The Cost of Living (ARC)

by Emilie Lucadamo

  Sophie is quick to follow, but Beck grabs her before she can get the door open all the way. He gives no thought to his own safety until he sees the knife slash towards him. A sharp pain in his cheek tells him Sophie has found her target. When another shout tears from his throat, Beck tastes blood.

  He wraps both arms around Sophie and tries to force her to the ground, but she fights back hard. When she throws herself back, Beck is slammed into the counter. The wind is knocked out of him just long enough for Sophie to land another blow to his ribs and worm out of his grip. She’s tearing into the hallway before Beck is able to pull himself back up.

  His head is still screaming. He feels dizzy, nausea trying to force its way up his throat. The idea of staying down settles over him like a gentle blanket, and Beck is shocked by how tantalizing it is. He could do nothing; he could stay still, close his eyes, and listen—

  Another shout from the backroom snaps him out of his haze. Beck’s eyes shoot wide open. Adam.

  What is he doing? How could he think of not helping when Adam is in danger? What’s wrong with him?

  Beck struggles to his feet, panting past the ache in his ribs. Hot liquid drips down his face; when he lifts a hand to his cheek, it comes away stained red. Baring his teeth, he shakes his head in disgust and charges into the hallway.

  The doorway leading to Adam’s apartment is wide open, and Beck can see feet kicking at the top of the stairs. His only thought as he rushes forward is that he prays he won’t find Adam bleeding, with a knife jammed somewhere it shouldn’t be. The thought of Adam hurt terrifies him even more than the voice in his head still hissing at him to hold still, and he throws himself at the first body he sees—the one clad in blue and wielding a knife.

  He probably should have considered the whole stairs thing first. The thought doesn’t actually occur to him until they’re both tumbling down, Beck’s arms locked around the possessed woman’s body. Sophie grunts under him, letting out an animalistic screech as they fall, only to be cut off by the ground’s impact.

  There is no time to recover. Beck rolls on top of Sophie, pinning her to the ground. She still has her arms free, and her knife swings up to catch his jaw. He only misses it by twisting his body to the side. The blade catches solid air, and Beck catches her arm before she can try again. Before he can get to the other, however, her free hand seizes his hair and yanks, hard.

  “Ow, dammit!”

  He slams her body into the ground with enough force that her eyes (once gray as the winter ocean, and now pitch black) go wide. Over his shoulder, Adam shouts something; Beck can’t hear it, he can’t think of anything except the knife still clutched in her hand—

  She yanks her arm out of his grip with a surge of strength he was not expecting. Her fist slams into his jaw, knocking stars into Beck’s vision.

  In the second it takes Beck to recover, time seems to slow down. He sees Sophie’s knuckles, white around the gleaming hilt of her knife. He sees her hand descend in a wide arc, headed straight for his back. He sees the flash of bloodlust in her eyes, in the jagged twist of her lips, carrying the certainty that her attack will not miss.

  He rolls off of her just in time to avoid the knife about to plunge into his back. Instead, it buries itself deep in Sophie’s stomach.

  “Sophie!” Adam’s anguished holler makes his presence known. Beck hears the clatter of something hitting the ground and footsteps pounding behind him. He catches Adam just before he can throw himself at Sophie’s side, hooking his arms around his waist and holding him back. Sophie’s eyes are still pitch black, staring up at the ceiling in their own twisted victory. As much as Beck wants to look away, Adam’s agony is even harder to face.

  The man in his arms is cursing him, writhing and fighting with all his strength. He wants to be let go; he wants to rush to Sophie’s side, but Beck knows he can’t. Though he tries to hush Adam, his words are drowned out by Adam’s own panic.

  Amidst the chaos of Adam’s struggles, Beck almost doesn’t see the cloud of black smoke stream past Sophie’s parted lips and dissipate into thin air.

  For a second, he can’t comprehend it. Then Sophie lets out a choked, agonized whimper, and Beck knows.

  He releases Adam so suddenly that he loses his balance, hands and knees hitting the ground hard. In the next second Adam is scrambling to Sophie’s side.

