Missing, Presumed Dead

by Emma Berquist

“I’m fine.”

  I check his face for injuries, look for any ripped clothes, but he looks clean. Rumpled, tired, but in one piece. The light changes, and in the neon green he shoves his hood farther down his face.

  “Green, Lex,” Ilia says, nodding at the light. “Drive.”

  Instead I reach over and tug back his hood. He hisses as the fabric scrapes over the blood-matted hair at the back of his head.

  “What happened?” I ask him through clenched teeth.

  He doesn’t answer, yanking the hood back on.

  “Ilia, what happened?”

  “Nothing,” he says. “I’m fine.”

  I slam on the acceleration, too pissed to care that the light has changed back to red. Ilia’s head bumps against the back of the seat and he swears.

  “Still fine?” I ask him.

  “Dammit, Lexi, that hurt,” he snaps.

  “Tell me what happened, Ilia, or you’re walking home,” I order.

  Ilia growls something at me, but he pushes the hood back enough for me to see his face.

  “I made a mistake, okay?” he says. “I shouldn’t have gone.”

  “Gone where?”

  “Since we can’t break the concealment spell, I thought maybe we could pinpoint where it’s coming from,” he says. “I asked some of our psychics to do a targeted search, looking for blind spots. Places they couldn’t see because something’s blocking them.”

  I blink at him. “That was smart.”

  “Don’t sound so surprised,” he says, glaring. “Why does everyone think I’m an idiot?”

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I don’t think that. What did they find?”

  “A black hole around the ballroom where they couldn’t focus. I didn’t know how long it would last, so I went to check it out right away. I got two steps out of my car and then wham.” Ilia gestures at his head. “I don’t know what hit me. Or who. I woke up in the middle of the street feeling like roadkill. Didn’t think it would be a good idea to drive myself home.”

  “Wait,” I say, frowning. “Are you saying you went out there alone? You know we’re not supposed to go anywhere by ourselves. Urie’s going to flay you alive.”

  Ilia winces. “Not if he doesn’t find out.”

  “Oh, I get it. So now I have to cover for you.” I shoot him an angry glance. “Why the hell didn’t you bring backup?”

  “Because I didn’t want anyone else getting hurt,” he says.

  “I take it back,” I say. “You are an idiot.”

  “Spare me the lectures,” Ilia says. “I fucked up, okay? At least no one else got ambushed.”

  My car groans as it spins down the streets at a speed it wasn’t built for.

  “You should have called someone,” I tell him. “Or let someone else go. You shouldn’t risk yourself like that.”

  “Yes, I should,” he says. “I’m not like you, or the others. I don’t have any gifts. This is what I can do, so I do it.”

  “That’s a load of crap,” I say, almost fishtailing as I turn onto the freeway, angry for reasons I can’t even name. “You think because you can’t see ghosts, your life isn’t worth anything? Do you have any idea what I would give to be you?”

  Ilia lets out a bitter laugh. “Great, both of our lives are shit,” he says. “So why don’t you stop trying to kill us and just drive.”

  I grind my teeth together, feel the scream rattle in its cage.

  “It won’t always be like this, will it?” I ask, not really expecting an answer. There has to be an end, at some point.

  “I don’t know, Lexi,” Ilia says, exhaustion coating his words. “I don’t see the future.”

  The streets are barren tonight as I coast down the freeway, changing lanes without signaling. It must be a weeknight, the glare of headlights missing from my mirrors. I drive on autopilot, muscle memory making the exits and turns without conscious thought. Ilia lives in the multiplex Urie owns, the apartments stacked like bricks and surrounded by gates and buzzers. The building is painted a bright orange that looks like rust in the darkness.

  “Which one is it again?” I ask.

  “Twelve-oh-seven,” Ilia says.

  I drive around the maze of the parking garage until I hit the right level.

  “Thanks for the ride,” Ilia says, opening the door as soon as I park.

  “Wait,” I say as he starts to get out.

  “Don’t start, Lexi,” he says tiredly.

  “I’m not,” I say. “Are you going to be okay?”

  He looks over at me, his eyes flat and a little glazed. “Don’t worry about me,” he says, trying to smile. “I can take care of myself.”

