“Thanks for your time,” she says, opening the office door. She steps into the hallway and I let out a long breath, scrubbing my hands over my face.
Urie strides back into the office and Ilia follows, shutting the door behind him.
“How’d it go?” Ilia asks.
“Fine,” I say, crumpling the card into a pocket.
Urie comes around the desk and stands in front of me. “Is what Ilia tells me correct?” he asks quietly. “You know the girl is dead? You saw that night?”
“Yes,” I say. “I’m sorry I didn’t say anything.”
“Alexandra,” Urie says. “I will not allow anyone to compromise the safety of our people. Not even you.”
“She didn’t mean for it to hurt us,” Ilia says, but he lowers his eyes when Urie turns to him. “Sir.”
“Is Marcus dead?” Urie asks, his eyes snapping back to me.
I grip one hand with another. “I never touched him; I don’t know how he dies. I haven’t seen his ghost. I tried at the warehouse, but nothing came. There might have been . . . something there, but I can’t be sure.”
“If the girl is dead, and Marcus’s mark isn’t responding . . .” Ilia trails off.
“We assume he’s dead,” Urie says flatly. He takes a deep breath, and I would say he’s trying to steady himself, except Urie doesn’t get rattled. “We have a problem. Someone is using our properties as a hunting ground.”
“We don’t know that for sure,” I say, and Ilia shifts uncomfortably. My eyes dart to him, and he won’t look at me. “What? What are you not saying?”
“The other missing people disappeared around the same areas,” Urie says evenly. “All within our boundaries.”
I suck in a breath. “Did you see what happened?”
“Whoever is doing this is hiding it well, taking people from the streets we don’t have under surveillance.”
Anger bubbles up in my throat. “And you didn’t think to tell us?”
“They weren’t our people or our responsibility,” Urie says. “Marcus changes that. This ends now. No one goes anywhere without backup, and we double security.”
“Do the police even know about Marcus?” I ask, my voice tight.
“No, and it stays that way,” Urie says. “We can’t have the police looking too hard at us. We solve this internally. Ilia, tell Ivan I want everyone’s movements accounted for over the last week. Get Jordan to set up a meeting with the witches to strengthen our protection spells and put a trace on anyone who attempts harm within our boundaries.”
“Got it,” Ilia says. “You think whoever it is will try for one of us again?”
“If they do, it will be the last time,” Urie says.
“What about the girl?” I ask.
Urie strokes his chin, thinking. “I’ll have someone call the tip line with a sighting of her. Put her south, San Diego. That should keep eyes off us.”
“But—” The protest is out of my mouth before I can stop it.
“Yes?” Urie asks me, blue eyes cold.
“They’ll never find her body if they’re looking in the wrong place,” I finish.
“That is not our concern,” Urie says, frowning.
I look at Ilia, but he shakes his head. “She’s already dead, Lexi. It’s not like we can help her. Our people matter more.”
“Do I need to remind you of your loyalties again?” Urie asks, a dangerous edge to his voice.
“No,” I say quickly, gritting my teeth. “You don’t. And I’ll make this up to you, I promise.”
“You can start now,” Urie says, settling into his chair. “I have another job for you.”
“Where are we going?” I ask once we’re back in the car.
Ilia glances down at his phone quickly. “Los Feliz.”
My coffee from this morning is still in the cup holder. It’s gone cold and thick, but I take a long drink anyway.
“Tired?”
“Didn’t sleep well.” I shift in my seat and brace my head between the window and the headrest.
“I had to tell him,” Ilia says abruptly.
“I know.”
“Yeah, but—” He sighs, runs a hand through his slicked-back hair. “Look, I’m sorry, kid.”
“Not your fault,” I tell him, my face turned away. “And don’t ever call me kid.”
I close my eyes against the sun and stop speaking, so Ilia starts to sing along to the radio, and eventually I drift into a sort of half stupor, my cheek smashed against the hot glass of the window. I don’t even realize the car has stopped moving until Ilia clears his throat, more gently than I would expect.
“We’re here,” he says.
