by J. L. Murray
“You can’t,” I said, my voice soft.
“Look, I didn’t want to tell you,” he said. “I didn’t mean for it to happen.”
“It was just sex,” I said, staring straight ahead. “Just sex with a stranger at a shady bar.”
“That’s how it started,” he said.
“I stole your car.”
“And made me chase you.”
“I didn’t make you do anything,” I said. “Did you know all along? When you came here? Because that’s not called love. That’s called stalking.”
“I told you I was obsessive. And no, I didn’t know. I just knew...”
“What?”
“It doesn’t make sense.”
“Tell me anyway.”
“Goddammit, Frankie,” he said, his voice suddenly angry. “You make it so fucking hard, you know that? You have fucking ravens everywhere. You’re like some kind of goddamn witch. You fall into mirrors and you have fucking scary-ass monsters following you around. You just mouthed off to one and it fucking let you. You kill the bad guys, you make the world better and you don’t even goddamn see it. You don’t think you’re a hero. You think you’re a piece of shit, but you’re not. You’re the most incredible human being I’ve ever met in my life. If you even are human. I don’t care what you are.”
“You’re a killer, too,” I said.
“Yeah, but it’s different,” he said. “You didn’t enjoy it. I liked it, killing those guys. I’d do it again. I tell myself it was for justice, or self-defense, or some bullshit about being a vigilante, just like you. But the truth is I killed and I liked it.”
I tried to catch my breath as I stared ahead, into the dusky darkness, into the mist.
“It’s not so different,” I said, my voice small.
“What do you mean?”
“I’m not saying I like it, or I have some kind of orgasm like those serial killers you always read about. But it’s satisfying. It’s fucking satisfying to drive a knife into evil. But it’s hypocritical, isn’t it? I’m just making excuses about myself. Enjoying it because they’re evil doesn’t make me better than they are. It makes me the same.”
“That’s not what I’m saying,” said Dekker. “Jesus, would you just look at me?”
I turned my head to see him staring into me with his dark eyes. It felt like someone had cut me open, and I could feel my heart aching, beating out in the air, raw and vulnerable and not anywhere near where it was supposed to be.
“Frankie, I know you feel something,” he said. “Otherwise you wouldn’t be crying.”
“I’m bad for you, Dekker,” I whispered.
“I’m not a good man,” he said. “It’s not like you’re corrupting me. How could you?”
“You don’t understand,” I said. “You’re going to get killed. The people who are behind this, they’re not really people. You should go. Now. The wraiths were right. You don’t belong here.”
“Frankie,” he said, reaching a hand up to wipe the tears from my cheek. I couldn’t even feel myself crying, and it surprised me that I really was. Why did my chest hurt? Why was I crying? He kissed me then, and for a moment, I lost myself. But then I pushed him away.
“You have to go,” I said, my voice more of a breath than a whisper. “Dekker, you have to get out of here. You have to get away from me. We’re going to burn each other to ashes, just like she said.”
“No,” he said. “I’m not doing that. You need me here.”
“I’m already dead, Dekker,” I said. “It’s not worth it to save a dead woman’s life.”
“If it’s yours it is.”
“Get out,” I said, the words seeming to grate against the inside of my rib cage. I couldn’t breathe to make my voice louder. “Get out of the car, Dekker.”
“Frankie, this is nuts. I’m not leaving you.”
“I don’t love you,” I said. “I’ll never love you. I’m a twisted, broken killer. Get away from me before I break you.”
“Just drive,” he said. “We’re almost there. Let’s go save your friend. Then I’ll help you figure out what’s in the lake.”
“No,” I said, feeling hollow. I reached down and pulled out my fillet knife. The same knife that killed my father. The same knife that killed all of them, every killer I ever murdered. And now I held it to Dekker’s throat, the point resting on his pulse, every fast heartbeat pushing his skin into the knife. A trickle of blood ran down his neck.
“This isn’t going to solve anything,” he said.
