by Lucy Auburn
He says it so simply and easily, as if it's nothing, but the instant he does, I understand. It's not our connection that makes it hard for him to use his powers on me; it's the fact that I've spent most of my adult life trying to control every word I said, every action I took, in case any of them set him off. I'm well-versed in keeping my thoughts inside. Grayson's supernatural abilities change nothing.
"Well? Go through already."
He's clearly not in the mood to chat. Just as I'm about to step through the door, though, I remember something—and sheepishly slip back out into the main offices. Finding the right cubicle, I sweep Eve's short sword up under my arm, then walk back as quickly as possible, past an irritated Grayson and through the doors again.
I should feel more about what I just did, I realize as I step onto the gravel drive, three killers like me waiting on either side of it.
The truth is, though, I don't feel much other than satisfaction at a piece of work completed.
I'll sleep well tonight, in a world where that man is dead.
And I'll sleep ten times better the day I slit the throat of the man who killed my mother.
Chapter 23
The wide expanse of Eve's bed is far easier to sleep in now that I've scratched an itch I didn't even know needed tending. I wake at one point in the night, not because of bad dreams or memories, but because four little paws patter across the comforter, and a furry head bumps against my face.
Smiling, I reach a hand out and slip it across the little siamese kitty's fur. "You came back. I wasn't sure you would."
I get a nice, throaty purr from her that makes her whole body rumble against my fingers. Then something occurs to me. Blinking, I ask her, "But how'd you get in? The door was closed, and I'm sure I locked it."
She doesn't give up her secrets, whatever they are. Snorting, I observe, "You must have an Affinity, like everyone else here. Physical Class. Ability to... walk through walls."
"Actually," a woman's voice says, and for a disorienting moment I think it's the kitty herself speaking, "I let her in. Not on purpose—I opened the door and she slipped through. You do know that pets aren't allowed on campus, right?"
"She belonged to a member of the Shadow Fold before she came to me." Eve flicks on the lights, making my eyes water. She's got an irritated expression on her face, so I don't mention the part where I broke a shitload of rules to let the kitty go. "I'm pretty sure you're allowed to have pets, even if I'm not."
"I should make them move you to the student dorms," she says, without any real heat or intention behind it. "You know, students here usually have roommates. Sometimes even two. And they definitely don't have pets."
I pout at her, pushing my lower lip out and holding the kitty out in front of me. She makes a little squeaky mew as I pick her up, which just doubles the amount of cuteness exuding from her little face.
"Pretty please, can I keep her?" I widen my eyes and let them water some more, like I'm crying instead of just adjusting to the sudden influx of light. "She'll be sad and homeless if you kick her out. Plus, she can keep the rats and mice away."
"There isn't any rodent infestation around here." Eve walks over to the bed, and the kitty purrs so loud it practically vibrates my arms. Either she knows a landlord when she sees one, or like calls to like, because she and Eve are similar in more ways than one. A single look at the little grey-and-white face in front of her makes Eve sigh in resignation. "Fine, she can stay. But you have to scoop her litter box. And get her a litter box. I'm not getting anywhere near cat shit."
"Yay!" Putting her down on the floor, I throw the comforter off the bed and slide out, getting up to join Eve in her little kitchenette even though it's barely two in the morning. "How'd the mission go? Can you tell me where you went? What was it like?"
"You seem chipper," she muses, and I refrain from mentioning that it's because I used my powers to kill an asshole only a few hours ago. Eve doesn't need to know that—especially if the information might somehow make her even more responsible for my actions and get her in trouble. "I brought news back from the real world, some of it good, some of it... well. Just promise me you're in a good head place?"
"Considering everything I've been through lately, I think this is as good as it gets."