  He slams the door shut without a good-bye. I wait for a moment, watching him sway toward the door on unsteady feet, and I let out a long sigh.

  “Dammit,” I say, and turn off the car. “Wait up, Ilia,” I yell after him.

  Ilia turns around slowly. “I said I’m fine.”

  “Well, that’s obviously bullshit. You can’t even walk straight.”

  I move closer to him, taking a deep breath before I slip my arm around his waist.

  “Lexi, you don’t need to do this,” he says.

  I swallow and move his other arm around my neck, shivering as his hand brushes against my skin.

  “Just shut up and let me help you,” I say, starting to walk forward.

  Ilia grumbles but he leans against me, letting me take some of his weight. He’s heavier than he looks, and I sag a little under his arm. Ilia presses his keys against a pad, and the door from the garage opens, leading us into a long hallway.

  “Fourth on the left,” Ilia says, and I guide him down the carpeted hall. His apartment is the only one without a welcome mat, and when he unlocks the door I can smell old cooking oil and the terrible cologne he wears.

  “Thanks,” Ilia says, flicking on the lights in the kitchen. It looks like a hotel in here, nothing on the counters, the trash full of paper plates and beer cans. “I got it from here.”

  “Uh-huh,” I say. I pull off my hoodie, the fabric snagging on my bandages, and toss it onto the counter.

  I follow Ilia into the living room, where he collapses on a black couch with rips in the fake leather. He turns on the large TV and leans back, letting out a strained grunt.

  “Seriously,” he says, glancing at me. “You don’t have to stay.”

  “Where’s your soap?” I ask.

  He frowns. “Uh, there’s dish tablets under the sink.”

  I roll my eyes. “For your head, Ilia. Do you have anything to clean it?”

  “I thought you were supposed to use, like, hydrogen peroxide?”

  I rub my face with my hands. “No, that kills healthy tissue. What about bandages?”

  Ilia just stares at me and I scowl.

  “Okay, I guess I can run to the store real quick.”

  “You don’t need—”

  There’s a loud knock on the door and Ilia goes still. He looks at me, eyes wide, and the knock comes again, more insistent.

  “Shit,” he whispers.

  I look at the door and look back at Ilia. “Did you see anyone following us?” I ask, voice low.

  “Shit,” he says.

  “Ilia—”

  “Get in the bedroom,” he says, and he winces as he reaches for something underneath the couch. “Shut the door and lock it.” And he pulls out a small but very real-looking gun.

  “A gun?” I ask, my voice too high in my ears. “A gun, Ilia? Are you insane?”

  “Get in the bedroom,” he orders, pointing behind me.

  The knocking sounds again, and this time a voice comes with it.

  “Hello? Ilia? I know you’re in there. Can you open the door, please?”

  Ilia freezes with the gun in his hand, a look of disbelief on his face.

  “Is . . . is that Nicole?” he whispers.

  “Put that thing away,” I snap at him, motioning to the gun. I stride through the kitchen and throw open the door.
/>
  Nicole is standing there, tapping a foot and tucking a lock of freshly dyed red hair behind her ear.

  “Finally,” she says. “What’s the hold up?”

  “Nicole, what on earth are you doing here?”

  “No idea,” she says, lifting up a plastic bag from the pharmacy. “Why don’t you tell me. What’s the ointment for?”

  “You just . . . had a feeling?” Ilia says, repeating Nic’s explanation.

  “Yup,” she says, dumping her bag on Ilia’s plastic coffee table. “I was on my way home after work, but something kept telling me I had to get this stuff and get over here. You owe me forty dollars and a solid eight hours.”

  The bag spills open and painkillers roll out, followed by saline solution and cotton balls.

  “So, does someone want to tell me what’s going on?” Nic asks, glancing from Ilia’s bloody hair to the gauze on my wrists.

  Ilia’s mouth tightens and I shake my head.

  “Don’t ask,” I say. “You really don’t want to know.”

  “Fine, be that way,” she grumbles. “You, let me see your head,” she orders Ilia.

  “I can do it,” I tell her. “You don’t have to.”

  “Oh, sure,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Treating open wounds is great for healing ones, right? And you’re so fond of touching people.”