I blink a few times and wipe my mouth on my sleeve. We’re parked outside a square, compact house, terra-cotta tile on the roof and thin white bars over the doors and windows.
“And who lives here exactly?” I ask.
“She supplies the spells for the drinks at the club. Urie owes her a favor.”
“What kind of favor?”
“Not sure, exactly,” Ilia says. “He said to give her whatever she needs. Ready?”
I swallow, my mouth dry from sleep, and nod. “Yeah.”
I let Ilia take the lead; it’s best if they see his face first, because I don’t look like the kind of stranger you invite into your house. He walks up to the porch and rings the doorbell, smoothing his hair back out of his face, adjusting the collar on a terrible salmon-colored shirt. The door opens and I catch a glimpse of an older woman with thick glasses, her pale skin making the circles under her eyes even starker.
“Hello,” Ilia says, his voice polite. “Are you Mrs. Hallas? Urie Porchowsky sent us. He told you we were coming?”
“Yes,” the woman says in a low voice. She smells strange, like sage and sulfur, and it takes me a moment to place it—asafetida. They’re always using that disgusting herb in their spells.
I don’t care for witches, much. They’re not like the rest of us—their magic isn’t inborn; it comes from spells and books. It’s crude at best and destructive at worst, and they always leave blood and chicken bones everywhere.
“Please come in,” the woman says.
“Thank you,” Ilia says. The witch nods, not really hearing him, and holds open the door for us. I cross the threshold and a shiver runs down my spine. There are screams trapped in these walls.
“This way,” the woman says, leading us into a living room and gesturing toward an old-fashioned couch, cream colored and patterned with roses. Inside the house is dark, thick lace over the windows and candles burning on stacked shelves, an ancient television in the corner.
“It’s nice to meet you,” Ilia says, so convincingly I almost believe him. “I’m Ilia, and this is Lexi.”
“Anna Hallas,” the woman says, twisting a button on her shirt. “Urie said . . . you could help me.”
“Of course, Mrs. Hallas. What can we do for you?” Ilia asks.
There’s that we again. He’s good at this part, though, the talking part. I keep silent, sitting with my hands threaded in my lap while death whispers at me. Whoever is haunting this place is strong—strong, and close, and angry. Mrs. Hallas goes to turn on a lamp and the light flickers on and off, then starts to burn brighter and brighter before finally blowing out with a pop and a sizzle.
“It’s my daughter-in-law,” the witch says with a sigh. “I know it is. Emily. She died two years ago. She won’t—she won’t leave me be.”
Ilia and I sit as she settles into a matching armchair across from us.
“She’s haunting here?” I ask, frowning. “Not her own house?”
“She was. But it’s empty now,” she says. “My son—he’s not there anymore. But she follows him, too.”
Ilia glances at me, raising his eyebrows in a silent question. I nod and settle back into the couch.
“Give us a moment, Mrs. Hallas,” Ilia tells her. “We’ll see what we can do.”
I close my eyes, let my senses creep out in tend
rils, digging under doors and slipping through cracks. She’s close, hovering on the edge of my perception.
“Emily,” I whisper, my lips barely moving. “Come out, come out, wherever you are.”
I brush up against something warm, and I open my eyes to find her face staring back at me an instant before I slam headfirst into pain and rage.
“Oh, fuck,” I say, and a wave of acid hits me so hard my nose starts to bleed.
“Lexi?” Ilia says, his eyes going wide.
Wrong, wrong, the feeling screams at me, pulsing sickness into my veins. I start to shake, sweat running over my arms and down my back, and I have to clamp my lips together to keep my stomach down.
“Lexi, what is it?”
I try to speak, try not to let the death crush me. “Murdered,” I choke out.
His face goes pale, pale as the skin of the ghost who watches me with rage-filled eyes. Her chest is a mess of blood and skin, wet and raw with bone shining through.
“Get out of this house,” she hisses at me, her voice dragging nails down my throat.
“Emily,” the witch moans. She can’t see her, but the candle flames roar higher, leaving black streaks on the walls.