She studies me, then sharply nods, takes a deep breath, and tells me. "While I was out there, I worked on the warrant out for your arrest. It was based on your stepbrother's statement, but after a little talk I had with him, he went back to the police and revised what he had to say. The warrant has been dismissed, but you're still wanted for questioning. So you can go to your mother's funeral," I take in a sharp breath, "which is tomorrow afternoon, or today technically since it's after midnight. I paid for it—don't even look at me like that. Your stepfather's funeral was already taken care of, and that'll be on Sunday at the church he went to. But there's something you need to know."
I take a seat on the edge of the bed, and the little kitty joins me, purring and rubbing herself against my side and back. Just what I needed: bits of grey and white fur all over my clothing. And here I was, thinking black is a good color.
Licking my lips, I tell Eve, "I'm ready for it, whatever it is. Bad news, right? I've had plenty of experience in dealing with disappointments."
"Your stepbrother, Bernard..." She frowns, shaking her head. "I'm pretty sure—no, honestly, absolutely certain—that someone implanted false memories in his head. He had all the signs of being hypnotized: confusion, memories of multiple versions of that night, missing time, and paranoia. It was wearing off by the time I left him, but I can't guarantee that whoever put the memories in his head won't come back to do it again."
"Why would they do that? And who?"
"I don't know. But if I had a guess, I would say that it was the same person who killed your mother. You said they had powers, right?"
"He turned into fog." I clench my hands into fists at the memory, so fresh and full of mourning. "That's how he got away. But I thought most people only have one Affinity. Could someone have two? And if they do, you can help me identify them, right?"
"Maybe. But to tell you the truth, I haven't heard about anyone with a fog form in the Shadow Fold, and they'd be pretty infamous for their work by now." She grabs a bottle of tequila from a cabinet in her kitchenette, then two mismatched glasses, and offers me some. I take the smaller glass as she continues to tell me, "Having more than one Affinity is rare. Having four is the rarest, like you, but even two or three are unheard of. If this is someone who can implant memories and turn into fog... My instincts say that they're probably not a member of the Shadow Fold. We're likely dealing with a rogue agent—someone who has powers, maybe even came to the university for a while, but either dropped out and escaped or ignored the summons of the doors. And if that's the case, then I'm worried."
"Why?" I take a sip of the tequila, which is aged and smooth going down, then immediately cough as it burns in my throat. "Professional assassin or amateur assassin, it's all the same to me. Besides, wouldn't an amateur be easier to deal with? Less training, right?"
Eve studies me. "Headmaster Shu has told you everything having an Affinity comes with, right? The weakness—like my difficulty lying. And the thirst for killing."
A cold shudder goes through me. "I know about weaknesses. And she said I would have a hunger to kill. But you make it sound like a given."
"When you killed Jack, it tapped into something within you. We call it the primal spirit, but it doesn't really have an official name. Some people call it the thirst, or the hunger." She takes a sip of tequila, seemingly unbothered by the rawness of it sliding down her throat. "Your Affinity wants you to use it, and its best at helping you kill. Death feeds it. The more your powers grow strong, the more they're awakened—by killing, and I guess for you, by being with your Conduits—the stronger its need for bloodshed will be.
"If you train here, you'll learn how to quiet your mind, settle your emotions, calm your soul, and tire your bo
dy. All four Classes honed and represented. And the rules prevent most needless bloodshed; that's what the Shadow Fold and its council are for. But without that training or the rules to keep them in check, people with Affinities grow... different. Wrong." She grimaces, and not because of the liquor. "They become serial killers. That's why their minds are wiped and their powers dampened if they're expelled—and if that doesn't work, they're killed."
The chill going through me has grown so strong that I find myself downing the rest of the tequila all at once, its burn down my throat a reminder that heat still lives within me. "That won't happen to me, will it?"
Eve looks at me, her gaze weighted and steady. Then tells me honestly, "I don't know."
There are far more people here to mourn Penelope Partridge than I thought. Many of them appear to be in the Air Force—I spot a few uniforms. The urge to go up and ask them about my dad is strong, but now is not the time.
