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6 Under The Final Moon

Page 23

by Hannah Jayne


  “Hello, dear. May I help you?”

  I cleared my throat again, my voice choked off by the dead flowers, by the overwhelming, silent announcement of death all around.

  “Yes,” I finally forced out. And then, “I think.” I wrung my hands and crossed the room to the woman—whose name was Gertrude Viet, I learned from her nameplate—and pasted on a small smile.

  “I’m looking for someone.”

  Gertrude looked up at me, lips still pursed, head bent slightly forward, listening.

  Lucas Szabo. My father. My dad. Lucas. Mr. Szabo. The man who married my mother. The man who abandoned his child. The words and monikers tumbled head over heels in my brain and each one sounded wrong—too formal, too personal, too strange.

  “Szabo.” It came out like a shot and died on the air. “Lucas Szabo.”

  Gertrude’s smile didn’t falter. “And you are?”

  “My name is Sophie,” I said. “I’m Sophie Lawson.”

  Gertrude’s smile was still staunch, and I realized then that it wasn’t welcoming or empathetic or businesslike. She held it hard, teeth clenched behind those pursed lips. I swallowed.

  “And what business do you have with Mr. Szabo?”

  My bones melted away with the hot wax that tore through me. “He’s here?”

  An eyebrow raise. Eyes challenging mine. “What business do you have with Mr. Szabo?”

  “I need to talk to him about . . .” The word daughter stuck behind my teeth, and I couldn’t hold Gertrude’s eye any longer. “A coffin.” I coughed out the word as my eyes set on the open catalog to Gertrude’s left. “I’d like to buy a coffin.”

  “For yourself or for a family member, perhaps? Your mother, maybe?”

  Icy fingers of fear clawed their way down my spine. “My mother?” She was behind my eyes in a flash—my mother laughing, my mother with her head thrown back as the sunlight caught the blond streaks in her hair. The day my mother died, her naked big toe drawing tiny circles a half-inch above the hardwood floor.

  “Do you know?” I whispered.

  But Gertrude was hefting the catalog in front of her, flopping the glossy pages backward. She held up a single finger and cocked her head. “You just wait right here one moment, won’t you? I’ve got something I think you might like better. Stay put, okay?”

  I watched Gertrude back away, that smile held taut on her lips. And then she was gone. The air in the room seemed to get heavier, if that were possible—seemed to press harder against my lungs. I sucked in a tiny gulp of air and started when I heard the shuffle of feet. I whirled toward the sound and almost feel over, stunned.

  “Oliver?”

  He was half-hidden behind a heavy velvet curtain in the showroom. A little child with wide eyes and an impish smile clutching a length of olive-green cloth while he stood between two coffins, staring at me.

  “Oliver! The police have been—” I headed for him, but he pressed a finger up against his lips. I paused, crouching down to his level.

  “You want me to be quiet? Are you scared, honey? You don’t have to be—I’m going to get you out of here. You’ll be safe with me, I promise.”

  Oliver shook his head, and I could see the crook of a smile behind his index finger. “I’m hiding,” he whispered. “So shush.” He shrank back into the curtain.

  “Who are you hiding from?” I whispered back. “You don’t have to hide. You don’t have to be afraid.”

  I reached for the curtain, trying to push it aside, but Oliver’s grip on it was surprisingly strong.

  “Oliver, it’s okay.”

  His nostrils flared and the smile was gone. His eyes were dark storms and his lips were tight. “Stop it,” he said, voice a low growl. “I’m hiding. It’s a game. I’m winning.” His eyes locked mine and my stomach went to liquid. There was nothing pure in those eyes, nothing but darkness and hate, nothing human. “And you’re going to lose.”

  My blood ran cold, and when Gertrude sang out, “Here it is,” I stumbled backward, terrified of Oliver, more frightened than the night he’d killed his parents. He was evil now; it was apparent—evil through and through.

  “We have all sorts of models. Do you have a price range in mind?”