  Sophie is flat on her back, both hands pressed over the wound in her stomach. Her eyes—gray as a steel blade—are wide and glazed with pain. She stares up at the ceiling. Each gasp for breath causes her to jerk, lips moving soundlessly.

  Adam throws himself into action without wasting a second. The knife in Sophie’s abdomen has become dislodged, allowing a startling amount of blood to bubble up from the wound with each breath she strains to take. Adam presses his hands down, heedless to the crimson staining his hands. There is a manic determination in his eyes that steals Beck’s breath. He is determined to hold the life in his friend’s body by any means necessary.

  On the ground, Sophie still forces breath after desperate breath into her lungs. She twitches with each gasp, a dying bird struggling to get off the ground. “Je meurs… Je meurs…”

  Adam grits his teeth at the whimpered words, bending his head to his work. “Je suis désolé,” he mutters; though Beck can’t understand the words, he hears the raw agony within them. “Je suis vraiment désolé…”

  Half delirious from pain, Sophie’s eyes land on him. A flicker of relief crosses her face at the sight of a friend. “Adam? Qu- Qu’est-il arrivé? Comment—”

  She cuts herself off with a sharp gasp, face screwing up in agony. Blood bubbles between Adam’s fingers. As Sophie trembles in pain, convulsing beneath Adam’s hands, he struggles to hold it all in. Her very life is seeping from her body, running across the floors and staining her dress a garish crimson. There is too much bleeding for Adam to control. He can’t stop it, no matter how hard he tries, no matter how desperate he is. His friend is slipping away, and he can do nothing but watch.

  That doesn’t mean he’s going to stop trying. When his hands aren’t enough, he hastily pulls his shirt from his own body and balls it up before pressing it against the wound. “Sophie,” he says, leaning close. Beck can hear the tremors in his voice as he struggles to sound reassuring. “Réspire. C’est d’accord. Tu vas bien.”

  “Ça fait trop mal…”

  “Je sais. C’est d’accord.” Tears stream down Adam’s face, glistening trails along his dark skin. He stubbornly blinks them away, focusing on his work. His chest is heaving as he fights to control each breath, and his knuckles are white around the shirt in his hands. “Désolé…” he whispers again, and in a smaller voice, “Sorry… I’m so sorry…”

  “Adam…” Sophie’s hand twitches. She makes an attempt to lift it, but strength has deserted her. “S’il te plaît…”

  Adam doesn’t divert from his work, but his face twists in agony. “Beck,” he grunts out, and it takes Beck’s horrified mind a moment to realize he’s being addressed. “Hold her hand.”

  Wide-eyed, Beck can’t process the request. Adam tears his focus from Sophie’s wound for one second, just long enough to send Beck a fierce glare. “Get over here and hold her hand!”

  Startled into action, Beck scrambles over to grip Sophie’s straining hand. Her skin is cold already, damp with her own blood. For a second he has to fight not to pull away; instead, he squeezes, and Sophie squeezes back.

  Not knowing how to help and unable to do anything else, Beck can only look into Sophie’s feverish eyes. He doesn’t know what to say. Saying nothing feels cowardly somehow, as if he’s hiding from reality by not trying to help her. He would, if he only knew how. How does one comfort someone who’s dying in front of them? Beck doesn’t have a clue. He hopes his expression can reassure her, as much as she can be reassured, but wishes he could say something.

  When he was dying, Beck remembers, he didn’t realize what was happening. It felt like a dream. He closed his eyes,
and it all faded away, like the last note of a song, or a movie screen fading to black…

  “It stops hurting,” he whispers, leaning in close enough for Sophie to hear his soft words. “Once that happens, it’s as easy as falling asleep.”

  “Beck, shut up!” Adam snaps, something tortured in his voice. “She’s not dying.”

  But there is a flicker in Sophie’s eyes—not quite understanding, but relief—and Beck knows he said the right thing.

  “I can’t—dammit, I can’t stop the bleeding,” Adam hisses through his teeth, pressing down hard enough to make Sophie’s body tense. Her grip on Beck’s hand tightens, then goes slack all at once. For one horrible second Beck is sure she’s died, but then Sophie pulls out of his grip. With one last burst of energy, she places her hands over Adam’s.