Especially given the number of scandalized, curious, and/or dirty looks I keep getting. More than one person here thinks I killed the woman we're about to have symbolically-but-not-really interred in the Arizona mausoleum. The broken front doors on the mausoleum itself don't help with that—Eve had the place cleaned up, but they need to special order new slabs of marble to hang so the mausoleum is private again. And even with her money, she wasn't able to do much with the manor grounds other than make them seem vaguely presentable and only mildly haunted instead of haunted as fuck.
"Thanks again for everything you did. Are doing," I tell Eve, as she comes to sit beside me in the front row. We're seated outside, on the manor grounds, just like Mom asked for in her will—a wish that probably preceded the manor falling to ruins, or was accompanied by the hope that I'd manage to get the place turned around. Eve rented a tent and had a drop cloth and chairs brought in so everything looks semi-respectable and suitable for mourning. "This would've been a total clusterfuck without you."
"I'm sure Bernard could've—oh, I can't pull that lie off. Earlier I saw him pick his nose, then grab a handful of chips out of a communal bowl." She shudders, cutting her eyes at the snack table. "There's no way he would've figured this out in time. Hell, he kept asking me if they'd released her body yet—he didn't seem to get that we're burying an empty coffin. What did he expect, for us to wait two months for the medical examiner to clear her? That'd be the height of rudeness."
"I'm just glad we get to say goodbye to her. Even if I think most of the people here are certain that I killed her."
"They could just be looking at you because of Jack," Eve offers, but even she doesn't sound convinced. "Maybe some of them think you're innocent."
I snort. "Your particular weakness makes you terrible at comfort."
"Next time, I can send Grayson in my place."
I shudder from head to toe. "I hate to think what he'd have to say. Maybe 'suck it up' or 'I buried my whole family, this is nothing.' He's about as comforting as lyme disease."
We talk back and forth in low tones until the non-denominational pastor my mom requested shows up, and everyone hushes. He gives a long, careful, impassioned speech memorializing a woman who only vaguely resembles my mother. Afterwards, he invites us to come speak, and a few of Mom's friends do, while I just fidget in my chair.
Mom only ever had one sibling, a sister who died in a car accident when she was sixteen. Other than that, most of her family seems to be far-flung cousins and members of Herb's family she got close to, like his sister, who cries through reading a poem dedicated to her. I'm the only person blood related to her here, but the thought of speaking about her in front of all these people makes me feel hollow inside.
They'd never believe it was genuine grief. Everyone here thinks I'm a monster—and after what I did last night, they're not entirely wrong. I'm just not the kind of monster who would kill someone like my mother, someone who doesn't deserve to die. I may have my issues, but I'm not that kind of fucked up.
When the speeches and poetry readings and terrible songs are over, the pastor says a blessing over her empty coffin, and we all gather around to watch it be lifted, taken into the mausoleum, and interred in the empty spot next to my father's place. The Air Force men are the ones who carry the coffin for the most part, with Herb's son Bernard taking up a spot at the very back, barely managing to hold even an empty coffin up.
My stepbrother hasn't talked to me since the funeral begin, though he has darted several confused looks my way, as if he's trying to figure out why he remembers me killing our parents but also remembers not even being home at the time. I don't exactly blame him for not wanting to talk to me or be seen with me here; after all, I'm Ellen Arizona. I'm a murderer.
I stand in the middle of the mausoleum for ages, long after everyone has left. The pastor offers to pray with me, and I numbly let him take my hands and murmur comforting words that make me feel nothing. Then he leaves too, and it's just me with the dead.
There are so many words I have for my mother, but none of them will be heard by her ears or responded to in her voice. The thought makes tears well up inside me, and a special kind of grief close over my throat.
I wish that I could summon her spirit, the way I summoned Grayson's family. Even Vincent Arizona's spirit briefly showed up to me last night when I was cursing his name. But I'm afraid that even if my powers work, and I get her ghost here, it won't be the same. She won't be able to touch me or love me. And seeing her spirit will mean admitting that she's dead.
I'm not ready to admit that she's dead.
