by Kelly Meding
Few Dregs crossed the Black River, so I rarely ventured into Parkside East. I certainly couldn’t have afforded the clean, spacious apartments that lined the streets on this side of the river—a slash of concrete and putrid water that divided light from dark, human from Dreg.
During the trip across the river, the gash on my left arm finished its annoying, itchy healing process. A pencil-thin scar remained, the only fading evidence of what Chalice had done to herself. Even the dappling of track marks had disappeared. I checked my belly button. The hole for the gold hoop was gone. Completely healed. So were my earlobes. Weird.
I double-checked the scribbled address against the apartment building, then went inside. The small lobby was tidy and smelled of furniture polish and glass cleaner. Even the elevator smelled fresh and new. I punched the button for the fifth floor and waited for the doors to close, completely lacking a plan for once I got up there. Knock and hope the roommate answered was my best option. Breaking and entering was possible, thanks to my day job. It was just made more difficult by my severe lack of tools to—
A hand jammed its way between the sliding doors and forced it back open. I tensed, instincts preparing me for a fight. A little girl, no more than ten years old, dashed inside, clutching a cloth grocery sack. She flashed me a pink-lipped smile.
“Thanks, Chalice,” she said in a sunny, singsong voice.
Neighbor. Cute kid. “No problem,” I said.
She eyed me over the lip of the sack and a protrusion of potato chips. “Your clothes look funny today.”
“I’m in disguise.” I held one finger to my lips, hoping the child played along. The last thing I needed was a pint-sized shadow, especially if I ended up jimmying the door lock. “Don’t tell anyone you saw me, okay?”
“Like a game?” Her round eyes widened, delighted at having a secret with an adult.
“Absolutely like a game.”
She giggled and nodded, her blond hair swishing around her cherubic cheeks. She shifted the bag into one arm and pretended to turn an invisible key in front of her mouth.
“That’s my girl,” I said.
As each floor lit up and passed us by, my anxiety mounted. She hadn’t gotten off yet. Please, let her live on one of the floors above.
The elevator dinged on the fifth floor. I stepped out, and she followed. The corridor branched left and right, but had no signs indicating which numbers lay in which direction. I glanced at the plates on the two nearest doors: 508 on the left and 509 on the right. Chalice lived in 505, so I took a chance and turned left.
The little girl followed, still grinning like a lunatic, and stopped in front of 506. No wonder she seemed so friendly. We were neighbors.
They were neighbors.
Whatever.
She watched intently while I stared dumbly at an apartment I’d never seen, in a body that wasn’t mine. I tossed her a sunny smile, turned the knob, and made a show of surprise. “Well, darn it,” I said. “That’s not supposed to be locked.”
“Where are your keys?” she asked.
“I must have lost them. That was pretty silly of me, huh?” I turned, pretending to leave.
“You gave my mom a key.”
Thank God. I turned back around. “Really? Gosh, I’d forgotten that.”
“Yeah, when you and Alex were both gone a week last summer, we came over to water the plants. I’ll get it!”
She was inside her apartment before I could respond, and back in seconds, sans groceries. She proudly displayed the round, copper key. “There, see?” she said.
“You’re a lifesaver.” I plucked the key from her small fingers.
“Grape or cherry?”
I blinked. “What?”
She grinned as if this was our own private joke. “What flavor Lifesaver, silly?”
“Definitely cherry.”
She bounced, giggled, and let the euphoria dance her back into her own apartment. The door finally closed and stayed that way.
I pushed the key into the dead bolt, turned it, and the solid wood door opened. I stepped inside and closed the door.
The immediate odor of stale beer surprised me. I stood on the edge of a spacious, well-decorated living room. A matching striped sofa and chair coordinated with the dark wood tables. Lamp shades matched the shade of the throw rug. Framed prints of ocean scenes decorated the walls. It wasn’t expensive, but definitely tasteful.
