Ink and Shadows

by Rhys Ford

  “I didn’t bring the knife,” Mal reminded him, holding up bare hands. “Look, no pointy thing.”

  “What happened to the knife I gave you?” Ari hissed. “I gave you a perfectly good knife. What the hell did you do with it?”

  “Left it in the car. It’s not like I’m any good at that kind of stuff,” Mal said, taking a tentative step onto the covered cement walkway.

  “What the hell are you thinking, going out without at least a knife?” With a disgusted look backward, Ari dismissed Mal with a wave of his hand. “Shit. Fine. I’ll deal with it. Go in to distract it. I’ll get it from the other side.”

  Mal approached cautiously, but he was fairly certain the boy held in the wraith’s mouth was dead. A human wouldn’t be able to survive the damage inflicted by the creature. The young man’s face still held flickers of life, a soft moan creaking from his parched lips. He was older than what Mal originally guessed, and his heart convulsed at the pain etched into the man’s pretty features. The monster’s jaws had made nasty work of his neck, delivering fatal punctures to the arteries along his throat. Mal was surprised he’d not yet bled out. Death’s touch wasn’t far from the young man’s soul.

  Ari growled at him, “Just fucking kick the thing.”

  Focusing a hazy stare on Mal, the boy called out to the immortal. The words were garbled, nearly unintelligible, but the young man’s intent was plain. He wasn’t going to go down without a fight. Swallowing, Mal nodded and started to move closer, stopped short in his tracks by Ari’s warning shout.

  “Mal, wait a damned minute! That kid’s not going anywhere,” Ari yelled at the Four’s youngest. “Gods, Pest, you’re such an idiot.”

  Looking over the wraith’s body, Ari worked on how best to kill the creature quickly. The bony plates covering its flanks and underbelly promised to be a problem. He debated driving the dagger into its skull, as he’d done with the wraith in their garage, but the wraith’s bony forehead and heavy brow ridge gave him pause. “This thing is built like a tank.”

  “He can see me.” Mal stood still, whispering in astonishment. Speaking louder, he repeated himself to a distracted Ari. “War, the boy can see me.”

  Mal was certain that no sane mortal saw the Horsemen behind the Veil. They had to push past the Veil to be seen, and he’d always carefully chosen the times he made himself visible to humans. He enjoyed the contact when he did but never once interacted directly. Mal never felt more alive than when he spent an afternoon in a coffee house listening to chatter or in the relative silence of a movie theater. Humans were invigorating and fascinating to watch.

  But an effort had to be made. Mortals just didn’t see their kind, but here was one, one seemingly untouched by the madness that poured out in a rankled stench from the insane. To Mal, the dying young man didn’t smell insane, just of sour poison and the acrid oil of fear on his skin, and he most definitely saw Mal.

  Ari struck at the wraith, sparks flying from the dagger’s edge when it hit the plated armor along the monster’s rigid backbone. A speck of blood boiled from the crevices along the plating, the weapon’s point finding a vulnerable spot between the sections. Fed by the boy’s fluids and fear, the wraith surged forward, a powerful concentration of force barreling past Mal. The boy’s body bounced along, one of his arms catching around an awning post, yanking at his shoulder and stopping the monster’s momentum with a shuddering jerk.

  Trying to work its prey loose with a mighty shake of its head, the monster didn’t see Ari moving in, dagger low. With the weapon’s point tipped up, Ari aimed for a soft spot beneath one of the wraith’s front legs, hoping to get at the shoulder muscle to cripple its movements. Nearly slipping on the blood pooling on the cement, Ari’s thrust lost some of its power, the blade slicing up enough into the soft tissue to catch the wraith’s attention. Scenting its prey, the wraith whirled about, jowls dripping with speckles of bloody foam. Head low, it rushed War, intent on the kill.

  The young man’s moan tugged at Mal’s resolve. Deciding Ari would be better off without the human in the way, Mal reached in and grabbed the young man’s shoulders, grunting at Kismet’s slight weight. He’d seen enough death in humans’ eyes to know the young man wasn’t going to survive his wounds.

