by Rhys Ford
“Just take it off. Someone, please.” The man’s bleary eyes were sticky with pain, tears running around the raw pink edges of his lids. “They cut it off, but it just doesn’t go away. Please. Help me. Stop the pain. It just hurts so much.”
“God, I’m sorry. No, I can’t help you.” Kismet staggered, suddenly released when the man’s arm spasmed, the shadow struggling upward to regain ground it lost during its slide down the tortured flesh.
Catching himself before the blue line trolley edged to a stop, Kismet hopped away from the yellow warning curb. His itchiness flared, shoulder blades aching, his bones weeping with the pain. A trolley slid around the curb, brakes jerking the line of bright red cars to a stop. Kismet yanked himself away from the old man, leaping up the stairs of the car behind another passenger.
By the time Kismet reached the corner of University and College, he was shaking from the addiction demanding to be fed, his stomach churning. Wrapping his clammy hands over his abdomen, Kismet retched, heaving up several mouthfuls of water mingled with bile. Burning, he swallowed, trying to get rid of the taste of his guts. Stumbling, he ducked into the coolness of the alleyway he’d scored at before. The space was empty, a lingering scent of piss clinging to the graffiti-sprayed walls.
An ache traveled from his chest down to his groin, kicking him hard when he tried to step up onto the curb. Thighs cramping, he tumbled down onto his knees, tearing a rip in the leg of his jeans. Palms hurting, Kismet crouched on all fours, head down. Panting, his vision blurred, the sidewalk bending up toward his face. The motel’s pale blue roof was just beyond the stone wall blocking off the alleyway.
Rolling off the street, Kismet stood, using the wall to hold himself up.
“Shit, not even a couple of blocks.” He inhaled, smelling the exhaust of passing cars. “Just around the wall.
“God, this fucking hurts.” Pins poked up through his hair, rubbing over his scalp. Scratching at his temples, Kismet tried to convince his body to hold out just a little while longer, not to shut down until he was able to get inside. He turned into the alley and made it down the walkway, heading to the front of the motel, to his room. “Just a bit more. Hold it together, man. It’ll be there. It’s going to be where you left it. Enough to get this off you.”
Kismet heard Carl before he saw him, the man’s loud voice carrying through the courtyard.
Yellow police tape hung from the chain-link fence lining the end of the parking lot next to the alley, a futile attempt to keep people from driving through the back way and cutting through the motel’s property to reach the street.
Sections of the grimy links were scalloped where drivers tried to cut the corner and struck the low curb, careening into the barely visible barrier. A slip of the bright, sunny ribbon flapped, black letters warning bystanders off, its end jagged.
The door next to Kismet’s room was still splattered with a spray of dried blood, dark brown blooms crackled over the worn paint. Someone had already tried to wash the wall clean. Deep crevices in the plaster were thick with gore, faint whiffs of fatty oils and organ meats covered with the sharpness of bleach.
Carl was berating someone on his cell phone. From the sounds of things, the conversation wasn’t going well for Carl, his voice straining with the effort of shouting. Kismet approached cautiously, realizing he had no way of getting into his place. In his stupor, he’d left his keys inside, probably still on the dresser next to his wallet.
The manager’s face turned to him, eyes watching the traffic bundled up near the intersection. Kismet nodded at the man, astonished when Carl turned away, continuing his conversation without acknowledging Kismet standing not more than a few feet away from him.
“Carl.” Kismet strolled closer, barely ducking Carl’s fist as the man gestured, making a point to whomever he was talking to on the phone. “Shit, man. You almost hit me!”
Carl moved toward the end of the walkway, brushing up against Kismet’s shoulder. Irritated, Kismet opened his mouth, anger rising. The world bubbled, tightening around him. Time dragged down on his body, a plastic-wrapping sensation elongating his words. The feeling made him sick, tugging at the back of his head and threatening to snap him back a few steps. Forcing out his words, Kismet tried to shake off the creeping tingle.
