“Yes! I plan on convincing the girls to go to Strata tonight for dinner. I must lay eyes on Patroclus—and yes, before you ask, I know about his relationship, and no, I’m not scared of Achilles. I just want to eat, have some great wine, and ogle the beautiful lover of a legendary killer.” She was emphatic and rather blasé about the whole thing, leading me to believe it must have been a tough week in the harried chaos of the emergency room. So arm in arm, we made our way through the tables to the heat of the day and an afternoon carefully avoiding anything that might look like work.
* * *
I stupidly didn’t consider the fact that Kevin might be busy on the weekend since I’d never known any clergy as people. The few men or women of faith I had come in contact with were idealizations of humans, embodying whatever my presumptions were about their lives, thoughts, and personalities. I realized after meeting Kevin that I had regarded clergy in the same way I had considered my parents; as personifications rather than living, breathing people. I felt vaguely shortchanged, or would have had I been more closely associated with my familial church, but I resigned myself to some unknown missed opportunities and was just thankful that we had met Kevin. He was imbued with the sort of spirit that I held in the highest regard, and I intuited he would be an ally worth having in what was shaping up to be our supernatural war with Elizabeth. The scholarly aspect of Kevin gave shape to the vague fear we’d had about evil begetting evil.
We could quantify Elizabeth’s victims as her archangels, which was, for our part, both compellingly sad, and bitterly helpful. There was another inevitable conclusion to be drawn from this revelation, and it wasn’t anything that Kevin had said, but came from my own personal history as a soldier. I understand weapons. I also grasp, all too well, that the greatest flaw in the creation of an army is the fact that it is under the banner of imperfect beings. Humans are notoriously poor at impulse control, myself included, and when you build a weapon that resonates with elegant malignance, it is a safe assumption that weapon will be used. Swords, once forged, rarely gather dust for eternity, and if I knew anything from our crossed paths with Elizabeth, it would be the certainty that she would wield her archangels in the most sickening, effective, and cunning method possible. I thought all of this while staring blankly at the rippled waters of our canal, a mirror of black glass that danced away from the breeze in a game of tag, which was far more cheerful than the funk into which I descended. Demonic plans have that effect on me, so I patted the alert shoulder of Gyro, whose eyes drank in the night without rest, settled into my chair, and wondered what poor son of a bitch was in the talons of Elizabeth at the very moment, and did I have the courage to let myself pray for that faceless victim? I closed my eyes and tried, hard. That had to count for something, I hoped, and before long, the breeze and the water pushed me effortlessly into a quiet state of sleep.
29
Stacia
She truly did enjoy serving, but it was these little, unexpected joys that resonated within her and made the black nights and the hungry periods of dusty failure so easy to forget. I need to thank Mother for such a welcome redesign of my body, she mused as she ran her hands down her thin, youthful midriff, an enviable playground of curves perched perfectly atop the legs of a dancer. The whole of the United Kingdom was her playground, for the time being, and she meant to savor it. After nearly a decade as a pretty but thicker matron, she was positively glowing with this dynamic, sexually opportunistic body that allowed her such ease achieving her work. No longer did she pose as the considerate listener or the caring friend—she had even spent a dreadfully earnest year as a grief counselor in order to access proper food, listening to endless maudlin tales of loss just to drink from the fountains of their superbly vibrant sadness. Oh, the setup for each kill had been tedious, truly, but occasionally the payoff was spectacular, a veritable wildcat strike of deeply penetrating misery that pulsated from their tortured hearts into her messenger tendril. The fears and horrors of their losses and weakness would spiral within her, dancing through her chest only to find a landing in the depths of what remained of her soul, a decrepit, joyless place that was a furnace for the memories of her victims. She looked over the table at her intended consort and recalled how specific Mother had been about how he was to meet his end. A delicate chill passed through her, a visitation of the anger that she had seen Elizabeth unleash when defied by one of her children. Stacia took the exact instructions to heart and decided right there, in the cheap booth of a Portsmouth pub, that her awkward, lanky prey would have to wait at least another day since the scenery for his dispatch was not complete, and like any good daughter, she would obey. To the letter. For a creature of Elizabeth’s makeup, to do otherwise was something to be avoided at all costs, unless you very much wanted to explore the truest definition of the word pain.