An open kitchen with eating counter was situated on the right side of the apartment. Directly ahead, sliding glass doors gave way to a patio of some sort, hidden behind gauzy mauve curtains. Three doors lined the left wall. Chalice’s room lay behind one of them.
In the kitchen, a garbage can was overflowing with glass beer bottles. Two empty cases sat on the floor next to it. No other party evidence pointed to a recent, serious bender. A troubling thought.
A framed photograph lay facedown on the counter. I lifted it. My new face smiled back at me, happy and whole, arms around the shoulders of a very handsome man. He had vivid blue eyes, brown hair, and a cocky smile. Boyfriend? Brother? Hairstylist?
I wished for some of Chalice’s memories; it would make this part a lot easier. Of course, I didn’t really want a dead woman’s consciousness vying for control of this body. I had enough things to deal with without adding multiple personality disorder to the mix.
Door number one concealed an ivory and blue room with plain oak furniture, a desk covered with books, and very little in the way of personal items. Very male, and very likely not Chalice’s. The middle door was the bathroom, squeaky clean and organized. Toothbrushes in the holder, no water marks on the mirror or dry toothpaste blobs in the sink. Chalice and her roommate must have been like-minded neat freaks to keep an apartment so tidy.
The third door opened easily, and I stepped into an unfamiliar world—a world of white carpet and pink-flowered wallpaper. Pink and red pillows rested on a white bedspread, and red curtains bracketed the room’s single window. An enormous painting of a vase of flowers covered most of the wall above a whitewashed desk. Every stick of furniture in the room was painted white. Stuffed animals lined a shelf high on the wall—bears and cats and puppies and pigs.
“Oh, ew,” I said.
I marched over to the white-shuttered closet doors. If her clothes were mostly pink, too, I was going to throw up. I yanked them open and was presented with an array of colors and styles. Very little pink in the bunch. Disaster averted. I rifled through until I found a stretchy red tank top and a pair of black jeans. Comfort clothes, something I could easily move in.
A quick search through her dresser turned up the appropriate undergarments, and I changed. Money was next. I inspected the half-dozen purses I’d spotted in the closet. Where the hell was her wallet? I’d settle on untraceable cash hidden in a sock, but that drawer had, likewise, yielded nothing.
I poked through her jewelry box. Standard mall stuff, nothing of secondary market value. Wrapped in pink tissue—what else?—I found a tasteful silver cross necklace. Engraved on the back were three words: “Love Always, Alex.” Sweet. I put it on. Crosses were an old joke in my line of work, a holdover from a time when people actually believed they warded off evil creatures. Silly superstitions.
Silver, on the other hand, is a potent weapon against the shape-shifters of the world. Weres are as allergic to silver as Bloods are to unpolished wood. I’d seen vampires stabbed with pine splinters as small as my pinkie who fell into their version of anaphylactic shock and died within minutes.
I used a pair of fingernail scissors to snip off the morgue bracelet. I tucked the creepy thing into the back of her jewelry box, glad to have it out of sight. Her desk yielded the jackpot—a slim, leather wallet and three keys on a C-shaped fob. One of the keys matched the one I’d gotten from the neighbor girl. They went right into my pocket. The wallet had a driver’s license, a bus pass, a debit card, and twenty dollars in cash. Not much, but it was a start.
One last toss of the desk uncovered a lot o
f organization and nothing very personal. Not even a journal or an address book. Just a few photos of Chalice with other people, including a few more with the man from the picture frame. Had to be a boyfriend.
Her laptop was off. I left it alone, but made a mental note to snoop later. It was inching closer to five o’clock, and I needed to get in and out before the roommate came home.
I crouched down and reached under the bed. Nothing, not even dust bunnies. I turned around and flopped down on the floor, blowing hard through my mouth. My fingers curled in the thick carpet. I wanted to rip it up and fling it out the window, to stop feeling so helpless. I hit the side of the mattress with my elbow. The headboard cracked against the wall.
Is this what a suicidal person did? Clean her room spotless before slashing her wrist? She couldn’t have done it here—no way the carpet would be so spotless. Bathtub, maybe. No streaks or overflowing water, not for such a tidy girl. And what about those track marks? I hadn’t found a single syringe or bag of powder among her things.