  Adam’s frenzied motions cease. He goes completely still.

  Tears stream down his face, just as they slip from the corners of Sophie’s eyes. An entire silent conversation passes between their locked gazes, incomprehensible to anyone else. At last, haltingly, Adam draws his hands away from Sophie’s abdomen, bringing her hands with him.

  “I’m gonna stop this,” he whispers. “I’m gonna keep this from happening again.”

  Sophie huffs out a breathless giggle, spots of blood flecking her lips. “You’ll finally take my advice?”

  “Best advice I’ve ever gotten.” Adam nods, a sob cutting off his last word. With no small amount of effort, he forces it back down. “I’m not going to be afraid anymore.”

  “You can… make something beautiful, Adam,” Sophie whispers. “Use it to help. That’s who you’re meant to be.”

  “I wish I could help you,” Adam whispers, and presses his forehead to hers. The dying woman’s eyes flutter shut; for a long moment they stay that way, their hands clasped tightly and their brows touching.

  Beck sees the moment Sophie’s face relaxes—the moment her grip on Adam’s hands goes slack. Adam doesn’t pull away for another moment, and when he finally does he is trembling.

  Carefully, he takes Sophie’s hands and lays them upon her chest. Then he sits back from the body, draws his legs up, and hides his face in his knees.

  Beck tries to reach out, but something stops him. It is a sudden chill coursing down his spine; the sensation of eyes on his back; the sudden certainty that they are not alone.

  He turns and comes face-to-face with a shadow of a different kind. The figure of Alyssa at the end of the hallway startles him. Dressed all in black, with her hair wild about her face and her clothes dark, she looks more like an angel of death than a human being. She is standing still, not moving an inch, even when she notices Beck’s eyes on her.

  The girl lifts her head, revealing wide eyes in a tear-streaked face. She looks traumatized; her thin frame trembles like a leaf caught in a windstorm.

  “H-hey,” says Beck, slowly rising to his feet. Alyssa takes a step back, stumbling, as she shakes her head.

  “It wasn’t supposed to happen,” she says.

  “What? What wasn’t?”

  Beck’s head is pulsing again, an ache that is becoming too familiar to him. As he watches, Alyssa raises a hand to her own head and exhales a whimper.

  “They keep saying it should be this way. But it shouldn’t. This isn’t supposed to happen!”

  (It is. This is how it should be.)

  “Who?” Beck demands, voice pitching in fear. “Who’s saying that?”

  “Them,” Alyssa replies, gripping her head in both hands. “I didn’t mean to hurt her, I didn’t! I couldn’t stop it! They’re the ones, not me, but I can hear them—they’re in my head—”

  “Who?” Beck’s own head is screaming as loud as Alyssa’s shrill cries. Maybe he’s yelling too—he’s not sure. “Who are they?”

  “They’ve been here before,” Alyssa says, and Beck’s eyes go wide.

  (He’s been here many times before.)

  He never got headaches before he died. Only since he came back to life have these spikes of pain become commonplace.

  (This is the way it should be.)

  They’re in his head too. They have been, all this time. They were there with James, they were there with Sophie—

  They’re here now.

  (We’ve always been here.)

  Alyssa falls to her knees, sobbing, and Beck clutches his own head as an icy vice settles around his chest. Memories of his headache while talking to James in the kitchen emerge; of the pool attack, and the screaming in his head; of the skull-splitting pain when Sophie entered the shop. The Tresser Corps agents’ words echo in his head, and he feels sick to his stomach.

  He tried to convince himself that he came back the same person he died as—that he brought nothing with him whatsoever. He was wrong.

  He is dangerous after all.

  Chapter Nine

  “HOLY SHIT” IS the first thing James says when he walks into the shop. “What the hell happened here?”

  Beck rounds on him, fury in his eyes. It’s not fair, but he can’t help it. Adam’s holding silent vigil over Sophie’s body in the magic room. Alyssa’s catatonic up in Adam’s apartment. Beck called his friend here because there’s a crisis, and James’s mouth isn’t what he needs right now. They have to figure out what to do. “What d’you think happened? I text you that someone’s dead, then someone’s freaking dead!”

