by Chloe Garner
“Where’s Uncle Matt?” Jason asked. Connie rolled her lips between her teeth.
“Staying with friends,” she said. Jason scratched his chin.
“It’s good to see you,” Sam said. He was sincerely happy. Relieved, even. Samantha smiled at him. He loved his aunt. He was just that kind of person.
“Well, let’s get you unloaded,” Connie said. “Jason, I had you in your old room, but…” she looked at Samantha. Samantha shook her head.
“It’s not like that. I’m happy with a couch.”
Connie looked at Jason, who nodded. She tilted her head to the side and hid her hands back against her ribs again.
“You’re going to let her sleep on the couch?” she asked.
“It’s my room,” Jason growled.
“Let’s get everything inside,” Sam said. “I’ll sleep on the couch. Sam can have my room.”
“You won’t fit on the couch,” Connie said. Sam smiled and put his arm over her shoulders, hugging her.
“I’m used to it,” he said.
Samantha went to get her bag out of the back of the Cruiser and followed the other three into the house. Sam motioned for her to follow him upstairs.
“Come see,” he said. He took her down a hallway and pointed at the bathroom as they went by, then opened a door and grinned. “She left it all. I thought Uncle Matt might have thrown it all away.”
He went to a bookcase and started pulling books, handing them to Samantha one at a time.
“Mom left all of her books to Arthur and Doris, because she knew Uncle Matt and Aunt Connie would throw them out, but Doris went through and picked the ones she thought Aunt Connie would let me keep.” He turned to face her. “Those are my mom’s.”
Samantha looked down at the books in her arms.
“May I read them?”
“Yeah. Of course,” he said. She pulled the books to her chest and took a breath, dropping across the boundary to Paradise. She set the stack down and picked up the book on top and ran down to the orchard just to feel the wind in her hair, climbing a tree and finding a comfortable limb to sit on and read. After a while she went and found an apple, turning pages with practiced fingers on the one hand while she ate. The book was about the history of witch trials and the interaction normal humans had had with so-called witches. She finished it and threw the apple core, running back up the hill to get the next book. She closed her eyes and focused for a moment, pulling a notebook and pencil into existence and ran back down to the orchard. After a while, she ran back up to the pile of books to retrieve the first one again to make a direct reference to it, then, leaving it on a limb above her head, started the next book.
This one was a thick book that listed a huge number of violent deaths, some in ones and twos, some in great massacres. She had read about some of them before. The cause of the deaths wasn’t identified, but rather they were numbered. Samantha suspected that somewhere, there was a companion book with suspected culprits listed. She took copious notes out of this one, then moved to the next, and the next, and the next.
She filled three notebooks, then walked up to the cave and put them on a new shelf. She closed her eyes and put her arms in the shape the books had had, imagining the sensation of their weight, then stepped back across the boundary. She had tipped slightly and had to slide a foot to the side to recenter her weight. Sam raised his eyebrows at her.
“Question,” she said. “Here…” she took the books over to the desk and opened the fourth, paging through to find the passage.
“You… read them?” he asked. She looked up at him and grinned. She was showing off, sure, but it was what she would have done, anyway.
“It says that John Gilbert’s mother died violently, here, but it never explains why, then… here… another John Gilbert wrote the guidelines on constructing cemeteries. You suppose they were the same guy? That his mother was killed?”
Sam looked down at the page.
“These are the boring books,” he said. “The ones that don’t mention ghosts or demons or creatures at all. I’ve read them but… You actually read them all?”
She looked down at the note about cemeteries, wondering if she could find the original document, then glanced back at him.
“It’s what I do, Sam.”
“In a fraction of a second.”
“About a day and a half. Reading continuously keeps my brain sharp. Helps me make connections.”
“That was a day and a half?”
“Yup.”
He realized.
“You took them with you.”
“Anything I take with me stops existing when I come back, but it crosses to that side with the same characteristics it has here. Except electronics. I can’t get electronics to work, so I can’t listen to music. I keep wanting to find a phonograph so I can see if it’s that it’s something I can’t read or if it’s the electronics themselves.” She stopped and looked at him, then handed the books back. “It’s what I do, Sam. I go into libraries and read everything, sort the truth from the lies…” she gasped. “As far as the authors of those books were aware, every word they wrote was true, weren’t they?”
He slowly put the books back on his shelf.
“Why wouldn’t they be?”
“Demons intentionally create books that are partially true. A few that are complete fabrications. It’s how they keep their libraries powerful. Only they know which are the lies they put there. Maybe half of any demonic library is known lies. Another thirty percent is stuff that he obtained that someone else intentionally fabricated. A good library has thirty percent reliably source information. A bad one is under twenty.”
She stared at the books.
“No intentional lies… I don’t even know how to deal with that.”
“How do you tell what’s true?”