“Why did you do it, Chalice?” I said, fingering the thin chain around my throat.
As much as the pink-loving contradiction of a young woman deserved understanding, I couldn’t waste time on it today. Her body wasn’t ideal, but it was alive and healthy (unusually so), and I had it on loan for a little while. Item number two on my list of things to find out ASAP: how long did I have?
I stood up and went into the kitchen. A basket of mail sat on the counter. I shuffled through it. Bills and official mail, all addressed to Chalice Frost. Near the bottom of the stack were three letters, sent to this apartment, under the name of Alexander Forrester. Same as the one engraved on the necklace charm. I remembered what the neighbor girl had said, about my roommate’s name, and glanced at the framed photo on the counter. He kind of looked like an Alex.
No time, Evy, no time. Get the cash and get out.
Under the kitchen sink seemed like the next best place to check for stashed money. It smelled strongly of fresh cleaning solution. I pushed a bucket and sponge out of the way, both still moist. More bottles and a few empty coffee cans at the very back of the cabinet. Dish detergent and a box of steel wool. Nothing terribly useful.
The front door rattled. I froze, head halfway under the sink, heart pounding. A male voice was talking as the door opened.
“I appreciate it, Teresa, and I’m sorry I missed the lab,” he said. “I—hold on, I have another call.” Something beeped. “Hello?”
The door closed. I backed out as slowly as possible, careful to not knock anything over and give myself away.
“Yes, this is Alex Forrester,” he said. “Yes, I was the one who—What?” Keys clanked to the floor. “What are you saying? She’s alive?”
His shock-laden voice seemed to come from the center of the living room. I crawled to the edge of the counter and peered around, but I couldn’t see him.
“How is that possible? We both—” He inhaled sharply. “Yes, if I see her, I’ll call. I just … don’t know what to say. Thanks.”
A snap, probably his phone closing. Utter silence filled the apartment, interrupted every few seconds by a deep exhalation of breath. I silently urged him to leave, to run from the apartment in screaming shock, so I could escape undetected. But footsteps shuffled across the carpet, stopped.
“The hell?” he said.
The bedroom door. I had left it open. Shit. Might as well get this over with.
I stood up and moved out from behind the kitchen counter. A broad-shouldered man faced away from me, wearing tight jeans and a black polo, hands fisted by his sides, staring at Chalice’s bedroom door.
“Alex?” I said.
He yelped and turned too quickly, tangling over his own ankles. He tripped, hit the wall with a rattling thump, and stopped. And stared. He was wild-eyed and red-faced, but definitely the fellow from the photos.
“Chal?” he asked. Beneath the spots of red on his cheeks, the rest of his face was taking on a frightening pallor.
“Breathe,” I said. “Do not freak out on me. I’ve seen quite enough of that today, thanks.”
He took direction well and began sucking in large amounts of air. He straightened and pushed away from the wall, but did not approach. So far, so good. His eyes roved all over my body, taking in the details. Assuring a confused mind that it wasn’t seeing things.
“It’s really you?” he asked.
“It’s me.” I hated lying to him; he seemed like a genuinely nice man.
“How?”
“No idea. I honestly don’t remember much about the last couple of days. It’s all a blank.”
He blinked hard. “You don’t remember yesterday?”
I shook my head. He stepped toward me. I backed up, and he stopped his advance, hurt bracketing both eyes.
“I have to go,” I said.
His hand jerked. “Go where?”
“I can’t tell you.”
His hurt and confusion became palpable. He seemed fragile. Scared. Great, he just had to be the sensitive type.
“Do you trust me, Alex?” I asked, taking a step toward him.
“With my life, Chal.”
“Then please trust me now.” Another few steps. He let me close the distance between us. “I need to go and figure out a few things, and I’ll try to explain all of this later. Okay?”
“You’ll come back?”