30
From Risa’s Files
Prague, Kingdom of Bohemia, Anno Domini 921
Daughter,
I write this letter without regret, only the hope that you will have learned, with the unfortunate events of this past year, that you are never beyond my reach, and you are forbidden from disobedience of any type. Had you merely been observant of my wishes, both of your prized courtiers would still be with you. The first, whom you had been feeding from in a gentle, loving manner, met his end not in an accidental drowning, as it appeared. No, had you examined his lungs you would have known that they were, to his detriment, filled with the urine from sheep—a creature I’m sure you knew he despised after such a rough upbringing as the son of a herdsman. I’m told that his training at the martial sciences served him well, and he fought most vigorously, but alas, he was unable to resist the force I caused to be applied to him, and eventually, he relented. You may be pleased to know that he cried your name at the end. This era is so rife with romantic gestures!
As to your maid, who died at Michaelmas from the flux? I have another minor confession concerning that unfortunate episode. It was not entirely accidental that she acquired such a vicious sickness when none in your household were ill. In fact, introducing her to such a wretched, bloody condition was exceedingly easy—your security is quite lacking, child, and you simply must be more careful about which traders you allow to cavort with your prized staff.
Now, lest you think me entirely cruel, their deaths did serve a larger purpose. I have written you regularly and stressed how your nature as a predator must be pursued in a most enthusiastic manner. Dalliances with occasional deaths due to overfeeding do not qualify as leaving your mark on the world, and I could not tolerate such disobedience for one season further, so, to be blunt, you needed a lesson, and rendering members of your home into rotting carcasses was the obvious choice. That sting you now feel? Remember it well. Their deaths? Yours to own.
Do you think now that I am to be taken seriously? Are you even capable of killing at a rate that begins to fully utilize the abilities I have so graciously bestowed upon your ungrateful person? Know this, child—my patience is past thin, and in the event I am forced to intervene again, I fear that I must demand ever higher costs from you personally with each transgression from this point forward. Perhaps I will demonstrate how my patience can be a virtue when extracting the maximum possible agony from someone or something you foolishly care for. The choice is yours from this moment forth. Serve me or flee. I will not be denied.
Your Mother,
Drahomira
31
Florida
It was three days before I saw Kevin again, and we met, by his request, at Hollywood Memorial Hospital, which meant that there was a motive behind the location. He was waiting outside for me, and in the few seconds it took me to approach him, he had said hello or been waved to by no less than four people. In the sense that my place of business was the dark, it seemed reasonable that a priest would be well-known in locations where people were at the most vulnerable. The hospital, where lives began, ended, or were irrevocably changed, was that type of place, which led me to my next rev
elation about Kevin, as I suddenly knew, without reservation, that he must have been cut from exceptionally tough material. The thought of endless days counseling the despondent, the newly widowed, or parents who had endured the ultimate in horror of losing a child, all of those tasks made me thankful that there were people around with the fortitude to do what Kevin did for all of their natural lives. It was sacrifice on an order that left me a bit awestruck when I considered the entire emotional cost. I shook his hand and noticed that he seemed a bit grim.
“You a regular here?” I asked, knowing that he was but hoping to lighten his expression.
“I am,” he began bleakly. “Sometimes, it can be for very joyous events, like a birth or a successful recovery, but more often than not I’m the last person anyone wants to see here, for obvious reasons.”