  Gertrude said other things too—something about cedar and polished brass that I could barely hear above the rushing of blood as it coursed through my skull. I felt each toe touch the carpet through my shoe; I felt each step, each breath of ice-tinged air, and then I was running, my lungs screaming against the sear as I held my breath and pushed through the double doors. The sunlight on my shoulders, on my face, burned me and I hurled myself into the street, my eyes focused on Nina’s black car, which looked a thousand miles—a hundred blocks, a lifetime—away. I vaguely heard her calling me, heard the screech of tires and the blaring of horns. Someone yelled, someone screamed, and I was clawing at the door handle, my palm burning from the sunbaked steel, my fingernails clawing at the slick black paint. Finally, the door popped open and I huddled inside, legs curled to my chest so my heart thundered against my thigh, arms curled around my legs, head buried.

  “Sophie, Sophie, what happened? Are you okay?”

  “Go. Just go.” I was shaking, and then I was screaming. “Go-go-go-go-go!” There was more screeching, more honking, more yelling, and when I dared to look again the mortuary was inching away behind us, the curtains twitching as Oliver stepped into the window, arm raised, hand waving jovially.

  Nina and I had been sitting in bumper-to-bumper traffic for over an hour. We were dead silent the whole time, she tapping her fingers against the steering wheel, me staring out, seeing but not seeing the city outside the passenger window. Every time I blinked, the image of the mortuary flashed in my mind. The cloying smell of the lilies choked me and I started to hyperventilate. Nina reached out and took my hand, her cool one bringing down my temperature at least two degrees.

  “It’s going to be okay, Sophie,” she said softly.

  “Oliver was in there.”

  “Oliver? The kid?”

  “He was evil. He was horrible. I just don’t understand any of this. Why—? If he has Oliver, what does he want with me? And he sends me flowers, but he’s not there. What the hell does he want with me? Is he just playing?”

  Nina shook her head. “I was initially thinking he was trying to flush you out with the fires and the destruction. You know—you’d see them all, know that you were somehow responsible, and come out and solve them or bumble them or whatever, and then bam, he’d swoop in and get you.” She bit her thumb. “At least that’s what Will and I think.”

  A niggling jealously caught the back of my neck. “You talked to Will about this?”

  “We were just shooting the shit. Will kind of thinks that Lucas wants you on his own terms. Like, the flowers were an introduction.”

  “And then bam.” I settled back in the seat, my saliva going sour.

  The sun was setting and the sky was an electric pink. It looked unnatural, and I laughed at the observation since there seemed to be nothing anymore that was natural. I was born of the devil. I was born of evil.

  “Screw this.” Nina yanked the wheel hard and drove half on the shoulder, the other half of her car a quarter-inch from the screaming drivers on the other side. “Sorry, sorry,” she said with a dazzling smile. She guided us off the off-ramp in record time while a symphony of honks and obscenities rang out in our wake.

  “Feel like going shopping?” she asked. “My treat.”

  I shook my head, the veins in my neck like steel rods from all the tension I’d been carrying. I was mildly certain that I would have to unhinge my jaw from the outside if I ever wanted to open my mouth again.

  “No thanks, Neens. Would you mind just swinging by the house and shoving me out?”

  “Not at all.”

  She maneuvered the city streets like a pro and when I say, “like a pro,” I mean a pro in any field other than driving or maneuvering. We chased down an old lady in a crosswalk, near
ly took out two parking meters, and for some reason when we arrived in front of the house, there was a wilted head of lettuce stuck to one of the headlights. I peeled it off and waved. Nina rolled down the window and craned her neck out before pulling away from the curb from which she had “parked” perpendicularly.

  “Promise me you won’t sulk tonight, ’kay?”

  “I don’t sulk,” I sulked.

  Nina pursed her lips. “You have real family, you know? Vlad and I wouldn’t know what to do without you. And King of Darkness or not, your bio dad is really a dick.”

  I smiled and gave Nina a peck on the cheek, scraping a few more bits of lettuce from her driver’s side door.

  I was upstairs and stretched out on the couch with ChaCha on my lap and a sleeve of mini powdered donuts under my arm when someone knocked on the door.

  “Jusa-minoot,” I said, mouth full of mini donuts. I snatched the spare house key from our unlimited stash since Nina was famous for losing hers on a weekly basis, usually during her Indy 500–style driving endeavors.