“Carl, I need to get in. I left my key.” It hurt to speak. Air spiked in his lungs, and Carl jumped in surprise, whirling about to stare at Kismet. The effort to keep his mouth working tired him, and Kismet shivered, the familiar cold chewing into his guts and thighs. “Can I get you to open my door?”
“Hey.” The manager drawled out the word, shock turning to a wide smile. “How you doing, kid? Where’d you go last night?”
“Just needed to get away from what happened, I guess.” Kismet’s hands instinctively reached for his forearms, rubbing at the insistent buzzing on his skin. He didn’t want to talk to Carl, however decent he was being at the moment.
“Can you let me in?” Kismet stilled his arms, keeping his voice calm.
“Sure, not a problem.” Carl grabbed at the huge ring of keys dangling from his belt loop. Normally he would have played at fitting every key into the lock. Kismet was surprised when he opened the door on the first turn, the knob twisting. “Here.”
“Thanks.” Kismet slid into the welcoming darkness, shutting the door behind him. Resting his head back, he took a deep breath to calm himself, trying to tamp the shivers down long enough to reach the kit lying in full view on the floor. Chest heaving with every breath, Kismet fell to the carpet, reaching for the small packet of latex tucked into the pocket of his kit, each movement painfully precise in case he dropped a grain of heroin.
Outside, Carl hung up on who he’d been talking to, a deafening quiet smile curved over his florid face. He pulled out the linen card he’d tucked into his shirt pocket, then dialed the number on it.
“Hello? This is Carl down at Casa de Mar.” He turned the rectangle over in his fingers, playing at the rumpled corner. Tucking the end into the space between his front teeth, he picked at the remnants of his lunch, then sucked at the paper left behind. “Your boy just came back. … Uh-huh, I let him in. … Nope.” Carl paced down to the end of the walk, stepping around the dark splotches on the artificial turf. “I didn’t tell him nothing. That druggie doesn’t know I talked to anyone. I can tell you this, give him a couple of minutes, and he’ll be flying. Take your time. He ain’t going anywhere for a while.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
MAL WOKE to the sound of a pounding fist on his bedroom door. Blinking in the darkness, he pulled a discarded towel off his alarm clock, its dull red numbers telling him he’d only been asleep for six hours. Stumbling out of his bed, he caught his foot on something hard, hand groping for something to put on his naked body. After shouting at the knocker at the door to wait, he found a pair of sweatpants with its legs too knotted to pull on and tightly held them in front of his waist.
“What?” He opened the door, then stared down at the watery image of a pale face and a shock of black hair. “Min?” Everything swam out of focus, partly from the sleep still clinging to his eyes but mostly from his poor vision. His glasses were back on his nightstand, probably buried between stacks of books by now. He could barely make out a bobbing black hedgehog perched on sheets of hard plaster, the dimple of a nose among the blur.
“Go grab some clothes.” She wrinkled her nose. “But get a bath first. You reek. Your human’s run off, and he’s pissed.”
“He’s what?” Mal tasted his breath on his teeth. “Kismet’s pissed?”
“Death is pissed. As in mad… not drunk,” Min repeated slowly, knocking on Mal’s bare chest. “Kismet? Are you talking about that damned thief you dragged in here half-dead then raided the dryer for my clothes? Who the hell names their kid Kismet?”
“He took your clothes?” Mal stammered, trying to sort through the fuzz in his brain. “Why did he take your clothes?”
“Probably wouldn’t have if you didn’t wear t
he same size clothes as a little boy. In fact, if it weren’t for those pebbles you tuck under your shirt, Min, I would swear you were a boy most of the time,” Ari said. Tugging on the fringe of hair near her ear, Ari grinned. “Maybe if you grew your hair out, people wouldn’t be making that mistake.”
Mal blinked. All he could see was a slight jerk of the tall man’s head and the possibility of Min’s finger waving in Ari’s face. The gesture was followed by a thump of a fist hitting Ari’s shoulder, his laughter soon joined by hers.
The two Horsemen wrestled with one another verbally, Min finally crying off when Ari hooked one arm around her neck and twisted her against him, holding her tight.