There wasn’t much else to say, so we walked in through the automatic doors, which parted with a susurration that sounded animal, not mechanical, and he motioned for me to follow him. I kept pace with his long, confident strides, and after a quiet elevator ride, we turned again past a nurses’ station and stopped before an unremarkable room labeled 259. Without knocking, Kevin walked in and waved me forward into air that was a bit stale, too warm, and carrying the light scents of urine and disinfectant, a smell that is nearly universal to every hospital I’ve ever been in. On the single bed, a woman lay sleeping, incredibly tiny under the austere white blankets, which were drawn all the way up to her birdlike neck. Her face was deeply lined, and her hair was cotton white, thin, and pasted to her head with the disregard so many terminally ill people seem to acquire when the end is near, particularly those without family.
“Sit down, Ring.” Kevin pulled out a chair for me, and I sat carefully, a bit reverent and uncertain why we were in the stuffy room but content to wait. He pulled his own chair closer to the bed and took the tiny, doll-like hand closest to him in both of his upright palms, like holding a precious relic, and to my utter surprise, he began to sing. His voice was soft, and he sang a hymn I thought I should know, but then I grasped that it was in musical, lilting Latin, and it was heartbreakingly sweet. I caught certain words, about every fifth one, and he sang of love, and time, and God, and something about a garden, I think. When he was done, I saw the corners of the woman’s mouth curl with the ghost of a smile, and then he stood up and kissed the parchment of her forehead, and we left without another word.
We walked directly out into the sun, not stopping to speak to anyone despite Kevin being hailed repeatedly. He didn’t seem as sad, somehow, and then he said, “Would you like to know who that is?”
“Yes, of course.” I could not process what I was seeing, but I knew it was an act of generosity that was almost uncomfortable to witness.
“So would I.” He smiled at my surprise. “She’s a Jane Doe, abandoned a month ago. She’ll die here alone, unless you count my visits. I convinced the Church to pay for her care, and they agreed, but it’s a bare minimum, and she doesn’t really have many lucid moments. I think she might be from New England or the upper Midwest; it’s just a feeling based on her hair and her skin. She looks like she was middle-class, at least, but hardworking. At some point she broke a couple of her fingers, and she is left-handed. It’s not much of a story, but it’s something.”
“How did you find her? Where did you find her?” I asked.
“Here. She was brought in from some hotel. I think she was dumped, a sort of ‘let’s take Grandma to Florida for vacation and not bring her back’ type of thing, just as uncaring as someone abandoning an unwanted old dog on a dead end road. I was furious, but then I thought that at the very least, I would see to it she was warm and dry and comfortable. It’s the limits of what I can—what my Church, rather, can do, I should say. Some of the ladies from our auxiliary come by and read to her or wash her feet, things like that, all little acts of service in an inhuman reality. She really likes singing, though. That’s the one gift that she seems to respond to more than anything.” His voice was simmering with frustration, not hatred, just a deeply held resistance to the inevitability of an uncaring world.
“I’m sorry that you have to bear so many burdens.” I didn’t know what to say. I felt incredibly small and a bit selfish in the face of his generosity.
He gave a wry smile. “Don’t be, Ring. You carry things that I cannot even measure. Given your life, I don’t know that I would be strong enough to resist baser instincts, letting my hindbrain bubble from the depths and command me in actions I would surely regret.” I understood that sentiment intimately since I dealt with it every day. By now we were leaning against his car, out of the sun in the parking structure where we were surrounded by fumes, a cacophony of occasional noise, and tons of concrete. It was anonymity in the open, and it was a perfect place to discuss matters that were unusual or even dangerous.
“You know what I’ve been wondering about?” Kevin asked in a mild, perplexed tone. “Joseph, Delphine’s assistant. He concerns me.”
“How so?” I was confused by the derivation of our topic.
“You mentioned that he’s in a sort of biological and spiritual free fall, right?” he asked me, searching for something.
“That’s an accurate description. He’s decaying, we think. He didn’t transform properly, or his body is rejecting the changes that proximity to Delphine is causing him, in a sort of system-wide crash. He isn’t dying specifically; he’s shifting into something that he does not want to be. Soon, Delphine is going to be faced with a difficult choice.”