  There was too much blood loss, even if the shock didn’t kill him. The boy’s gore spilled onto Mal’s hands, staining them dark. Still, Kismet’s limp form was warm in Mal’s arms, the sticky mess of his life clinging to the Horseman’s cheek when Mal held him up to listen to Kismet’s tortured breathing. Behind them, Ari moved in to protect them, the wraith raging at the loss of its prey.

  “What’s your name?” Mal bent close. If the boy died, he would at least know the human’s name. He’d never held a dying human before. His purpose rarely gave him opportunity to see death up close, much less touch it.

  “Kismet.” Gasping, the young man choked on a burble of blood spilling up from his lungs.

  “I’m Mal.” The absurdity of the conversation struck Mal. Cradling the young man, he tried to make Kismet comfortable.

  “There’s a monster,” Kismet croaked with a gulp, swallowing painfully around the holes in his throat. “Watch out for it. Mean fucking thing.”

  “We see the monster. Don’t try to talk. You’ll need your strength.” For what, Mal didn’t know. Little by little, death crept into the young man’s body. Mal figured he would be holding a corpse in a matter of minutes. The thought of the boy dying hurt Mal. Something in the jut of the young man’s jaw, defiant and vulnerable at the same time, touched Mal inside. “Hold on. I won’t let you go.”

  Mal tried gently to pull Kismet’s blood-matted hair out of his wounds, trying to see just how severe the damage was. He was beginning to think he’d misjudged the severity of the wounds when the young man drew in another rattling breath, easier than the last. The young man’s color was returning to his cheeks, a flush of pink under his skin. Sticky black with drying blood, Kismet’s brown hair was difficult to remove, catching on the jagged ends of the punctures. Hoping he wouldn’t hurt the dying young man even more, Mal pulled harder, risking tearing the tender skin beneath.

  With the boy’s hair out of the way, Mal’s breath left his chest, shocked at what he saw. The young man’s wounds were closing. Even more amazing were the wounds on his torn-open throat, healing slowly but definitely sealing together. Mal watched, awestruck, as the damaged tissues knitted, tendons edging closer and binding back together.

  A cough worked a clot free from Kismet’s lungs, forcing it out through a shrinking space between torn skin. Kismet’s dark brown eyes rolled back into his head, consciousness leaving him. Mal bent over, finding a steadying pulse and labored breaths being pulled into Kismet’s chest. With a sigh of shocked relief, Mal worked his arms under the young man’s body, trying to lift him clear of the blood puddle under them.

  Ari dodged the wraith’s lunge, stepping aside. Turning, the creature snapped its teeth, catching the back of Ari’s thigh. Grunting from the ripping pain, the Horseman regained his balance in time to see the wraith making a tight turn, nails scrambling to gain purchase on the bloodied cement. Ari crooked his head to the side, trying to get a good look at the wraith’s neck.

  The plating around the wraith’s neck gaped as it brought its head up, leaping in an attempt to close its slavering jaws about Ari’s face. Mindful of the edge of the concrete walkway, Ari balanced on the ball of his foot and turned sideways, letting the creature’s momentum carry it past him once more.

  The wraith’s response was swift, its turn tighter, nearly doubling its spine back over. Screaming a yowl of rage, it built up speed in its powerful legs, pounding the ground with long strides. Ari jumped back, giving himself some distance from the edge of the raised walkway. The wraith leaped, springing upward. Its back legs struck the cement, nails scraping the rough surface. Ready for its attack, Ari placed one palm on the pommel of the long dagger, the other hand cupping the bottom of its cross guards.

  When
the wraith’s massive head nearly reached his chest, Ari shoved the dagger between the gaping plates on its neck. His shoulder muscles bulged with the effort of working through the creature’s thick body. Digging through the tightness of its moving neck, Ari struck bone. Swearing, he twisted the hilt, mindful of the wraith’s thrashing body. Smoking blood poured over Ari’s hands, scalding his tanned flesh. He set aside the pain, intent on killing the thing. Ari felt his knee pop from the creature’s weight, his leg unable to withstand the unnatural twisting of its muscles.

  The creature struggled to get free, its back legs kicking furiously at the Horseman. With a stumble, they both went down, the wraith’s greater weight driving Ari to his knees, then onto his back as it attempted to eat its way through the Horseman. The flecks of spit flung from its mouth were nearly as caustic as its blood, leaving bubbling water blisters on Ari’s face and neck. Pushing up, Ari strained to put his weight behind a final thrust, nicking past the bone and into the base of the wraith’s skull.