The ghost turns around with awful slowness, her lips peeling back over her teeth. “You think you can save yourself?”
“Please,” Mrs. Hallas says, wringing her hands together, pleading with something she can’t see or hear. “He can’t forgive himself.”
“He’s rotting from the inside out,” Emily says, laughing a hollow, mirthless laugh. “The guilt will eat him alive.”
“Lexi?” Ilia asks, his face hovering in front of my own. His eyes are dark with concern, but he doesn’t touch me, knowing it will only make it worse.
“Emily, please,” I gasp. “I can help you.”
“It’s far too late for that,” she says, and then there’s a screech and the television erupts, spitting out a shower of sparks. Mrs. Hallas cowers away from it, and Ilia rushes to help her.
I’m the only one who can stop this. I wrap my arms around my chest to keep from shaking and lurch forward off the couch. Emily pauses as I stagger toward her, her head tilting to watch me.
“Go,” I say through gritted teeth, sweat beading over my lips as I push my magic at her.
She flickers out, then back in, and her mouth splits in a terrible grin. “I’m not finished,” she says.
I try again, my knuckles white as I hammer against the blaze of her rage. It’s like pushing at a wall, my muscles straining as she slowly advances on me.
“You can’t stay here,” I say, even as my magic buckles under the force of her. Maybe if I had Deda to help, but she’s too strong, too angry. She shrieks, lunging at me, and my tattoos protect me from the pain of her grip, but not from the wall behind me. Emily slams me up against the plaster, and my head bounces off the hard surface.
“You can’t make me leave,” she whispers into my face.
She raises her hand and I lift mine just in time to catch her fist in my left hand.
“Get off me,” I grit out, and then I slam my right hand into her chest. I can’t push her out permanently. But I can force her outside, if only temporarily.
Emily screams as I shove at her with everything I have, dredging up every last bit of power. My magic forces its way into her chest, heat burning my hand and racing up my arm. Her eyes go wide and furious, and then with a sound like a lightning crack, her ghost snaps out of sight.
My knees go wobbly and I start to slide down the wall. The next instant Ilia is by my side, propping me up and moving me back to the couch. I shrink away from his touch, and he lets me go as soon I sit.
“Are you all right?” he asks stiffly.
I nod, even though my limbs are shaking and my face stings. I reach up trembling fingers to touch the back of my head and they come away smeared with blood. The color looks so bright in the gloom of this house, almost cheerful.
“What the hell happened?” Ilia asks.
“Too strong,” I mutter, leaning back against the couch. I lock eyes with Mrs. Hallas, her face drawn. “You should have told me.”
She glances from me to Ilia, her mouth tightening. “It was an accident,” she says.
“An accident?” My voice is ragged. “He shot her in the chest by accident?”
She flinches like I struck her. “He’s in prison,” she says. “He’s paying for what he did. But he won’t eat, can’t sleep; every time I visit more of him has gone. He’s dying—”
“He deserves to,” I say harshly.
“I know he does.” Her eyes behind her glasses are huge and desperate. “I loved her like a daughter. But he’s all I have left.”
“You don’t get it,” I tell her. “That’s not Emily. That woman died, and her ghost is nothing but vengeance and rage. I’m not strong enough to get rid of her for good—ward your house if you want her to stay away. It won’t keep her out forever, but it will make it harder.”
Mrs. Hallas crumples and I look up at Ilia. “Get me out of here,” I say.
He reaches for me, then pauses. “Are you sure?” he asks quietly.
I nod and he hauls me to my feet, one arm around my waist. I grit my teeth, tamp down the images that flood my mind.
“Wait,” the witch says, “please.”
“I’m sorry,” Ilia tells her. “I’ll tell my uncle he still owes you.”
“But my son,” she begs. “What do I tell him?”
I turn back to look at her as Ilia leads me to the door.
“Tell him she’ll leave when he’s dead.”
She gives a strangled cry, and we lurch out of the house without a backward glance. The sunlight is too bright after the darkness and the pain, and I only make it a few steps down the walkway before I vomit into the grass.