There is something I want to say to her, though. Stepping forward, I place my hand on the name plaque at the spot where she'll be interred, close my eyes, and lean forward until my mouth is a mere breath away from the etching of her name.
"I love you, Mom. I didn't get to tell you that before you died. I know that you knew that I loved you, so you didn't need to hear it, but I still have to say it. I. Love. You. I wish we'd gotten more time together. Maybe one day I'll be strong enough to talk to the version of you that's all ghostly and see-through." I bite my lower lip as tears spill out of my eyes, rolling down my cheeks, my jaw, all the way to the collar of my shirt. "I guess talking to you like this makes it feel more real, because I haven't been able to cry about your death since it happened. But I promise you this: the man who did this will pay. In blood. It's the only thing I know for sure. I'll find him, and he'll regret killing you."
Sniffling, I step back from the wall full of interred coffins and take a moment to compose myself. Now that the seal has been broken on my grief, it wants to go on unabated. Thankfully any of the gossiping monsters who would love to watch me cry are gone; it's just Eve standing outside the mausoleum, at a respectful distance.
Once I've gotten ahold of myself, I join her at the steps, looking out into the graveyard. "You know, I can summon the spirits of the dead."
"I saw," she says dryly. "Think maybe you could exorcise this place and have it renovated? It's such a waste of land in a prime spot in town. Just leaving it sitting here seems like a shame."
I snort at her suggestion. "Maybe once I have money." A thought occurs to me. "Hey, you have money. How much does killing people pay?"
"The Shadow Fold pays a stipend, but most of my salary comes from hit jobs—carefully accepted, of course. The pay varies, but this last one was fifty thousand dollars."
If I didn't know that Eve's weakness is an inability to easily lie, I wouldn't be able to believe her. "That's a lot of money."
"It is," she agrees, leading me through the graveyard and into the distance. "And you know what? It turns out, money does buy happiness. Or at least good enough booze that you don't notice the difference."
I laugh. "Sounds about right."
"Ready to go?"
Standing beneath the trees at the edge of the old Arizona property, the late afternoon sun dappling her golden red hair, she turns to look at me. I consider her, then the graveyard behind me, and the old house in the distance, crumbling and full of nothing
but memories and spirits.
"Now is as good a time as any. Back into the fray it is."
"I'm going to name you Penny." The little kitty stares at me, rubbing plaintively against my leg as I open a can of stinky wet cat food for her, courtesy of a shopping trip with Eve after the funeral. "Penelope was my mother's name, and giving you exactly the same name seems kind morbid. Like, no offense, but you're not my mom. So Penny is as close as we can get without getting weird. Cool?"
She purrs enthusiastically as I set her bowl of food on the ground, but I know it has nothing to do with her new name. It's all about the Finger Licking Good Chicken Dinner, a name that seems designed to suck all the cash out of my—well, technically Eve's—wallet.
My best friend talked a big talk about how I was going to have to pay for the cat food and litter myself, then promptly remembered I'm broke as shit, and why. So she ponied up the money for Penny's first shopping trip, and made me swear to take care of all the offensive cat litter scooping and late night feedings a cat requires since she’ll be paying for her for a while. I'm not worried, though—it's not like Eve is strapped for cash. She can afford a few dozen cans worth of meat puree in aluminum.
While Penny eats, I take a shower, then dry myself off and stretch out on the new guest bed Eve had set up in the loft while we were out. Pushed up against the wall, it leaves just enough room for training in the rest of the empty space, and she promised that the swords and knives hanging on the wall above my head will stay in place—not a very reassuring promise. It's not as big as her expansive California King downstairs, but somehow that makes it more comforting.
This isn't a bed meant to have another person sleeping in it, which suits me just fine at this point in my life. I'm not ready to couple up with the next thing to come along. My foresight can predict my future of banging all it wants; I'm not sharing my sheets with anyone other than Penny, who curls up at my feet as if she's been my cat this whole time.