  The pop of vertebrae and the wraith’s choking gasps made Ari sigh with relief. Giving the wraith one final shove, he placed a foot on its stomach, kicking it away from his acid-splattered face. The monster’s body went limp, landing on its side. Legs twitching, it growled and tried to move, chest heaving with the effort. In the dim light, the wraith’s teeth glistened malevolently in its bloodied muzzle. Its fangs gnashed together in a final threat, a hideous snapping sound, and then the gleam faded from its eyes, its shattered neck sagging on the cement walk.

  Limping, Ari walked over to Mal. His face burned, the reddened blisters bursting and soaking trails of salted water into the neck of his shirt. His jacket was a loss. Ari picked at the expensive leather with mournful fingers. The monster’s spit had left massive holes in the soft, buttery hide, the wrist lining torn out from his earlier fight with the shadow wraith. Gazing over his shoulder, Ari gave a cursory glance at the sobbing Hispanic man, a few feet behind the dead wraith lying on its side.

  “Leave him, Mal. We’ve got to go before the police come and find the kid.” Sighing, Ari crouched next to his brother Horseman, touching Mal’s light blond hair with gentle fingers. “They won’t see us if we slip behind the Veil, but they’ll notice the Mustang. I don’t want to leave her here. She’ll get impounded, and then I’ll have to answer to Death. I have enough to explain away tonight.”

  “We can’t leave him.” Mal cradled the unconscious artist. “The wraith hurt him.”

  “Yeah, it obviously grew strong enough to hurt a human. It grew strong enough to hurt me. That happens sometimes. We’ve got to get back and tell Death what happened.” Ari tugged at the back of Mal’s shirt. “Come on. Drop the kid and let’s go.”

  “I’m not leaving him.” Mal struggled to get to his feet, Kismet’s limp form an unwieldy weight in his arms. “Help me pick him up.”

  “Mal, we can’t take him with us. He’s human.” Ari clenched his fists at his sides, the urge to strike Mal down and drag him off into the car nearly overwhelming him. “Leave him, already. He’s not going to live. The cops will think that other guy got to him as well. We’ve got to go. Now!”

  “He can see us, Ari.” Mal’s words stopped Ari as he turned toward the car. “I remained behind the Veil, and he saw me. Spoke to me. Warned me about the wraith.”

  “So he’s crazy. Even better. Now drop him.”

  “Ari, help me get him into your damned precious car. I’m not leaving him behind.”

  Mal’s temper flared, striking Ari full in the face. Ari tilted his head back, slightly unsure about what to do with an aggressive Mal.

  “I. Am. Not. Leaving. Kismet. Behind.”

  “Great! You made friends with it while I was fighting off the wraith?” Ari snapped back. “Shit. Damn it. Fine, go grab the door.”

  Sirens carried through the neighborhood, a mournful, shocking wave riding the wind. Bending over, Ari took Kismet from Mal’s arms, nestling the lithe body against his broad chest. Growling as Mal opened the Mustang’s door, Ari shouldered him aside, then tumbled Kismet into the backseat.

  “Get in. We’ve got to go.” Ari started the engine, and Mal scrambled into the passenger side, tucking his legs in quickly. The car lurched backward, and Mal steadied himself with one hand on the dashboard, worriedly looking at the curled-up mortal bleeding on Ari’s backseat.

  “You’re cleaning that up,” Ari muttered darkly, the burned spots on his hands crackling when he clenched the steering wheel to maneuver the car onto the street. “Every single fucking drop of blood that he spills onto my carpet and upholstery. You’re cleaning it up. If you have to lick it clean.”

  “Understood.” Mal hid the smile that threatened to swallow his face.

  “No smiling, and you’re telling Death why we couldn’t leave him behind.” Ari pounded at the wheel with his fist. “And the Vanquish. You’re telling him about the car and that you’re the reason it’s all fucked up.”

  “He’ll understand about the car,” Mal said softly, taking one last look at the young man before settling back into the seat. “And about Kismet. He’ll understand.”

