Ghosts of Koa, The First Book of Ezekiel

by Colby R Rice

"Why should I trust you? Druids can fabricate their thoughts as they please."

  "Not while my power's locked back, I can't. I can only store and seal them. That's it."

  Luke started.

  "Yeah. Promethean Seal." Caleb put a hand to his diaphragm. "For two years now. Your research didn't pick up on that, now did it? Happy? Still think I'm favored by the Order?"

  "Why? What did you do?"

  "You want to find out?"

  Luke eyed him warily.

  "I'm offering you the chance to see the truth as I remember it. About Ezekiel, about me, about everything. You can take it or leave it. I'll only leave the memories walking around for so long."

  Luke creased his brow and walked around Palmer's desk. "You're not joking." It was more a statement than a question, and he was searching Caleb's face for evidence to the contrary.

  "No. I'm not."

  Careful to maintain his distance, Luke stepped up to him and narrowed his eyes. "If what I find is going to put you behind bars, Caleb, then I'm just warning you in advance that I will use it."

  "Noted."

  Luke lifted his hand, letting his palm hover in front of Caleb's face. Caleb flinched, feeling the hum kick up in his skull triple time. Two years of whispers and photo negatives, hundreds of them, unraveled and flitted through his mind's eye. The memories tumbled over one another, the thoughts so scrambled that he didn't hear the door open when Captain Palmer walked back in.

  "Hrmerumph!" The rug-like cough brought Caleb back to attention, and he turned to the door to see Palmer standing there. He was looking at them, eyebrow raised. He held three donuts in one hand and a coffee in the other. "Do you two fellas need some... privacy?"

  Luke dropped his hand. "No, we're good, thanks."

  Caleb cleared his throat, feeling his cheeks burn. Palmer was eyeing him with surprise, clearly marking him more firmly as a "doll". Psh.

  Whatever, who cares what this plump prick thinks?

  "Wanna talk about how Morgan got popped, Captain?" Caleb muttered, changing the subject.

  Palmer took a bite of his donut and sat on his desk, still eyeing Caleb with judgment. "Not popped, kid. More like torn from nuts to nose. It's messy. I want you both to investigate. CSI's been there 'bout an hour already, and we need a lawyer and a detective on site. You pencil-pushers are all I've got right now, unfortunately." He cut them a disapproving frown. "Get moving. I want a report when you get back."

  They turned and left. As they made their way through and out of the station, Luke cast Caleb a shadowed glance. Caleb knew what the look meant. Compassionate, but not quite convinced. Guilt and good intentions didn't equal innocence, but whatever it was Luke saw-- whether it was about Ezekiel, about him, or about his final moments with Sairen-- it had changed things. Luke said nothing as they got into the police car. He just looked forward into the misty distance, and somehow, Caleb felt the invisible wall between them dissolve as they pulled out of the station.

  Hours of walking, and finally, Zeika was creeping into the abandoned back entrance to the Botanical Gardens. The duffel bag straps dug into her shoulder. Mama had joined in the divvying up of Sal's belongings and had packed a separate bag for her, but damn, it was like she'd put rocks in it or something.

  She managed to smile. The woman never did learn how to pack lightly. The one time they'd actually gone on a trip together, Zeika and Baba had had to hold an intervention to keep Mama from bringing her whole wardrobe. That was years ago, though, before everything spiraled to shit.

  Zeika crawled into the holey gate and through the bowels of the ventilation system, silent and slow. When she finally reached the open end, she jumped down and walked deeper into the barren womb of the Forge, her footsteps resounding against the ashen stone walls.

  She clicked on her mini-flashlight. Her work table still stood in the middle of the cellar, and Caleb's gun parts still laid on top, gleaming under the ghostly glow of her light. She hadn't moved them, not even in the wake of the fire. Part of her had reasoned that there was no need to; she couldn't give them back, nor could she sell them. Now, though, it looked so much like the final resting place of their friendship. She ran her fingers over the gun bones tenderly, sadness filling her up. Felt like it too.