  “Someone’s cranky when they’re tired,” I mumble, and she points at the couch.

  “Just sit down and hand me things, okay?”

  I hold up my arms in surrender and perch on the end of the couch. Nicole soaks a cotton ball in the saline and hands me the bottle to hold. She turns Ilia’s head and gently presses the cotton along the wound. Ilia grimaces, but he doesn’t make a sound.

  “I’ll pay you back,” he says.

  “Yeah, I know.” Nicole sniffs. “To be fair, some of that forty bucks was spent on candy.”

  I rustle in the plastic bag until I find the package of red licorice.

  “Give me one,” Nicole says as I tear into the plastic. I carefully place a vine in her mouth and it hangs from her lips like a limp cigarette as she finishes with the saline.

  “Ointment,” Nicole mumbles around the candy.

  I find the tube and drop it in her hand, careful not to brush my fingers against hers. She dabs the cream on Ilia’s cut, where the raw pink shines beneath his hair. Nicole’s hands are careful, clinical, and I watch her touch Ilia while I chew on my candy, another type of craving aching inside me. I press my fist to the end of my rib cage like I could rub the pressure away, but it’s a cage so old and solid, I could never reach inside.

  “Okay,” Nicole says, wiping her fingers on her jeans. “What’s next? Band-Aids?”

  The bandages are shaped like thick letter Hs, and I toss the box at Nicole.

  “How did you know which ones to get?” I ask her curiously.

  “I’m not sure,” she says, tearing open the top. “These ones just felt right. Like . . . warmer than the other boxes? I don’t know how to explain it.”

  “Helpful,” Ilia says, one corner of his mouth tugging up.

  Nicole shrugs. “Not really. Helpful would be knowing these things before they happen, not after the fact. I’m nowhere near as strong as my aunt. She’s psychometric, did I tell you that?”

  She says it too casually, and I glance at her, but her face is focused on the bandages.

  “I think you mentioned something,” I say. “And knowing the future is overrated. I’m just grateful you showed up when you did.”

  “Done,” Nicole says, standing up after the Band-Aid is fixed in place. “How’s that feel?”

  “Better,” Ilia says, letting out a sigh of relief. “Thanks.”

  “You have ice in the freezer?” I ask him.

  He nods, and Nicole follows me into the kitchen. We can’t find any dish towels, but there’s a pile of dirty clothes near the closet, so I fill a T-shirt with ice and twist it up.

  “Hey, any chance you can drop me off?” Nicole asks me as she searches the dishwasher for a clean cup. “I took an Uber here.”

  “Sure,” I say. “Maybe you can finally get some sleep now.”

  “No such luck,” she says. “I promised my aunt I’d help her open up today. You can just drop me off there; it’s not too far. And it’s . . . god, it’s almost six in the morning.”

  I blink at the display on the stove and realize I’ve been up all night. Shit; I promised Jane I’d be right back, and that was hours ago. I don’t even have a way to call her.

  “Okay,” Nicole says, going back into the living room. “Water. Pills.” She hands the plastic bottle and glass to Ilia. “And ice.”

  I set down my makeshift ice pack on the coffee table. “This should help with the swelling,” I tell him.

  Ilia nods tiredly, swallowing the pills.

  “Sorry, Ilia,” Nicole says, wincing in sympathy.

  “Don’t feel too bad for him,” I say shortly. “This is partly his own fault.”

  “Are you done?” Ilia asks, scowling at me.

  “Yeah, I’m done.”

  “Great. Nicole, I owe you big for this,” Ilia says, smiling at her. He flicks his eyes to me and just nods. “Lex. You know the way out.”

  “Let’s go,” I say, jerking my head at Nicole.

  “Shouldn’t we—”

  “Nope,” I say, already heading toward the door. “We shouldn’t. Bye, Ilia.”

  18

  READINGS BY PRISCILLA IS A TINY SHOP ON VENTURA, sandwiched between a kosher deli and a nail salon. The blue overhang has scalloped edges, and promises a life advisor, palm reader, and love expert is just behind the blinds. It doesn’t exactly scream “reputable,” but I suppose psychics have an image to maintain.