He was wrong. It was going to save him. It was going to save his goddamn life to get away from me.
“Get out,” I said.
“Just put the knife down. We can talk about this.”
“Get out of the car.”
“You love me, Frankie. Just admit it.”
“Get the fuck out of the car, Dekker!”
He fumbled for the handle, finally managing to open the door.
“I know what you’re doing,” he said.
“I’m leaving you here,” I said. “Get out.”
He finally stepped out of the car.
“You know I like a challenge, right?” he said.
“Obsess over someone else,” I said. “My dance card’s full.”
He opened his mouth to say something else, but I punched my foot onto the gas and watched him stumble back. The car door swung shut as I fishtailed across the road before the tires gained traction. I didn’t look back. But when I looked up to see if the ravens were still there, they were screaming down at me from the darkened sky.
“It’s for the best,” I said.
But it was hard to see the road when my eyes were so blurry.
chapter seventeen
A
uniformed figure was standing in the middle of the road, waving his arms. I slammed on the gas, heart hammering in my chest. The police car parked across the road with its red and blue lights barely penetrating the darkness was odd enough, but the sheriff standing steady as my car came barreling toward him was odder still. I hit the brakes and he smiled at me through the windshield as if we were greeting each other in the grocery store.
“Hey there, Mrs Fisher,” he said, tipping his hat. “How about you step out of the car and come talk to me?”
I turned to look behind me, a trail of dust down the road. Dekker was less than a half mile back. I hoped he’d gone back the way we came, finding the Datsun he’d driven here and going back to where he’d come from. Or anywhere that I wasn’t. He deserved a chance. He deserved to live. But it didn’t stop the ache in my chest from taking my breath away.
I turned back and grinned at the sheriff.
“Sure thing, Sheriff Davis,” I said, stepping out of the car. “What seems to be the trouble?”
“Come away from the car, little miss.”
I ground my teeth together as I smiled, still holding my knife. I’d seen the sheriff in the mirror, I was sure of that. He was gone. He stepped toward me, looking relaxed, easy. He smiled an empty smile at me.
“Let’s cut the shit, Frankie, I know who you are.”
“Ditto,” I said, watching him take another step. He hadn’t touched his gun, leaving it secure in its holster. I squinted past him, where the police lights were reflecting off the mist that surrounded us. There was another car behind his, though I could only barely make out the shape.
“Listen,” said the sheriff, still moving slowly toward me, “I don’t think you’re as bad as they say you are, honey. I know there’s a good girl in there somewhere.”
“Who says I’m bad?”
“You know,” he said. “People talk.”
“You ought to look in the mirror, Sheriff,” I said, mocking shock. “Or is it too scary?”
He stopped inching toward me and narrowed his eyes.
“You’re not allowed to kill me,” I said, smiling sweetly.
“I don’t want to kill you,” he said, taking another step. “But I’m going to make you scream, Frankie Mourning.”
/> “I told you she was dangerous,” called a voice from beyond the police car. There was someone in the other car, I could make out movement now. The sound of a car door. “Be careful, Joe.”
“Aww,” I said, “you brought backup. Are you afraid of me, Joe?”
His face screwed up in anger, he spat on the ground. “You’re just a girl. A whore. I’m going to make you beg me.”
I could see the roof of Bea’s house from where we stood. We were so close. No movement.
“Why don’t you come give me a kiss, Sheriff?” I said. “Maybe I’ll be nice to you.”
“It’s not a kiss I’m going to take,” he said, licking his lips.
“I won’t tell you again,” said the voice, crunching of feet on the gravel. I could make out a vague shape through the fog. “She’s dangerous.” The voice was too familiar. I felt a churning in my guts.
The sheriff glanced behind him, annoyed.
“I’m getting awfully sick of women telling me what to do,” he said. “You’ve been on me since you got here. Let me do my job.”
“Your job,” I said, shaking my head. “Hurting women who are just minding their own business. Sounds like a pretty sweet gig for a sociopath.”