  After Sal admitted that he'd guided her life into the crapper, many things she hadn't understood had fallen together. Bits of information that had clung to her subconscious were now meshed in one unified truth. Caleb had stopped short mid-stride the day he'd first come to the Forge, while they were standing in Lot Three. She knew now that he had sensed something, like maybe someone was there watching them. Someone like Sal Morgan. But then what about the arson?

  She remembered seeing Caleb's pain, that helpless agony just like when Sal had possessed her body and had forced her to her knees months ago. Caleb hadn't been in control of his actions for most of the ordeal, at least not until the end.

  But that's what mattered, didn't it? She couldn't blame Cotch or that old Azure for that too.

  In the end Caleb was the one who had dropped the fire, no doubt about that, but he'd looked at her as though he'd hoped-- knew-- she'd survive somehow. True, maybe it hadn't been the best decision on his part. But what else could he have done? For whatever reason, he'd been overpowered, two to one, and Zeika had no doubt that the mercenary Alchemist and his master would have killed her, or worse, if Caleb hadn't.

  "I'm sorry I doubted you..." she whispered.

  She kissed the barrel of his rifle, and for the first time since she'd thought of him, she felt genuine worry. She'd thought the Alchemists had been after her, but the more she'd considered it, it seemed most their focus had been on him. What had that Vassal said? He was teaching Caleb a lesson? They were punishing him for something. Maybe for being good to her and to the kid. She bit her lip, her worry heightening.

  You can't help him now, her mind cut in coldly. And it's time to go, Zeika.

  She swallowed and nodded. The detective would have to take care of himself for now. As for her, she couldn't stay in one place for too long. Someone might come snooping around, and since it was clear that the Vigils were over and that she didn't have to die like she'd planned, it was time to make Ezekiel D'jihara Anon disappear.

  She snapped into action, packing Caleb's gun parts into the duffel bag he'd left her. Then she rummaged through the drawers of her shop's cabinets until she found what she was looking for. Gripping the two tools with resolution, she walked into the bathroom, and wiped the soot off the mirror. She put the portable razor down and lifted the scissors to the first braid, wincing as she cut through it as close to the scalp as possible. She swallowed down as she cut the next one, and then the next one, until the sink was full of soft, kinky hair. Next, the buzz of the razor filled the little room until she'd shaven her hair close to the scalp. Not bald, but short enough so that people wouldn't look twice.

  She grabbed up the bunches of hair, walked back into the cellar, and piled it in the middle of the floor. Then she cleaned the bathroom, running a few lit matches over the sink, the faucets, the floor, the razor, the scissors, everything that wouldn't ignite, to make sure she got all of the hair off.

  She walked back into the Forge basement and unpacked the duffel bag from Sal's. Food, socks, vitamin supplements... everything Zeika needed to live for the next few days, Mama had packed on top. Zeika now moved it all to Caleb's bag, along with his guns.

  As she transferred the provisions, the rest of the contents of Sal's bag stared up at her: pillow cases, sheets, washcloths, traces of anything Sal had that connected her family to him, anything with DNA on it. They had cleaned as diligently as they could without disturbing Sal's body, burning the boudoir, doorknobs, stair railings, and the bathroom ottoman on which she had sat. The lump in her stomach rolled back up, and she sniffled, forcing Sal's face from her mind.

  It was an accident.

  But that wouldn't matter to the Azures, and it didn't make her feel any bet
ter either. She had still killed him. He had planned to let her family and the others starve to death, to rape her, to do whatever he wanted to all of them for however long. She quivered, remembering the feel of his thumb on her breast, his body on hers... and still, none of that made the final twists in his face feel justified.

  She dumped everything in Sal's duffel bag onto the floor--

  Clang!

  --and her eyes widened as something heavy slammed on the stone. She pulled it out of the pile. What the... did Mama pack this too? She cocked her head as she examined the large smooth stone in her hands. It was the one Sal had made her hold. There were some inscriptions on it. Zeika raised an eyebrow: they were in Arabic. In the ancient fus-ha dialect, no less. Why hadn't she seen the writing before?

  "Death walked softly..." she murmured, squinting at the characters.