“Careful cross-referencing. Source-checking. Notes. If two things in a book agree, it doesn’t prove anything. If two things in a library agree, it’s not that useful. If two things in two different libraries agree, you’re getting close. You check authorship and sourcing of the books themselves. If three things in three different libraries in three different cities, owned by three demons who don’t tend to interact agree… You’re getting closer to something that might be true, but you still need to verify sourcing of the material and internal consistency. If you can prove a human wrote it, your odds go up from two in ten to maybe six in ten that it’s true, but proving that a human wrote it is usually more trouble than it’s worth…” She paused. “Sorry. Spent a lot of my life at that. Kind of a long-term project.”
“How many books have you read?”
She looked up at the ceiling, picturing rooms of books, counting shelves…
“Tens of thousands. At least. Almost all of them since I died.”
“What about?”
“Magic. The history of the world. Demons. Angels. Language. The nature of God. Satan. Knives.” She smiled reflexively. She liked books on knives, for some reason. “Spellbooks, magic theory, history of magic.”
“How do you remember any of it?”
“Part of it’s a gift. I remember lots of things. But I take notes on the Paradise plane and store them there. I have a cave system where I keep them all. Which is dumb, but the cave isn’t damp, because I say so.”
“And we thought that goblins were going to hurt you,” Sam said.
“Knowing and being able to do is a huge difference, Sam. And life blood only runs a fraction of an inch below your skin. Hubris will kill you faster than anything else. When I’m paying attention, though, and I know at least reasonably close to what’s coming, though… Yeah, they shouldn’t have much of a fighting chance.” She grinned.
“I want you to see my mother’s library,” he said.
“Where is it?”
“Arthur and Doris rented a storage space for all of their stuff that Aunt Connie and Uncle Matt would have destroyed. It’s here in town. I’ll take you, before we leave.”
&n
bsp; “Thank you. Libraries… They make me feel like everything is normal,” Samantha said. He jerked the corner of his mouth back.
“It’s not a lot. Thirty-three books, including those,” he said.
“But it’s all true, Sam. That’s incredible.”
“You just assumed everything you read was a lie?” he asked.
“And everything anyone told me. Demons lie like they breathe. Stack up enough truth to make a good foundation for the critical lie. Finding the edge between the two is… It’s a puzzle that usually isn’t worth solving.”
“You lied to Carly,” he said. She nodded.
“It doesn’t count with a demon,” she said. He frowned.
“Carter said that, didn’t he?”
“It’s kind of a… rule? motto? I don’t know. It’s a thing. I lie to demons because it makes their lies… less potent. You don’t let them build their lie into your reality. You build a fake one, instead. They know. Mostly. It isn’t an offensive tactic, it’s a defensive one. If you’re too busy spinning lies, you might be too busy to notice theirs so much.”
“Carter teach you that?”
“Among other things.”
“I bet.”
“Connie wants to know if you two want coffee or just to go to bed,” Jason said from the doorway. Samantha looked at Sam.
“I’m tired,” he said. She nodded.
“Me, too.”
“All right. We’re headed to see her friend in the morning. Sleep well.”
“You have everything you need?” Sam asked.
“Yeah. I’m sorry you have to sleep on the couch.”
“No problem. Have a good night.”
<><><>
Samantha’s dreams all had the idea of Sam in them, around the edges, but she slept in her own mind, by herself, and she woke happy.
<><><>
“Ash,” the woman called Beatrice called up the stairs. A boy in his early teens appeared, thick hanks of sun-bleached blond hair threaded with dark brown hanging down in his eyes. “Will you come down, please?”
Samantha stared up at him as he slowly crept down the stairs, staring back at her with wide, nearly-undomesticated eyes. Beatrice stepped back as Connie took her shoulders, and Samantha put her hands behind her back. His eyes were blue. Shocking, ice blue.
“Ash?” she asked. He blinked. “I’m Sam. Over there, that’s Jason and the taller one is Sam.”
His eyes flickered over at the Elliotts, then rested back on her.
“I don’t want to talk to you,” he said. She shook her head.
“You don’t have to.”
He paused on the stairs.
“Your mom is worried about you.”
“I’m normal,” he said. She smiled sympathetically.
“I was normal, once.” She pointed at Sam and Jason. “They never were. And I’m not any more.”
He tilted his head to the side.
“Why aren’t you normal?”
“I died. Four years ago. Came back fifteen minutes later.”
He jumped down three stairs to stand even with her. Beatrice gasped and Connie whispered something to her.
“What did you see?”
“Lots of things. Lots of secrets. I know things now.”
He squinted at her.
“Prove it.”
“The things I know aren’t supposed to be used as games. Will you talk to me?”
“What will you find out?” he asked. She backed away and sat on the floor. He came to the bottom of the steps and sat, elbows on knees.
“What do you need me to explain?” she asked. He glanced up at his mother through his hair and apparently she gave some manner of permission, because he looked at her with serious eyes.
“Why can I jump?” he asked. Samantha watched those eyes, seeing the tall, strong, solid man he would become.
“Show me,” she said. The eyes flicked over her shoulder again, staying longer this time, then snapping roughly back to Samantha. There was anger there, but not hostility. He glanced over at Sam and Jason, then he simply wasn’t there any more. Sam and Jason jolted forward simultaneously, but Samantha pushed Sam back, and he grabbed Jason.
“Patience,” she said.