  I yanked open the door. “Did you lose—”

  The donut that I had eaten sat like an enormous black mass in my gut. The tension that I was holding exploded and pinpricks shot out, tagging every inch of my bare skin. My hackles went up. Sweat beaded on my upper lip. If the entire world hadn’t dropped into animated suspension, I’m sure my heart would have been thudding out of my chest.

  Lucas Szabo was standing there, staring at me.

  I don’t know what I’d expected, exactly. On the one hand, this was the being charged with the contamination of all mankind, the epitome, the example, the symbol of evil. I guess I’d thought he would look more badass or have hellfire flying up behind him like some kind of Broadway show or AC/DC concert. There were no minions, the waft of brimstone didn’t float up from his cheap-looking suit, and his hair—though thinner and far wispier than mine—was the same pale red I usually sported. He had kind, interested-looking eyes and a comb-over. No horns.

  On the other hand, I was staring at my father. Once I had dreamed that he would be a lithe, sinewy six-foot-three with a body like a cyclist or a James Bond iteration. He would wear the suits fashionable in the Father Knows Best fifties and smoke a pipe while tousling my hair and calling me a little scamp. My mother would fix him a martini. Norman Rockwell would immortalize us in the Saturday Evening Post. I’d never dreamed of this man who was stocky and a little short. He stood with his shoulders back and his chin hitched; he was a rather commanding presence if a very short one. He was barely an eyebrow taller than me.

  We stared at each other for a good long minute. In my mind’s eye, we circled each other like curious dogs ready to strike. He sized me up, I sized him up. All the anger and hate and betrayal that had simmered in my gut for my entire life bubbled to the surface, and I was hurling questions, insults, accusations while this man—my dad—cringed and begged and tried to answer, tried to apologize. In actuality, he raised his anemic eyebrows and gestured with the hat he carried in his left hand.

  “Oh,” I started. He wanted me to let him in.

  There were so many emotions associated with this man walking into my home. Once he crossed that physical threshold, he was crossing a mental one, too, and so was I. This was my life, my every hope in tangible, physical form in front of me. The decision that I made in this split second, in this moment in time would stand for all eternity—

  “Sorry to be a bother when we’re just meeting like this. But may I use your restroom?”

  I felt my mouth drop open. I felt my heart plummet and then swell, warming to the kind voice of this man—of my father.

  “Y—yes, of course,” I stuttered, stepping aside. “It’s right there.” I pointed like a ninny, still standing with the door wide open as Lucas crossed the living room and disappeared into the bathroom. Eventually, I shut the door. Eventually, I made it to the kitchen and put on a pot of coffee.

  My father was in my house. My father was in my house!

  Joy flittered around my chest like I was a little girl and my daddy had just bought me a pony. I pulled on my hair and tried to straighten my bangs, did a quick stain scan of my T-shirt and skirt and pinched my cheeks so they would be rosy.

  The devil is in my house.

  That second voice was darker than the first, and it shot a nauseating wave through my stomach.

  Trickster god, Alex’s voice pinged around my head. He cannot be honest, Lawson. He cannot be good.

  He doesn’t care about who you are, love. Will’s voice joined Alex’s. All he cares about is what you are.

  I was blinking hard and trying to swallow down the raw feeling in my throat when Lucas opened the bathroom door, offering me a broad, if unnerving, smile.

  He’ll kill you just as soon as kiss you. He’s the devil, Lawson. He’s evil incarnate. There is no redemption for him. He was cast out and he liked it that way. He’ll pull you onto his side, he’ll pull you into his world and then there will be no redemption for you either. Regardless of the Vessel of the Souls, that can’t happen. I won’t let it happen. You’re too good, Lawson.

  “Can I get you a cup of coffee?”

  Lucas seated himself at the dining table and knitted his fingers, looking up at me. “I’m sorry if this is awkward. But”—his eyes slipped over me, taking me in from head to toe, his expression curious—“I just can’t believe how much you look like her.”

  My breath hitched. “My mother?”

  Lucas nodded and I steadied myself against the counter. I knew very little about my mother even though I had grown up with her mother.