  Snorting, Ari slowed the car down, moving into the stream of traffic leading to downtown San Diego. “That’s what you think. The boy, maybe. The car, never.”

  MICHAEL BECKETT waited among the gathered curious, impatient for the cops to finally leave the motel parking lot, tracking the frenzied dogfights between different detectives, each offering up their own opinion of what happened. Trails of blood shone dully on the concrete walk, small yellow cones marking a flat slalom around the drying gore. A photographer’s flash went off periodically, leaving stars in the bald man’s vision when he stared too long.

  From his vantage point, Beckett could see into the Veil, pushing his Sight nearly to the edge of its limits. The wraith he’d been able to pull free from the Veil decayed rapidly in the rising sunlight, a failure in his eyes. The man gritted his teeth, trying to keep the emotion from his face.

  “Should have been here sooner, sir,” Frazier murmured softly, his larger frame looming beside his employer. The man felt the loss of the boy personally. If he’d been there a bit sooner, he would have been able to deliver the boy to Beckett.

  Beckett waved the apology off. Neither one of them could have predicted the chaos that had happened. “Don’t worry about it, Frazier. We’ll find him again. His kind always circle back to where they feel comfortable. I’m guessing that it won’t be long before we stumble over him again.”

  “The compound seems to be working,” Frazier commented. “I think I can see what you brought across. It’s a mess.”

  “Good.” Beckett smiled broadly, his face tight around the gesture. “You at least have the Sight developing. That’s a step in the right direction. It won’t be long, then, before you’ll be like the boy.”

  He was taking a risk giving Frazier the concoction, but Beckett was willing to sacrifice the man. Losing Frazier to the madness that lurked behind the Veil would be a small price to pay if the mixture actually worked, and Frazier knew what he was risking, willingly becoming Beckett’s guinea pig for the immortality the elixir promised. Once they had the boy, Beckett could confirm the effects and make any small corrections that he might need to before he took it himself.

  “I’ll see if I can get closer.” Frazier didn’t wait for Beckett’s approval, stepping into the fray of people with purpose. The man knew how to work around authorities, easing his way through the crowd of policemen as if he belonged. He soon struck up a conversation with a detective, intent on drawing out information to take back to his employer.

  From the condition of the wraith, Beckett guessed the addict not only could see into the Veil but could affect it, something Beckett wanted badly. For a drugged-out wastrel to cross over the elusive curtain of shadows seemed sacrilegious at best to the fuming man, but it was something he’d accepted could happen. Sacrifices had to be made. A blow to his ego seemed a small price to pay in the scheme of things. He
would just have to wait things out. The addict could be dealt with later.

  The heat burned moisture trails off the parking lot, running black around streams of tire tracks.

  When more and more police sirens cut into the waning night, the asphalt square nearly emptied of vehicles, doors slamming shut and curtains drawn. In the dusty daylight, the motel looked abandoned, cracked stucco peeling off chicken-wire-framed walls. Oceans of rust from the exposed metal dying in the open air framed the blood splatter from Luis’s hands and the puddles left from Kismet’s wounds.

  Footprints added their own splatter, a literal stampede of shoes and sneakers through the crime scene from motel residents deciding to leave before the police arrived and asked questions.

  Beckett longed to get closer to the wraith before it whispered away into the nothingness that formed it. The blue-uniformed police were walking clean through it, some of the more sensitive unknowingly giving the area a wide berth, their feet circumventing the bony carcass wasting away under their noses. Its stink permeated the area, a blend of sweet decay and putrid offal. A flicker of a shadow poked up through the monster’s head, some form of wraith drawn by the creature’s death.

  Small and squat, it scurried over the wraith’s body, furtively glancing about with round yellow eyes slitted with rectangular pupils. It froze when a cop approached, holding still as a human leg passed through it and the carcass. Pert ears, points slightly bent, rotated with each sound, the tiny wraith keeping watch while it contemplated where to start its meal. Hooking its talons into a wide gash along the monster’s rib cage, it buried its round face in the meat, only the tip of its truncated tail showing a mottled gray stub outside of the wound. Coming up with a mouthful, it chewed around fat cheeks, clotted blood circling its thin lips, a mockery of sienna lipstick. The scavenger dove in for another bite, keeping its eyes level with the gash as the movement through it increased.