“Let go.” Her teeth flashed, grabbing at a piece of his chest, his shirt wet from her mouth. Ari released her, rubbing dramatically at the spot, Min rolling her eyes at him. “Please. I know you. You’re more excited than hurt.”
“Meh.” Ari poked at her nose, tweaking the end with a twist of his fingers. “My heart beats for only one Horseman.”
“Definitely not me.” Min poked back, finding the ticklish spot between his ribs. “Speaking of Death, he’ll have our heads if we don’t head back upstairs. He’s in a foul mood. Well, for him, it’s a foul mood. It’s hard to tell.”
“Not hard to tell at all. He’s a bit pissed off,” Ari replied. “Get upstairs as soon as you can, Pest. We’re going to have to go find that pet of yours.”
“Yesterday all you guys wanted to do was get rid of him,” Mal reminded them, grumpily rubbing at his tousled hair. The news of Kismet’s flight bothered him, making his chest ache. “Now he’s gone, and you want him back?”
“Death wants the kid back. He thinks the boy might have something to do with the Veil thinning.” Ari grinned at Mal’s nearly nude body, a salacious smile plastered on his face. “When I told him about the wraith this morning, he got very quiet. His mood got worse by the time I got to the kid. Then he went straight to inferno when he started sniffing around the boy’s clothes. He says something big happened to the kid. We’ll talk about it upstairs.”
“You should have told him about this crap last night, Ari,” Min scolded lightly. “He would have done something about the kid then, and we wouldn’t have to be playing needle in a haystack today.”
“Shi was dead on his feet,” Ari responded sharply, his voice hard. “I wasn’t going to do that to him. I figured the kid and the wraith could wait until he got some sleep. How the hell was I supposed to know the boy was going to leave? He couldn’t even stay conscious for longer than a minute. All of a sudden he can cut and run?”
“I’m surprised we still have silverware. Probably jacked some of the electronics in the living room. I think everything else was locked behind closed doors. Ari, it would serve you right if you go in your room and it’s stripped. Probably called his friends on your cell phone, and they cleaned the place out while you were trying to spoon Death in his sleep,” Min scoffed, turning her back on Mal and heading upstairs to the main floor. “I’m going to check if there’s anything else missing besides my clothes.”
“She’s furious. He probably took her favorite shroud,” Ari said, watching Min bound up the stairs. “I checked my room. I don’t see anything missing. My wallet’s sitting out with money in it. That’s all there.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know he would leave.” Mal sagged against the frame, rubbing at his forehead.
“What?” Ari asked. “You expected the street rat you brought in half-dead and nursed back to health was going to stick around in the morning? Come on, Cooties, you can’t be that naïve. He’s practically feral.”
“He seemed nice,” Mal struggled to explain. “I talked to him before he fell asleep last night.”
“Gods, you are an idiot,” Ari said, ruffling Mal’s tousled hair. “I don’t think I was ever that innocent. Don’t worry about it. That kid was pretty rough around the edges. I’m surprised we still have a TV.”
Mal felt around for the light switch, fingers fumbling. The room flared brightly, making his eyes water. “I need a shower. I’ll be right up.”
“Better hurry,” Ari said. “Or there’ll be hell to pay. If there was a hell. And if it cost to get in.”
“War.” Mal’s voice was low, making Ari pause. “Is Death really mad at me?”
Ari heard the insecurity rooted there. They’d all been hard on the youngest, deriding his efforts to reach out to the other Horsemen.
It wasn’t just that he missed Batu. Ari didn’t understand Mal or what drove their youngest to do the things he did. Ari’s world was simpler. Mankind’s growth was a game. He moved certain pieces to draw mortal attention to or away from things, not interfering with either its wars against injustice or wars against itself. Mal saw the Horsemen as a way for Mankind to better itself. Humans would either condemn themselves to extinction or avoid it, without any help or deliberate hindrance of any immortal. Mal had walked too close to that line more than once, always pulled back from the brink of disaster by Death’s steady hand.
