Contents
Cover
Also Available from Michelle Belanger and Titan Books
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
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10
11
12
13
14
15
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21
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Acknowledgments
About the Author
ALSO AVAILABLE FROM MICHELLE BELANGER
AND TITAN BOOKS
Conspiracy of Angels
Harsh Gods
Mortal Sins (e-novella)
A NOVEL OF THE SHADOWSIDE
MICHELLE BELANGER
TITAN BOOKS
THE RESURRECTION GAME
Print edition ISBN: 9781783299560
Electronic edition ISBN: 9781783299577
Published by Titan Books
A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd
144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP
First edition: November 2017
2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 Michelle Belanger.
All Rights Reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available
from the British Library.
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For Vera Rubin
1
Miles of empty night sped away from the Kawasaki. Hugging the lines of the cruiser, I leaned forward and dared to spread my wings. The disguising cowl of energy that hid my more-than-human nature shredded as they unfurled across the road. The vast limbs of pale blue light didn’t strictly exist in the physical world, but I felt the wind blowing through them all the same. Grinning beneath my helmet, I coaxed the Vulcan faster.
It was the closest thing to flying in the mortal world.
A sign for Chagrin River Park zipped past and I traded open highway for winding, narrow curves. A thin ribbon of asphalt—more a nature trail than a proper road—cut through a forest as deep as it was dark. I swerved around the chained stanchions with the “Park closes at eleven” sign, spitting mud and turf behind my wheels, and let the Vulcan go all-out. Mist spilled from the shadows between broad, lichen-covered trunks, and skirls of early autumn leaves scattered in the headlamp at every dip in the path. The hilly trail felt like riding a rollercoaster, and, giddy with the pulse of the wind and the motor, I took every turn a little too fast.
I could almost leave the nightmares behind me. Almost.
Again and again, I urged myself close to a skid, reveling in my body’s hard twist and pull as I kept the Vulcan on the treacherous excuse for a road. Here, at least, was something I could conquer—as opposed to dream after dream where power sang a siren song and I lost all control. The world ran red in those dreams, and a part of me was hungry for it.
Pouring on the speed, I pretended I could outrun myself.
All too swiftly, the needle tipped toward E. I hadn’t bothered to check the tank before heading out and that was hours ago. Stupid, but this current bout of insomnia hadn’t been great for my skills at decision-making. Seeking a main road, I worked my way out of the damp hollows of the park. Riverwood Loop dumped me onto Rural, a street so aptly named, it wasn’t much different from the nature trail I’d been joyriding. Rural led in the opposite direction of the highway, but the houses started getting closer together, and with all the lights in the distance, there had to be a gas station somewhere up ahead.
There were four. I passed each of them as I traveled from Rural to Reeves and finally onto Lakeshore, crossing the river that lent the park its unlikely name—Chagrin. Every single one of the stations, even the one in the middle of town, was dark and abandoned, their glassed-in storefronts locked against the night. Even on E, the bike still had miles in her, so I pressed onward, sticking to Lakeshore because it led straight to the city. Once I got closer to Cleveland, there was sure to be a gas station that shared my insomniac hours.
As the ride wore on, I regretted the decision. Like Rural before it, Lakeshore was a road named for the countryside through which it led. The mostly two-lane boulevard hugged the shore of Erie and, while I couldn’t always see that stretch of dark water, there was no mistaking the brooding presence of the lake. Bleak and uncanny, it dragged at my senses, threatening to unravel all the calm I’d stitched together earlier on my ride.
The mortals couldn’t see it—lucky bastards—but Erie wasn’t any normal body of water. It was a vast abyss yawning far deeper than fathom charts could graph. In the heart of the lake’s darkness, a doorway hung open, and crimson-eyed horrors slithered into our world from whatever hell they called home. I fought the cacodaimons on a regular basis, but rarely this close to the water. The lake held too many bad memories—and more that I could never recover.
Belatedly, I pulled my wings tight against my body. Cacodaimons had a keen scent for energy, and they knew mine all too well. The subtle magic didn’t come easily, and I focused so hard that my palms cramped on the motorcycle’s grips. Painfully, the scar on my left hand twitched. One thing lay at the bottom of the lake that I’d tried to lose intentionally, but the artifact had its hooks in me deep, and this was its reminder. If my nightmares were any indication, I had no hope of tearing free.