“He’s a demon,” Jason hissed. Beatrice made a complaining noise and Connie started to argue, but Samantha held up a hand.
“Patience,” she said again. Ash stuck his head around the corner at the top of the stairs, evaluating her. She kept her face still.
“You aren’t evil,” she said, loud enough for everyone. “Do you want me to tell you what you are?”
He half-stumbled down the stairs in the strange characteristic of young teenage boys everywhere and landed with a thud sitting on the bottom step again.
“Do you know?”
“Not yet.” She smiled bracingly. “There aren’t many things in the world. I know how to identify most of them.”
He pushed his sleeve out and stuck out his arm, his mouth pinching with the effort of bravery.
“Oh, beloved. I’m not going to hurt you. Come sit with me on the couch, and we’ll work it out.”
His eyes went to Sam and Jason. She looked over and pushed a hard order for Sam to relax. He grudgingly dropped his arms, but Jason maintained his rigid posture.
“I don’t want them here,” Ash said. “I want them to go.”
“They won’t leave without me,” Samantha said before either of them could argue. “They won’t touch you, though, I give you my word.”
One of Ash’s nostrils wrinkled.
“I wouldn’t let them,” he said. Samantha nodded.
“No one can make you do anything, can they?” she asked. He looked up at his mother, then down at the floor. Samantha smiled and stood.
“Let’s look at you, yes?”
He followed her to the couch and she glanced over at Sam, who brought her backpack from next to the front door.
“No pain from my hands, beloved,” she said, holding up flat, empty hands.
“What do I do?” he asked. She looked at his form, then over at Beatrice. She would have watched him grow up, believed he was normal. She couldn’t begin to imagine the panic the woman would have been going through, trying to figure out what to do with such a child. The woman stood nervously just behind Connie, sucking on her upper lip.
“How long have you been able to jump?”
“Since I was ten.”
“How far?”
“I don’t know.”
“How far have you gone?”
“Just around the house, or to the backyard,” Beatrice supplied. “Sometimes from a friend’s house.” Samantha’s eyes didn’t leave Ash’s face, which flickered.
“How far have you gone?”
“I come home from school sometimes,” he said.
“You what?”
Samantha grinned.
“I would have, too, if I could have. How do you know where you’re going?”
He shrugged, as if it were a question he had never considered.
“If I described a place to you, could you jump there?”
He gave her the same careless fish-wiggle with his shoulders.
“I have a friend in New York City. She wouldn’t be surprised at all for you to turn up for a minute or two, and she might even have a cookie you could have before you came back.”
Ash looked at her with a peculiar intensity.
“What’s her name?”
“Abby.”
His eyes left her and wandered up the wall and to the ceiling and his mouth moved as though he were tasting something.
“How is she your friend?” he asked.
“I helped her when she needed to know what she was, like you do.”
“Is she like me?”
“No.”
He nodded, then vanished. Samantha closed her eyes, hoping he had actually known what he was doing.
“He’s a demon,” Jason said again.
“We don’t know that,” Samanth
a answered.
“My son is not a demon,” Beatrice said. Samantha glanced at her, less confident how to handle the mother than the son. “Where did you send him?”
“A safe place,” Samantha said. “I want to know what he’s capable of.”
“Connie said you were… good people. That you would know what to do. I’m not letting you use my son.”
“I have no intention,” Samantha said, surprised. She hadn’t even thought of it. Carter would have. “This is diagnostic, I promise. I could cut him open and get you an answer much faster, but that’s not how I want to do it. Agree?”
Beatrice frowned, but Connie rubbed her arm and said something comforting.
“What do you think?” Sam asked. Samantha shook her head.
“I don’t know. If he actually manages to find Abby and come back, he’s not a demon. Even if a demon could take directions that vague, Abby’s protected beyond what you can imagine.”
“But he could just leave and come back and lie,” Jason said. Samantha grinned.
“You don’t know Abby very well,” she said.
Ash reappeared on the couch, crunching happily.
“She said to give you this,” he said, holding up a teacup. “She wants it back.”
“I’ll see to it,” Samantha said, handing the teacup to Sam.
“I recognize this,” he said. She nodded. Samantha heard Beatrice’s sigh, on the edge of tears.
“That’s impressive,” she said to Ash. He put the other half of the cookie in his mouth. “Anything else that you do that you think might be strange?”
He shook his head, his hair tumbling back and forth across the bridge of his nose. He looked at Jason, re-forming his initial mistrust.
“You aren’t a demon,” Samantha said.
“You could measure him, like you did us,” Jason suggested. Samantha shook her head.
“Inappropriate to measure a child, especially someone else’s.”
She dipped into her bag, bringing out a special blade - named, but not recognizably famous - and handed it to him. Beatrice stifled another complaint.
“Cool,” Ash said.
“Tell me what you think of it,” she said, watching his fingers as they traced the odd shape of the blade, pushing his fingertip inquisitively against the point and spinning it. It was an angel blade, called Wrath, but one of dozens or hundreds that the Avalon colony had made. Since they didn’t have the same propensity to hide that Lahn did, they were considered commonplace in the circles she was most concerned about.