“You would know,” he said, smiling unpleasantly. He was close now, nearly close enough to touch. He reached down and unsnapped the holster now, not looking away from me.
“Well, I prefer to kill people who deserve it,” I said. “But you’re right, I do enjoy my job most days. Do you know why?”
“Because you’re a soulless bitch?”
“No, it’s not that I’m soulless. It’s more that I just really like killing people. My favorite part is when my little knife slides right through your skin and into your meat. Then I slide that little blade down and watch as your insides tumble out. The look on your face is going to be the best part.”
His smile flickered, unsure. He swiftly pulled his gun out, pointing it at me in one smooth movement. I smiled.
“What happens to you if you kill me?” I said, stepping forward. I put a finger on the muzzle of the gun, running it around the rim. “Will Cain gut you like I want to? Or will it be something worse? Will he turn you to ice and watch you shatter? Or will he just make you stay here, never to see your precious mirror world again?”
The sheriff’s face twitched.
“Stand back, bitch. I can shoot you without killing you.”
“Yeah,” I said, “but do you really want to take the chance?”
He licked his lips, his finger pressing lightly on the trigger, then letting go, pressing again.
I moved fast, even for me. I thrust up into his wrist with the knife and he screamed, dropping the gun, holding his hand which was gushing blood. He looked at me, eyes filled with shock and pain. I stepped toward him and, forgetting his injury, he let go of his wrist and bent over to reach for the weapon on his ankle. But I was already on him. I planted a boot on his face and he screamed as I put the blade to his throat.
“You fucking whore, you cunt!” he was screaming, his voice muffled by dirt and gravel.
“You catch more flies with honey, Sheriff,” I said, putting more weight on the foot resting on the side of his head. I pressed the knife harder into his throat and he stopped talking.
“Whoever you are,” I said, “I recommend you stop right there or the sheriff is dead.”
“That’s no way to talk to your mama,” said the voice, and I felt something hard and cold pressing into the back of my neck. I froze.
“Drop the knife and let him go,” said the voice. I recognized it now.
“Why don’t I just kill him and then let you kill me?” I said. “You of all people know I don’t give a shit about living.”
“You’re not going to do that, Frances,” she said. “Or I’m going to kill Beatrice when I’m finished with you. Drop the knife. Or don’t. I can explain it to Cain later.”
It was disconcerting hearing her voice. I found my hand was shaking. I couldn’t be here. She couldn’t be here. Not again. This wasn’t happening again. We couldn’t both exist in the same place.
I stood up, still holding the knife, the sheriff’s blood dripping down my fingers. I raised my hands and turned slowly. Her face was half burned where she’d tried to save my sister. Or, rather, the monster who looked like my sister.
“Hey, Mom,” I said. “You look pretty.”
Her face didn’t show any emotion at all, even when she wound back and struck me across the face with her gun. I blinked up at her from the ground, feeling the pain pulsing across the side of my face, the wetness, and I knew she’d split my cheek open.
“Now we’re both pretty,” she said, bending over me and grabbing my face in her hand, shoving her thumb into the open wound and squeezing. I screamed and searched the ground for my knife, but I couldn’t find it. I dug my fingernails into her face instead, but she had no reaction. Most of it was thick scar tissue and she didn’t seem to feel any pain.
But she let me go and I fell back to the ground.
“I’ve been instructed not to kill you,” she said. “He might end me. But it’s going to be worth it.”
“You know this is a game to him, right?” I said. “He’s using you to test me. He told me.”
“Everything’s a game,” she said, her voice a monotone. “I’m Harishona. His most valuable bavuah. He will forgive me. And he will forget you.”
“So you’re the hairy shiny I’ve been hearing about.”
“Harishona, you crude hillbilly. I am ancient, he has told me. I showed Eve her own face in the garden, though I do not remember. I will be here long after you’ve died, which will be very soon. I am infinite. And you are nothing. A trifle. A passing fancy.”