“No, Death’s not mad at you. Besides, there wasn’t much left to what the boy was wearing. Min can afford to lose a few things. Hell, he might even return them.” Ari’s voice gentled, a reassuring rumble. “I think Death’s more worried about the kid. That wraith shouldn’t have formed here. Shi thinks someone called it up. We’ve got to figure out first what happened to the kid and then find out who wants to hurt him.”
Ari patted Mal’s shoulder. “Go take your shower. I’ve got some coffee going. It’ll be done by the time you come up.”
“Thanks, Ari.” Mal located his glasses, surprised to find a sheen of tears still burning his eyes when he put them on. “He just looked lost. I know what that feels like, being that lost.”
“Not a problem, Cooties.” Ari took the stairs two at a time, calling down them when he reached the top. “And by the way, whatever you were holding up to your waist doesn’t cover a damned thing. You might want to consider wearing it next time we go trolling for sex. Could get you laid.”
MICHAEL BECKETT walked the length of the hallway from his bedroom to the main room in his La Jolla home, his eyes blind to the seascape just outside. Perched high on a sea cliff, the house gleamed with stretches of polished glass and chrome, set high enough on the rocky crag to be safe from the crashing waves spraying foam into the air. Shadows avoided the place, the splotches of nonlight clean of any living darkness. The house loomed over the bluffs, eerily silent despite the nearby ocean and the two-lane road winding just beyond the main gates.
Standing in the middle of the living room, Frazier waited patiently for Beckett, his broad shoulders straightening to attention as the other man approached. Dressed in matte gray slacks and a matching long-sleeved cotton shirt, his tanned skin shone bronze from years of being out in the sun. A brush of silver-shot brown hair bristled over his head, cropped nearly to the skin above his ears. Nodding a brusque welcome when his employer entered, Frazier sipped from a bottle of water, his fingers picking at its plastic label.
When Beckett first approached the older man, Frazier thought it would be easy money guarding the insane man who offered him immortality. When the shadows became creatures around him and slips of half-people caught the corners of Frazier’s eyes, he no longer doubted the man’s sanity. Although at times, he admitted to questioning his own.
The taste of the water was bitter on his tongue, the liquid clouded from the powdery substance both he and Beckett consumed on a regular basis. With the boy’s probable successful crossing into the unseen, Beckett suggested increasing the dosages, something Frazier initially resisted until the blackened, oily corpse of Beckett’s wraith lay outlined against the motel’s stained concrete. Then Frazier realized it was better to see everything around him, even the things that couldn’t quite touch him.
Beckett had his own reasons for wanting the substance to work, intensely personal reasons, but Frazier wanted something different. Being able to see and manipulate what was uns
een had potential. If forever came with it, then it became all the more attractive.
“The manager of the motel called me. Left a message,” Frazier said casually. “The boy’s back.”
“So soon?” Beckett smiled at the news. “Humans are ever creatures of habit. I take it you’ll be heading back there shortly.”
“I just wanted to give you an update,” the man said. “I told the manager to stall the boy if it looks like he’s going to leave.”
“Good.” Beckett took an iced bottle from the wet bar, then tapped a crystalline mixture into the cold water. “Were you able to find out anything from the creature’s corpse?”
Dehydrated lime added a pleasant tang to the water, an astringent flavor Beckett quite enjoyed.
Shaking the bottle until the lime dissolved, he smiled at the man he’d tricked into consuming the untested elixir, wondering how long it would be until the insanity ate at Frazier’s brain. Sipping at the water, he joined Frazier in the living room, motioning for Frazier to take a seat.
“I couldn’t touch it, but I’m not sure if that’s because it was almost gone or if I’ve just not got enough of the elixir in me yet.” Frazier rubbed at the tips of his fingers, showing Beckett the inky stains of the wraith’s fluids. The gore burned at first, then turned numbing. The feeling was finally returning, a tingle spreading up to his palm. “The boy definitely was bitten. His blood was all over the sidewalk, but none of the cops could see it.”