Shoving the bleak thoughts into a corner, I shifted my shoulders and settled into a more comfortable position across the bike. The low fuel light blinked on, letting me know I’d be stranded if a station didn’t manifest soon.
The engine was sucking fumes when I finally spied the lighted sign of a twenty-four-hour gas station with the dubious name of “Qwik-Fill.” Deep in East Collinwood, the off-brand establishment sat on a sad spit of asphalt warped by time and neglect. An empty lot stretched across from it, wild with sumac and chest-high weeds. A sign for the Ohio Lotto declared the weekly numbers, but it was missing half its bulbs and those still working stuttered weakly, taunting with their promised millions.
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Coasting to the nearest pump, I slid off the bike, stretching as soon as it leaned on the kickstand. Both shoulders cracked like rifle shots and I unfastened my helmet so I could properly roll some of the tightness from my neck. Vertebrae crackled all the way up. I’d been riding for hours without a single cramp, but the dark ruminations inspired by the lake had made the last twenty minutes especially tense.
Hooking the helmet over one of the grips, I uncapped the gas tank and dug for my wallet, only to see a bright strip of yellow tape over the card reader at the pump. Flapping beneath it, like a flag of surrender, was a slip of receipt paper scrawled with big block letters.
SORRY. NOT WORKING.
It was the same story on the other side. All the card readers were down.
“Fuck me running,” I muttered.
Unenthusiastically, I opened the billfold, pretty certain I had no cash. One tattered dollar peeked out from behind a folded receipt from work. That wouldn’t get me much, and my Platinum card was worthless if the station couldn’t take plastic. Already scouring various pockets, I gestured to catch the attention of the solitary attendant mopping the tiles in front of the counter. He waved me closer cheerily, wiping lean brown fingers against a stained apron after propping the mop handle alongside a chip display. I tested the door, not really expecting it to open, but he had it unlocked even at this hour.
“A weary traveler, and so late,” he called. He had a voice made for radio—expressive, rich, and resonant. “I’m sorry our card readers are down.”
“Yeah, I noticed. In here, too?”
He nodded. If he caught my gruff irritation, his face betrayed no insult. He cracked an apologetic smile, wide and pleasant and short a few teeth.
“It was the storm earlier,” he said. Nimbly, he scooted behind the counter, barely having to lift the little gate. His navy-blue polo shirt hung baggily on a frame more stick than flesh. Maybe fifty, his once-black hair was mostly gray. A curious patch of pallid scars puckered behind one ear and the hair that grew around them was white and wispy as cobwebs.
“Storm? Didn’t rain where I was.” I plunked down my ratty dollar and a handful of lint-sticky coins. It was all I could scavenge from my pockets. “If you can’t take plastic, this is what I got.”
Thick brows knitting over dark, intelligent eyes, he bent and started counting. Softly, he murmured all the numbers as if reminding himself of both their taste and sound. One seventy-five. One eighty. Two dollars. It nagged at me that I couldn’t place the accent of his words. Languages were kind of one of my super-powers. I was tired enough that my mouth followed thought without filter and I blurted the question, whether it was polite or not. “Where you from?”
With a tolerant smile, he looked up from his counting. “Aleppo. But I taught history as a young man in Britain, so I get asked that a lot.” Wasted circles stamped a silent testament under his eyes and I made the mistake of looking too deep. Before I could stop it, a harsh wave of images pummeled my over-tired brain—a street lined with dead children, their skin gray from the rubble’s endless dust. Shattered ruins of buildings, businesses, homes…
“You were there for the bombings. Your family—” It escaped as less than a whisper, but I might as well have shouted for the way he recoiled.
“How do you know that?” he demanded. More images surged with his reaction—fire and running and blood. Digging for the corpse of his daughter. I didn’t want any of it. I slammed up all of my shields, silently cursing my gifts.
“Sorry,” I muttered.
“No,” he objected, reaching to seize my fingers. With a stifled snarl, I jerked them out of reach. He stared, uncomprehending. “Sir, please. Tell me. How can you know these things?”
“Sorry,” I choked again, back-pedaling hurriedly from the counter. “The money—just put it on pump one, OK?” Before he could ask anything further, I bolted for the door, scrubbing my eyes clear of visions. I didn’t even see the woman when I slammed into her, but I couldn’t miss her stink. A mix of sweat and stress and chemicals, all of it sharp and stinging in my sinuses. Meth-head, probably. I didn’t want anything that was in her brain, so I redoubled my efforts, closing my perceptions until I felt almost blind. Staggering through the swinging door, I just kept my head down and my shields up as I rushed out to the bike.