  Something warm emanated from the rock, sweeping up her fingers into her arms. She gasped as it fingered its way through her bones, crawling up her neck to her face, where it sank into her eyes. White light filled her vision, the world around her seeming to fall away-- and the heavy stone disintegrated in her grasp, like melting cotton candy.

  "HEY!" She gasped, opening and closing her fingers.

  The rock was gone. Still trying to blink the light from her eyes, she dropped to her knees and pawed around on the floor. Maybe she had dropped it? She looked around for a good ten minutes, even looking in the bathroom and under her work table, just in case it had rolled away. By the time she was done looking, her vision had cleared, but the rock was nowhere to be found.

  "Damn..."

  An Azure trick, or some special trinket, probably worth a whole year's worth of food. That was probably why Mama had put it in there in the first place, and now, it was gone.

  Way to fuck up a parting gift, Zeika, but okay. Moving on.

  She threw Sal's bag on top of the trash. Then she lit the match, threw it in, and stepped back. She watched the air twist beneath the heat, the razing flames lulling her into a standing trance as she watched the evidence wither. When the fire was done with the linens, it revealed a small book, two books actually, ones she recognized.

  "Shit!"

  Apparently, Mama had packed her and Manja's prayer books into the bag, and Zeika had thrown them into the pyre by accident. She dropped to her knees and reached, ready to plunge her hand into the rage and pull them out-- but then she stopped, her fingers just inches from the flames.

  Maybe... maybe this was a good thing. Who the hell knew what was out there, sitting like some fat happy jerk between the tits of the universe, but whatever or whoever it was: he didn't give a shit about her or her family. That much was clear. So maybe this would put a little fire in his eye, make him pay attention. If these were really the words of God, she'd make him taste the ashes.

  The best prayer I've ever done. One that'll be heard.

  She should have been afraid... maybe. But the Protecteds had officially become hell on earth, and everyone knew that God never stepped into Hell. He didn't even negotiate for its hostages. She had nothing to worry about.

  The fire licked up the last embers of the trash and then leapt onto the prayer books. Then Zeika actually felt it, the cold void that opened up in her chest, swallowing the remaining warmth of her body. She watched the babels of God burn until they had become black petals curled against the stone, and she felt nothing.

  Xakiah didn't trust silence. It was nothing but a bottomless well of dark creativity, where assassinations were designed, conspiracies woven, earths destroyed. He'd know... he'd had his hands in all three. Silence in a world of death and war was not to be trusted, least of all in the Protecteds, and recently, the three Protecteds had become as quiet as a tomb.

  Current events had come together with strange harmony-- the rise of Koa's new biological weapons, Georin's early arrival, the Ninkashi, the Faustian creature, the smugglers' train. He thought all the elements would have swirled into a grand effusion of blood and terror, but then, there was nothing, as though someone had pulled the plug on the world mid-season. Aside from Beige's betrayal, all had been calm.

  In one way, the strange peace had helped Xakiah focus on his work. After he'd used the coordinates that Beige had coughed up, it hadn't taken him long to locate Beige's partner. The job would be a simple one: get the Page, cancel the buyer, return to Moss at the manors. Easy. Child's play.

  So then what was the problem? Where was the Final Page?

  The traitor had picked a strange time to pawn it off. If anything, Xakiah thought the bastard would have held onto it as leverage for when the threat of assassination was at its highest. Then again, Koa had quieted down like the rest of the world. Their activity had been dwindling ever since the repeals of the Articles39, not only locally, but globally. Shipment hits, strikes, military engagements had all but trickled down to a drip. It felt like the ebbing before a tidal wave, and he didn't like it at all.

  All the better to get the Page back in safe hands as quickly as possible.

  His Vassal still needed him, but what he needed more was assurance that the Page was safe. Only when Moss had fallen asleep in the convalescence chamber had Xakiah risen from his vigil, and he had done so with the promise that he'd fulfill his mission and punish the traitors. Smiling, his Vassal had fallen asleep to that promise, his own personal lullaby.

  So, Xakiah stood in the darkness of the buyer's dripping cellar, allowing his eyesight to adjust. He'd checked everywhere, noticing that many of the buyer's safes had already been opened, the nooks and crannies already pillaged. His anger built up, even as he realized that whoever had ransacked this place hadn't been looking for the Page. They'd been looting for supplies: food, blankets, medicine.