“You don’t remember because you were an inanimate object,” I said. “A reflection. You’re not even real. The only reason you’re here is because Cain wants to kill his brother, so he unleashed some creepy-ass monster. You’re nothing but a reflection. You weren’t even the first one.”
“No,” she said, pressing the muzzle of the gun hard into my forehead, silencing me. “She was Harishona. The first bavuah. The one who freed me. The one you burned like she was nothing.” Her voice was no longer monotone, it was filled with quiet rage. I could see her grinding her teeth, her jaw bulging with the effort, her eyes cold and hard. Definitely not my mother. I’d never been close to my mother, but she was all I’d had. All I’d known. And whatever small kindnesses that had been in my mother, despite her flaws, this bavuah had taken from her.
“Pull the trigger,” I said. “I dare you.”
“Are you going to kill her?” said the sheriff, holding his wrist. Blood was spurting out between his finger and he staggered. “He’s going to be angry if you kill his pet. You know that.”
“Idiot, you’re dying already,” said my mother, glaring at him as though he’d done this to himself. “I told you she was dangerous.”
“But did she tell you about me?” said yet another voice. I saw the shape of a man walking fast toward us, holding his hand out in front of him. My mother screamed as a shot rang out, blood and meat exploding from her arm. Her gun went flying as she fell to the ground, howling in pain. I scrambled back as he advanced, then I froze.
“Dekker?”
“Hey, Frankie,” he said, grabbing the sheriff by the collar and dragging him across the gravel. The sheriff was so weak he didn’t even have time to react. He was still holding his gun, which he raised, but Dekker plucked it out of his hand and tossed it to me. He sat the sheriff down across from me.
“To be clear,” said Dekker, “I’m really fucking mad at you.”
“That’s fair,” I said.
“You’re bleeding. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I said, standing up. I stared at him.
“What?” said Dekker.
“Nothing,” I said. “It’s just that I’m actually really glad to see you. You idiot.”
“I’m the idiot,” he sai
d. “Okay.”
“You should have run away from me,” I said. “I tried to help you.”
“Let’s get something straight: I can make my own decisions. You don’t get to do that, do you understand? If I want to walk away, I’ll fucking well walk away. If I want to risk my goddamn life to help you, I’ll do that, too. But you don’t get to decide. If you don’t want me around, that’s one thing. But if you’re trying to get rid of me because you think it’s some sort of sacrifice you have to make, just fuck off.”
“Idiot,” I said, but I smiled. A real smile. A smile just for him. I looked down. My mother appeared to be passed out on the ground. The sheriff was gasping, his eyes rolling up into his head.
“What do you want to do with him?” said Dekker.
I walked over to where I saw my knife shining on the ground. I reached down and picked it up, wiping the blood-soaked dirt off the blade.
“I’ve got plans for him,” I said.
Dekker and I leaned over the sheriff and he blinked up at us before forming his features into a scowl.
“No one comes out of this alive, you vile, ugly creatures. You apes are the reason for this. He’s going to let the world freeze, then the other one will burn it to cinders. Over and over and over, into eternity and back again. You’re all just kindling. Whores, saints, killers, children, they’re all the same. You’re all turning to ice by the time he’s done. You’re all dead, you fucking filth. Dead and dead and dead and...”
But then he couldn’t talk anymore because my knife, seeming to be moving on its own, was thrusting through the skin, and meat and bone. It was ripping through the sheriff’s neck, and blood was spraying me and it was in my eyes and sliding down my face, mingling with my own blood, and I could taste it in my mouth. His throat was a gash and I was holding the knife in front of me as if I didn’t know how it got there. My breath was coming in small gasps.
“Frankie...”
“I’m sorry,” I breathed. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to. I just...” I looked down at my bloody hands, then up at Dekker. The sheriff was making wet, gurgling sounds. I couldn’t breathe. This wasn’t right.
“It’s okay,” he said. “He deserved it. You didn’t do anything wrong.”