Kevin winced and said, “Like an old dog. Like Jane Doe. Except Delphine, if what you say about visibility is true, well, she cannot afford to go to a country road and turn him loose; she’ll have to see to his end personally. Euthanizing someone she presumably cares about. I don’t envy her that, I admit, but that isn’t my personal worry. I’m actually more concerned about you . . . and Risa and Wally. I think that it should be obvious why, but I’d rather that you tell me yourself in your own words.”
Now I was truly perplexed, and my face must have seemed genuine enough that Kevin decided to prompt me. “Your age, Ring, what is it?”
And then it became clear. He was asking if we were susceptible to Joseph’s descent, a very astute observation despite being assured we were not due to our immunity to fear. I answered as honestly as I knew how. “I’m nearly forty, but I know I don’t look it, and yes, before you ask, time is going—well, not really backwards but as close to it as possible. We’ve all become a bit more capable at some skills, in addition to remaining physically unchanged, at least in terms of our calendar age.”
He whistled soundlessly, shocked by the fact that immortality wasn’t just a rumor, or a part of his faith, it was something that was happening, provably, and in close proximity to him at that moment. It was, I admit, a lot to process, but I went on. “As to whether we deteriorate like Joseph or others we’ve heard about, I can’t say. I think—or rather, Risa has deduced that corruption is both rare and complicated. It seems random, but I don’t think it is, only that we haven’t been able to render a working hypothesis about the nuts and bolts of changing into something other than a true human. I do know one thing about this possible fate. I trust my instincts, and they tell me that physical perversion, like what is happening to Joseph, can be exacerbated by having evil close at hand. Does that mean Delphine is evil? No, I really don’t think of her that way, despite the occasional flare of jealousy brought on by our history.” He raised an eyebrow at that, but I ignored it. Some things weren’t meant for chummy confessions with a friendly priest, at least not yet, and I also didn’t want to feel like I was bragging, although the temptation was strong. Delphine really was that stellar at her chosen occupation. “I look at my relationships as a bulwark of sorts. It keeps all of us strong, and whether or not I can prove it, it seems, at some cellular level, to be a type of armor that lets us navigate the treachery of the Undying without being victims ourselves. Does that seem plausible to you?”
He laughed and I realized how ridiculous the question might seem. “Ring, the term plausible doesn’t apply to many things about your life, but yes, I understand the logic of what you’ve been able to deduce, which is actually fairly impressive given the variables you’re dealing with. I’m satisfied that you aren’t becoming—corrupted? So, consider the interrogation complete for now.” He clapped me on the shoulder and we said our goodbyes, and in minutes, I was back on the dock, wondering what would happen if any of the three of us began to change for the worse, and for the first time in my recent memory, I prayed.
* * *
Risa shook me awake from a nap in which I was dreaming of food, and when I opened my eyes, Wally was attempting to shove an entire prosciutto and egg sandwich into her mouth, with varying degrees of success if the judges were scoring on cleanliness.
Risa held out a cup of coffee to me, patted my face lightly, and asked in a bright voice, “Breakfast for dinner?”
“Oh, God, yes. Thanks.” I took the cup, steaming and fragrant, and sat up, taking in the sight of a kitchen in utter chaos. Batter from some attempt at waffles decorated no less than half of every surface I could see, which meant that Wally had been in charge of mixing. The sizzle of bacon echoed from a skillet, and there was a stack of orange halves that had been squeezed to a flattened state, doubtless by Risa’s efficient, merciless little hands. There are few things in the world that I like more than breakfast in the evening, and we treat the event like a national holiday.
And then, with the jarring proof that all good things must come to an end, Wally leaned against the counter and said, “We were talking while you were being a lazy man and sleeping during the day.”
Box Set: The Fearless 1-3 Page 34