  He'd combed every corner of the estate, even the garden, where he'd discovered the ivy-covered doors leading down into where he stood now. It was a prison of sorts... maniacal, but not altogether surprising considering what he knew about the owner.

  Ascending from the dungeon, Xakiah kicked the cellar doors closed, ready to blast something, anything in half--

  "Cotch, you fool," he scoffed, now remembering.

  He had deliberately saved the bedrooms for last, and he'd almost forgotten about them. The lights in the bedroom corridor had been on, and though he hadn't heard anyone in the house, he hadn't wanted to head that way until he'd already done a thorough search of the grounds, marking entry points for his Echo, just in case he needed back up.

  He headed back in, and still hearing nothing, he crept into the bedroom corridor, gun up. When he got to the switch, he flicked it down and then aimed, his senses opening, waiting for movement. Nothing.

  He quietly went through five of the six bedrooms, coming up with nothing. He approached the sixth and last one at the far end, and that's when he caught a scent he knew all too well. Death.

  Skin prickling, he advanced, low and fast, through the corridor and through the bedroom door, aiming-- and even he was caught by surprise by what he saw outlined in front of him. Darkness enveloped the space, but by the chunky leprous knots twisted atop the bed sheets, Xakiah could see that it was a mess. No one else was here, and the rotting smell was overwhelming. He flicked on the light and frowned.

  "Morgan... what'd you get your dick into this time?"

  The naked Salvatore Morgan, or what was left of him anyway, had died howling terribly, and certainly not in the throes of passion. Sheets wrapped in knots around his neck and nearly dismembered limbs, his gaze jaundiced and swollen, his penis laying limp and gangrenous against crimsoned sheets... as though some insane cowgirl had hog-tied him with barbed wire until his body broke. Or cowboy. Someone he pissed off bad.

  Xakiah smiled. He had planned to make Morgan pay for helping Beige to betray the Order, but whoever had done this certainly had surpassed his own imagination. The killer was a luminary of physical torment if he'd ever seen one. He would have to kill the murderer of course, because no witness could be allowed to
walk away with information, no matter how little they knew or how innocent they were. But for now, he applauded the assassin's genius. And, luckily for him, the murderer had left Sal belly up and at the edge of the bed, which made his job much easier.

  He pulled his blade from his holster as he walked over, and he stuck the tip into Sal's abdomen, at the diaphragm. He worked carefully, making sure to not let any part of him touch the crime scene, and he shoved the blade deeper into Morgan's stomach before working it down to his groin. He savored the rhythmic squelch of the rotting flesh beneath the blade, the distinct buzzing of flies that became louder with each cut, the flies' buttery offspring crawling out of Morgan's body with each jerk of the knife. Disgusting, and yet so satisfying.

  He grinned, pleased that his boyhood on the farm had finally amounted to something. This was just like gutting pigs... and there was a strange nostalgia to it, one he hadn't felt for decades. Vindication filled him, creeping into his loins as he dragged the blade through the traitor's soft stomach, spilling the entrails. He squatted and looked into the mess and searched, trying to feel out the warm and quiet hum of the Page's presence, just like he'd felt when he'd first touched it.

  "Not here," he seethed.

  His warm feelings extinguished beneath disappointment. It was official, and now he had to go back to his Vassal and report the bad news. He snarled, but he resisted the strong urge to drive the knife over and over into Sal's head. Instead, he remembered the kind whisper of his Vassal, always reminding him to remain calm. Instead, he called forth his Echo.

  "Clean it," he commanded, handing his knife to the creature. "Clean everything. Then gather. But leave some for the APs."

  The Echo nodded, wrapped its inky hand around the blade and dragged it through its palm, absorbing the blood and matter into its being. Then, it very carefully stuck its fingers into Sal, running its formless digits through the corpse's mouth, under the fingernails, through his hair, across his genitals and anus. Then, it began to move through the shadows of the estate, collecting data and cleaning up any traces of Xakiah ever having been there, down to the scuff marks on Sal's bedroom floor.