  “Here okay?” I ask, pulling to a stop in front of the shop.

  Nicole’s been quiet on the drive over; I can’t tell if she’s upset about Ilia or if she’s just tired.

  “Nic?” I ask again when she doesn’t respond.

  “Huh?” She looks up through the window and sees where we are. “Oh. Yeah, this is good.”

  “Thanks again for all your help.”

  “No problem,” she says, but she doesn’t get out of the car.

  “Is your aunt here?” I ask. “I don’t want you to wait outside alone. It’s not safe.”

  “She’s always here early,” Nic says, her foot tapping at the floor. “Hey, do you want to come in? I’m sure she’d love to meet you.”

  I’m already hours late and I desperately need a shower. And that’s beside the fact that I hate meeting people.

  “Maybe some other time,” I say.

  Nicole shifts in her seat, and I think she’s about to open the door when she reaches down by her foot.

  “What’s this?” she asks, lifting up the folded paper. I forgot about Jane’s sketch and I feel a stab of guilt; I meant to put it somewhere safe, but it must have fallen under the seat.

  “Oh,” I say, clearing my throat. “It’s nothing. A friend of mine did it.”

  “It’s good,” Nicole says, unfolding the paper. She strokes the drawing with light fingers, almost like she’s trying to coax something from it, and my stomach flips as I finally understand.

  “You said your aunt does psychometry,” I say, my voice flat.

  Nicole glances at me, her carefully blank face telling me I’m right. “Yeah.”

  I sigh and rest my head against the seat. “Nicely played,” I tell her.

  She keeps her voice light. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Tonight wasn’t really about Ilia, was it?” I say.

  Nicole gives me a wry smile. “That was part of it. Just not the most important part.”

  I grumble something under my breath.

  “I’m sorry,” Nicole says. “Well, not that sorry. I just wasn’t sure you’d come if I told you I had a feeling about you. I know you don’t like . . . talking about yourself. But I think it’s important.”


  Nicole hands me the picture and I take it from her, the paper warm from her hands. If her aunt is what she claims to be, she might be able to get something from this. It’s worth a try, at least.

  “All right,” I say. “You got me here, so I guess I might as well see this through. Lead the way.”

  Nicole’s face brightens and she finally gets out of the car. “Don’t worry,” she says excitedly. “Aunt Priscilla is the real deal; you’ll like her.”

  “I don’t like anybody,” I say.

  Nicole’s laugh splits the still morning, and I fight the instinct to grin back.

  “Come on, Lexi,” she says. “We both know that’s a lie. You showed up when I needed you, and you were glad to see me tonight. Face it: we’re friends.”

  I stick out my tongue at her and she laughs again, pulling out a set of keys to unlock the shop. A bell tinkles inside as she holds the door open for me. The inside is about what I expected: red twinkling lights dot the walls and cheap silk scarves drape over faux-Victorian chairs. Candles cover every exposed surface, most of them burned to nothing but lumps of wax. A shelf displays charm bracelets and evil eye trinkets for sale, with a discount for returning customers. Everything about this gaudy place screams “scam.”

  Here’s the thing about psychics, real psychics: they like to play at being fake. No one believes what they do is real, even the people who visit them. Maybe they fool themselves and say they believe, but part of them knows they’re only paying to hear what they want to hear. So the psychics play at being frauds, mix the truth with some easy lies, and in return they get to do what the rest of us can’t: they don’t have to hide. Hell, they can advertise their gifts on a storefront if they want. Maybe it’s not exactly honest, maybe people mock them, but they’re still free. They don’t have to live in the shadows. And maybe I hate them a little for it.

  “Aunt Priscilla?” Nicole calls into the empty store. “It’s me.”

  A beaded curtain across a door in the back clacks, and a woman emerges through the strings.

  “Nicole,” she says in a deep voice. “You’re early.”

  “Aunt P, this is my friend Lexi,” Nicole says. “She’s the one I told you about.”

  Priscilla cocks her head as she examines me. She’s a petite woman with the same perfect golden skin as her niece. She’s wearing sandals and a loose white dress, and I can’t read her expression as her eyes travel over my face and down to the bandages on my arms and the tattoos on my hands.