I feel sick the whole ride home. I try to ignore the acid in my stomach, the smell of burning copper and frayed wires in my nose.
“Well, that was intense,” Ilia says after a while. “You okay?”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” I say, turning to look out the window. It’s hazy, the tips of the skyscrapers downtown disappearing into a smeared sky.
“I’ll make sure Urie knows you did everything you could.”
I don’t answer, closing my eyes against the clouds.
“I didn’t know,” Ilia says quietly, “that it was gonna be like that. If I’d known . . .”
He trails off, and I don’t know if he’s trying to convince me or himself. We both know it wouldn’t have made a difference. Not for him, and not for me.
My face feels hot and prickly and I angle the AC to blast directly at me.
“Next time I’ll check the details before—”
“What part of I don’t want to talk about it do you not understand?” I snap.
“Okay, okay, jeez.” Ilia holds up one hand in surrender. He glances at me and puts on a tight, fake smile. “So, what is it? Skydiving accident? Drown in a hot tub?”
“Don’t,” I say. “People are dead, Ilia. You can ignore it, but I don’t get that luxury. People are dead, and I don’t want to play this game with you.”
“Well maybe if you started paying attention to the living around you, we wouldn’t be in this situation.”
“You really want to know how you die?” I ask him viciously, because he’s right, because I’m angry, because death is like copper on my tongue. “Fine. You have an aneurysm at twenty-seven. No warning. Just—gone.”
Ilia’s face goes white and slack. “That’s—that’s not true.”
I look back out the window, the sky as sour as my stomach. “No, it’s not true. Or maybe it is. But either way, I don’t think you really want to know.”
Ilia’s voice comes out low and deep, reverberating in my chest.
“You can be a real bitch, Lexi. You know that?”
“Yeah,” I say, still staring at the freeway. “I know.”
He drops me off outside my apartment without another word.
I brush my teeth twice, rinse the taste of death and vomit off my tongue.
Later, when Phillip texts me, I answer.
6
“DID THESE HURT?” PHILLIP ASKS, RUNNING A FINGER along the black lines on my arm.
His bed is bigger than mine, softer, and the sheets are always clean. Of course, if I was rich and had a maid, my sheets would be clean, too. His room isn’t even in the huge main house; it’s part of the guesthouse. The privacy is nice, but who has a guesthouse?
“You got one; you should know,” I say. I touch the thunder mark on his neck, try not to think about Marcus lying dead somewhere, his marker dull and useless.
“Ilia got me drunk beforehand,” Phillip says. “It bled a lot, but I didn’t feel anything.”
“Theo’s good,” I say, moving my hand away and flexing my knuckles. “It only hurts when it gets close to nerves. Otherwise, it just feels like . . . a pinch.” I squeeze the skin in the crook of his elbow for emphasis. This close, I can’t avoid the caustic smell beneath his skin, but I try to focus on the flowery scent of the sheets.
“You want to get another one?” I ask.
He grimaces. “My mom would kill me.”
“Mama’s boy,” I tell him. Not that I can blame him; Katya is the kind of mom who still makes Phillip his birthday cake from scratch every year. Only on his actual birthday, never before, one of those nonsensical Russian superstitions.
“Guilty,” Phillip says, grinning. He flops onto his pillow, his hair falling into his face.
I shift onto my elbow so I can move the strands out of his eyes. I like seeing his face. Phillip is always smiling, even when I tease him, even when I leave.
“So why’d you change your mind?” he asks, like he can read what I’m thinking.
I nestle down next to him, pretend it doesn’t hurt. “I needed to get away. Needed to get out, just for a while.”
“What happened?”
“Had a run-in with an unfriendly ghost,” I say, trying to keep my voice light. The dead are not bedroom talk.
“Is that why there’s blood in your hair?” He runs his fingers over the knot on my head, and his healing magic starts to fizz against my skin.
“It’s just a bump,” I tell him, but I let him fix it. “You know head wounds bleed a lot.”
Missing, Presumed Dead Page 5