I stopped at arm’s reach. I could smell his cologne and see the razor nick on his throat. He had a few inches on me, and muscular arms that seemed ready to sweep me up into a protective hug and never let go—something I didn’t get often enough in my line of work.
“All my stuff’s here, isn’t it?” I said. “Where else would I go?”
“You’re leaving now.”
I sensed a challenge in his words, only I had no prior experience with which to judge them. “Yes, I am, but I’m coming back.” Maybe. “This is going to sound strange, but who else thinks I’m dead?”
His lips puckered. “The cops and EMTs who came when I called.”
My stomach roiled. So he had found her with her wrist open and called for help. He’d probably spent the entire night cleaning the bathroom, trying to erase the blood from memory and sight.
“The coroner’s office, obviously,” he continued. “Jenny called this morning when you didn’t show for work, but I didn’t pick up. I hadn’t …” He inhaled, held it, and blew hard through his nose. “I hadn’t called anyone else yet. Good thing, huh?”
“Yeah. Good thing.”
“Are you sure you don’t remember—?”
“I don’t.” I held up a hand. Twenty questions dangled on my lips, but Chalice was not my priority. “I really don’t. Later, okay?”
“Okay.” His hand rose up, away from his hip. I tensed. He stopped, fingers hovering inches from my face. I forced myself to relax, to give him this little thing. The tip of one finger traced a line from my cheek to my chin, feather light. Sweet. “I can’t believe it’s really you,” he said.
Instinctively, I reached up and grasped his roaming hand. Squeezed. He clutched it like a lifeline, his eyes sparkling with moisture.
“I’ve never been so glad to be wrong about something in my life,” he said. “When I saw you like that, the tub full of blood, I almost died. You’re my best friend, Chalice. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
My heart broke for him. For a brief, blinding moment, I considered spitting out the truth. But it would do me no good. He would return to mourning for his friend sooner or later. Today, he had the luxury of make-believe. Sometimes denial was better than reality.
“Me, too,” I said, forcing out the lie. “Just … don’t tell anyone you saw me?”
“Okay.”
I released his hand. He watched, silent but intent, as I laced up a pair of running shoes. I kept my eyes forward, away from him, pretending that I belonged there as much as he did. He bought the illusion, every scrap of it.
Still wishing I had a
cell phone and more cash, I headed for the front door. Alex watched me go from his spot by the bedroom door. I stopped with my hand on the knob and looked back at him. He smiled. I smiled back, then ducked out into the hallway.
Chapter Three
70:33
Once I crossed the Black River and retreated to the east side of the city, I lost the keen sense of displacement that had haunted me since waking up in the morgue. In its place, I discovered something new and barely detectable. The air around me seemed alive, energized, like an impending lightning strike. It might have been a side effect of the resurrection, but I doubted that. It hadn’t started until I crossed the river again—until I found myself downtown, in the neighborhood known as Mercy’s Lot. It was where I belonged, among the hopeless and the damned. Angry human souls without privilege, living side by side with creatures they couldn’t comprehend and chose not to see.
The real cause of the city’s sharp contrasts between prosperity and decay isn’t unemployment or a police department impotent to stop rising street gang violence. It’s the Dregs: creatures of nightmare and legend, eking out their existence with the rest of us. Some are friendly to humans—gargoyles, the Fey, and most of the were-Clans are tentative allies. Other races, like gremlins and trolls, just don’t care; they leave us alone and we leave them alone.
But vampires, goblins, and some weres longed to see us wiped out, and that’s where people like me came into play. Dreg Bounty Hunters. Enlisted young and trained hard, we are the only defense between the violent Dregs and innocent humans. Our credo is simple: they break the law, they die.
The fun part was deciding how they died.
I took the Wharton Street footbridge across a spiderweb of intersecting railroad tracks. The heavy odor of metal and burning coal tingled my nostrils, familiar and welcoming. Far away, a train whistled. I paused and looked at the tracks, the warehouses on both sides of the stretch of sandy ground, and the rows of abandoned boxcars.