  “Your eyes, your smile.” He clucked his tongue and shook his head. “Looks like all you got from dear old dad is our red hair.” He patted his head.

  Oh, I wanted to shout, and eternal damnation!

  The coffeepot dinged and I poured two cups, sat down across from Lucas, and slid one to him.

  “Do you want to ask me anything?”

  I wanted to ask him why. I wanted to ask him if he was sorry for leaving, or sorry for having me. I wanted to know if he really had killed my mother. I wanted to know what had happened that day, if he ever thought about me, if he really was who they said he was. The questions kept percolating but lodging in my throat, and all I could do was stare. Outside, a war was being waged on me by a warrior race of fallen angels. Outside, a trickster god was fooling people—children, even—into doing things, evil things. But in here, across from me was just a man with my same red hair and the same unfortunately Vienna-sausage-like fingers bringing a coffee mug to his lips.

  “Are you him?”

  Lucas sipped, his eyebrows going up over the rim of the cup. When he put it down, his lips were ruddy from the heat and twisted into a hint of a smile.

  “My little Sophie, always so inquisitive.”

  Fire shot through me. I wasn’t his little anything. He didn’t know if I was inquisitive or not. I felt my fist tighten around my coffee cup.

  “Why did you come here?”

  Lucas frowned, looking immediately sorry. “I thought it was time. The guilt—leaving you alone for all this time—it was eating away at me. I should have come sooner, but I was a coward.”

  “Sooner?” I spat. “You shouldn’t have left at all.”

  “Things were different then.”

  I looked away, gritting my teeth against the hot tears that rimmed my eyes. I wouldn’t let him see me cry.

  “Some things never change. Like a daughter needing her father.”

  Lucas shook his head. “I was in no position to be a father to you, Sophie. Your mother knew that, I knew that.”

  “My mom was in no position to be a single mother, either, but you didn’t give her any other option now, did you?”

  The anger that had been simmering over the last thirty-three years was at a full boil now, and I could feel that hate welled up inside of me. I could see my mother’s sad, exhausted eyes and my grandmother as she tried to do something to help. To pat
my mother’s back, or say soothing things, but my mother was always there with those sad, hollow eyes and Lucas was—where?

  “I was hoping we could start fresh. We are family, you know.”

  “No, we’re not. I have my own family.”

  Lucas’s lips crept up and I could see the evil in his smile, the darkness in his eyes. “And what family would that be my dear, dear child?”

  “The family I chose. The one who chose me.”

  Lucas pressed his palms together and cocked his head. “The Underworld Detection Agency, hm? That your little family? A collection of misfits, the undead, my castoffs?” He took a step closer, and I was rooted to the ground, somehow cowering in his shadow. He drew his index finger along my jawline, his touch making my skin crawl.

  “Get away from me.”

  Another step closer and I was inexplicably drawn to him. Fire shot through my body and I felt alive, I felt the breath of life—and death—tear through me. I felt my father’s power.

  He grinned. “You like that, don’t you? This is family, Sophie. This is what you are born of. Me.”

  Lucas’s face shadowed and then swirled into a grotesque kaleidoscope of horrendous images. The tongue that slid out of his mouth was serpentine and forked. He wasn’t moving his lips, but he was still talking, advancing on me, and I was bending backward, my spine protesting.

  “You were the seed of evil born into humanity. You took root and grew. You infected this world.”

  I tried to close my eyes, but they were pulled wide open and I could see my friends—Nina, face contorted in agony as her soft, human features edged out and hardened, her teeth growing and sharpening. Vlad glared up at me, his mouth glossy with fresh blood, the broken flesh hanging from his teeth as the woman beneath him writhed and bucked until she paled, her life force gone. Alex was next, moving fast, the darkness wafting from his shoulders and legs as he walked, decimating everyone in his way—stomping out the light, tearing at the throats of the saved.

  “Please stop.”

  A much younger Will was next, hanging back as a woman before him struggled and reached for him. There was a man on top of her, his hands tightening on her throat. Her lips didn’t move, but I could hear her begging for Will to intercede. He stood there, rooted, watching the light leave her eyes. Her killer looked up and locked eyes with Will, his grin maniacal, pure evil—the grin that was looking down on me now.

 

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