guess you could say I’m trying to stop trouble.”
She cocked her head, obviously trying to figure something out. “And Deacon? Is he part of the trouble?”
I tensed, and tried hard not to show it. “I’d really rather not talk about him.”
“Alice—”
“No. We’re done. Moving on to you. Anything happen yesterday with the job?”
At my question, her mood completely changed, going from pensive and suspicious to open and excited. “I got it,” she said with a wild, exuberant laugh. “I got the job!” She grabbed my hands and looked me straight in the eyes. And, because I wasn’t thinking about it, I found myself looking back.
That was a big mistake. A fact I realized when the world around us seemed to drop away. I heard Gracie gasp, felt her hands tighten on mine, and though I wanted to look away or let go, I couldn’t. I was stuck. Right there inside the vision. Right there, with Gracie.
We were falling. Screaming. Thrust into a dark pit. A candlestick stood tall under a row of familiar symbols. And in the center, a single female figure, wearing a white silk nightgown and tied spread-eagled to a stone table.
“Alice!”
I blinked, jerking my hands free of hers.
“Oh my God,” she said, her eyes wide. “What the hell was that?”
But I could only stare at her, trembling with the memory of how I’d awakened, trapped in a room just like that. Strapped down, just like that.
“Alice! Alice!” Gracie’s voice shook with fear. “What the hell? That girl. That was—” She broke off, shivering. “What was that? What’s going on? You saw it too, right?” Her eyes were wide, freaked, and I knew just how she felt.
I couldn’t afford to be freaked now, though, and so I drew in a breath and tried to quash the memories. Calm, I thought. Control. Those were my buzzwords now.
“I get these visions,” I said, forcing my voice to remain steady. “Not often, but sometimes.” I shrugged, pretending nonchalance. “It’s weird, but I’ve gotten used to them.”
“You told me before, remember?” Another shiver rippled through her. “But I never had any idea they were like that.”
“Yeah. They can be unnerving.” I managed a smile, absurdly grateful that Alice had shared the visions with Gracie. I had a feeling her advance preparation was the only reason Gracie hadn’t run screaming from the restaurant. Even with warning, I could tell she was freaked, though she was trying to put on a good show. Probably she’d told Alice that the visions were no big deal, and she didn’t think Alice was weird for having them. Now poor Gracie was getting the chance to put her money where her mouth was.
She gnawed on her lower lip and eyed me warily, slightly calmer now. “Are they, like, what? Predictions?”
“Sometimes,” I admitted, and saw the fear flicker in her eyes. “And sometimes they’re more like dreams. You know, you have to interpret what it means.”
“And this one?”
“Dunno. Not really.” I still didn’t know how the visions worked, but maybe touching Gracie had triggered a memory in the body I now occupied. A memory of the sacrificial ceremony. A memory that, if I was lucky, could help me find Alice’s killer.
“You’re not telling me everything,” she accused.
I started to deny it, but didn’t see the point. “You’re right,” I said. “I’m not. And you were right about the other day, too. When you said I was distracted.”
“Can I help?” she asked, though she looked like she’d much rather walk across hot coals.
“No way,” I said, probably faster than I should have.
“You’re gonna get yourself hurt,” she said. “Killed, or worse. Aren’t you?” Tears welled in her eyes. “If there’s something freaky going on, Alice, you need to call the cops.”
“Don’t worry. I’ve got help.”
“Deacon?”
“No,” I said, probably too sharply. “Stay away from him, Gracie.” I still didn’t know why he killed Alice—and I still hoped that Clarence’s source was wrong—but I wasn’t taking any chances with my friend’s life. �
�For that matter, stay away from the pub. When’s your new job start?”
“Um, tomorrow. I know it’s horrible of me not to give Egan a full two weeks, but it’s okay, don’t you think? Especially since the pub’s gonna be closed tomorrow anyway.”
“It is?”
“Yeah, remember? Oh, that’s right. You have Wednesdays off.”
“Why’s he shutting down on a Friday?”
“Plumbing. They have to rip out some plumbing in the bathrooms. Egan’s really pissed, but I guess it’s all about health codes and stuff.” She wrinkled her nose. “At any rate, it sounds nasty. But that should make it okay, right? I mean, that’s almost like giving an extra day’s notice, isn’t it?”
“Totally. And I’ll work an extra shift if Egan needs the help. Don’t worry about it.”
She rubbed her arms. “Hard not to,” she said, and I knew we weren’t talking about the job.
I shrugged, but had to agree. And the way I figured it, Gracie couldn’t have picked a better time to have found a new job and gotten the hell away from a pub whose owners throughout history had made a point to advertise their dark allegiances.
In fact, maybe this was the reason Alice had pushed Gracie toward this new job. For that matter, I saw absolutely no reason for Gracie to go back to the demon-overrun pub. Gracie, however, insisted on following etiquette and giving Egan her notice in person. I didn’t like it—I had no proof, but I did have a sick feeling that one of the bar patrons was behind both Alice’s death and Egan’s troubled telephone call. And if scary, creepy things were going down at the pub, I wanted the only friend I now had someplace far, far away.
Because I couldn’t explain any of that to her, we walked to the pub together.
Egan looked up as we entered, then went back to polishing the brass on the bar. The place was mostly empty, just a few diehards nursing pints. A little closer to lunch, and the crowds would start to trickle in. I almost welcomed it. Juggling beers and food would at least clear my mind. Maybe if I could stop thinking about it for a second, an answer would manage to take root in the muck that was my brain.