  “Hey!” James obviously sees how freaked out Beck is; after a few seconds, his temper simmers back down, and he holds up his hands as the shop door closes behind him. “Calm down. Get your head screwed back on, and tell me what happened. The others are on their way now. We’ll figure out what’s going on and deal with it.”

  “We can’t,” Beck mutters, grabbing a fistful of his hair and pulling. “She’s dead.”

  “Who?”

  “Sophie!”

  “Great! You wanna tell me who Sophie is?”

  When he opens his mouth, Beck finds himself unable to answer. Instead, he turns on his heel and walks down the hallway, knowing James will follow. His footsteps are steady until he reaches the end of the hall. A red stain mars the hardwood floor, and James mutters a curse under his breath. Instead of lingering, Beck pushes open the door to the magic room.

  No light is on, but the room is still illuminated. Candlelight flickers against the walls, casting heavy shadows over everything. He can’t force himself to cross the threshold. The sight of Adam, kneeling beside a circle of candles with his head pressed to his folded hands, is enough to constrict Beck’s heart.

  Sophie’s hands are carefully folded across her stomach, covering up the ugly wound that dyed the fabric of her light dress crimson. The ring of candles surrounding her makes her skin look waxy. Firelight dances over her placid face, casting her long lashes into shadow and lending color to her bloodless lips.

  “Oh,” James says, after a long moment of observing the morbid scene with his mouth agape. “Cookie girl. Right.”

  The recognition is so inappropriately-timed that Beck can’t help a hysterical laugh. Once he’s started, he feels certain that he will never stop…but the sound dies in his throat, and it seems just as certain that he will never laugh again.

  ADAM DOESN’T BREAK, and that’s the worst part. Even once Sophie’s makeshift altar has been extinguished and he has shut the door to the dark room behind him, he remains stubbornly stone-faced. When Beck tries to ask him if he’s okay, he brushes him off.

  “I’m fine, Beck,” he says. “We’ve got more to worry about now.”

  Something in Beck’s brain stirs when he says that. It is an electronic hum, like picking up on a radio frequency that’s just static. His hand flies to his head, but Adam doesn’t see. His back is already to Beck, and he walks past the stain on the ground without looking down.

  Now that Beck is conscious of the things in his head, he can’t stop hearing them. It is a constant drone at the back of his skull, every so often growing too loud to ignore. When its pitch rises, it hurts. Sometimes
the pain is blinding, and sometimes it’s just a dull thrum that he can push out of his mind, but it is always there. It’s been there since the moment he woke up, and so have they.

  (We’ve been here before.)

  He doesn’t know what they are. He doesn’t know why he can hear them. The one thing he knows, in the deepest depths of his being, is that they are wicked, and if he allows them to raise their voices, something terrible will happen.

  Adam would probably have a clue. He needs to tell Adam, but there’s no way he can when he’s still in mourning over his friend. The catatonic girl upstairs is enough to deal with. Beck refuses to put this burden on Adam’s shoulders too.

  Alyssa hasn’t stopped crying since Sophie’s death. She keeps gripping her head, muttering to herself in a voice too soft to be understood. She won’t look at anyone, even Adam. She won’t speak to them, and she refuses to allow herself to be touched.

  Adam is obviously at a loss. Alyssa was Sophie’s friend. They were college roommates, he explains, and in that time grew to be close. Alyssa died of meningitis—it was sudden, jarring, and Sophie was still reeling from her death when she suddenly reappeared outside Sophie’s apartment door. At first, Alyssa’s case had presented just like Beck’s; she was sick, confused, and had no idea she was dead. Sophie was the one to take her back into what used to be her home.

  “She was so worried,” Adam mutters, frowning at the curled-up figure of Alyssa from the doorway of his bedroom. “Kept saying she wasn’t adjusting well… She was having nightmares, then not sleeping at all. Kept getting bad headaches. Sophie didn’t know what to make of it.” He swallows hard, and a crack appears in his stony expression. “She kept saying it was like she wasn’t back at all.”