Grabbing the hose, I fed gas into the tank, willing the scroll of decimals to hurry while I shoved all my psychic shit back under its lid. Fucking nightmares had me worn ragged.
The last penny of my pre-pay rolled forward on the display and the pump shut off. I replaced the nozzle, grabbing my helmet from the handlebars. But before I put it on, something stopped me—a creeping sense of scrutiny that teased the hairs on my neck. I turned toward the stretch of grimy windows, expecting to see the haunted eyes of the refugee clerk.
The woman’s face was pressed against the glass. Empty-eyed, she gaped at me. Behind her, the history professor turned gas station attendant moved with his mop and bucket through the central aisle of the store. He bent without complaint to the lowly work, paying no attention to the woman at the windows. And why should he? She was just another peculiar customer on a long and lonely night.
Then came a chittering cry, one that I’d heard too many times before.
Cacodaimon.
The woman dragged her nails against the glass, eyes gleaming crimson as her rider revealed itself at last. Once it had my attention, her face split in a hideous grin. Ghosted over by the maw of her rider, her mouth was all teeth, and I was struck with the certainty that at any moment her entire head would swing open on a hinge to reveal some jack-in-the-box skeleton screaming from the moist chasm of her throat.
Laughing—I could tell she was laughing—she rushed from the window and tackled the clerk. It happened so fast. Teeth and nails. That was all she had, but spurred by the frenzied strength of the cacodaimon, it was enough.
Arterial blood arced across the aisles before I fully processed her attack.
Dropping everything, I ran to the door, blurring Nephilim-quick. It was a trick learned from my brother Remy, and, while it was costly, it was handy in a crunch. I crossed the store in less time than it took to unsheathe the twin daggers concealed at my wrists.
Blue-white fire crackled around my fingers as I thrust the woman from her victim. She whirled and snapped wildly, blood coating the entire lower half of her face. Through her vacant eyes, the glare of the cacodaimon burned hateful and red. The thing was fully wedded to her—had to have been from the moment she walked through the door. And I’d been so mired in my own shit that I’d missed it completely.
Too late now.
Fingers hooking for my eyes, she threw herself at me. The cacodaimon hissed as I sought to pry it from her body, inky flesh cold and stinking in the light. The woman shrieked and ferociously clawed for my eyes, my throat, my face. With the pommel of one dagger, I struck a ringing blow against her temple. A concussion of light exploded at the impact and both woman and rider tumbled ragdoll-limp across a football-themed display of Budweiser cans.
At my feet, the dying clerk spasmed. He was bleeding out, and nothing could stop it. Three refugee camps, the wreckage of a life in Aleppo—he’d survived everything just to end with a possessed woman’s teeth in his throat.
I blamed myself.
His out-flung arm twitched, and I caught skittering motion behind him on the tiles. A second cacodaimon slunk along his back like a fat, black leech, spindly legs worming into his nerves. He wasn’t even dead and already it sought to claim his body for its own. Intoning the syllables of my Name, I called power to my blades and slashed at its central mass, severing every connection. The thing shrilled as I cut it to pieces.
An answering cry erupted from the possessed woman’s throat. Conscious, but wobbly, she dragged herself from the spill of dented beer cans, lurching into a rack of chips as she scrambled for the door. Glossy packets of Doritos and Ruffles scattered every which way across the sticky tiles. I turned to sprint aft
er her, but the clerk seized my ankle and clung with the strength of the doomed.
“I’m sorry,” I said, as if that could change a damned thing. “I won’t let it hurt anyone else.” It was the best I could offer. His thin body spasmed once, a final spray of blood-flecked spittle erupting over the leather of my boots. His eyes fixed on the ceiling, staring past me to an incomprehensible vastness.
Yanking free from the vise of his dead fingers, I rushed to make good on my promise.
2
Outside, the cacodaimon-ridden woman ran pellmell past the furthest row of pumps, already half way to the road. Flexing my will, I pulled the speed trick again, hurriedly sheathing my blades so I didn’t impale myself if I tumbled. Closing the distance in an eyeblink, I streaked past my parked motorcycle and tackled her before she could get beyond the sallow lights of the gas station canopy.
I slammed into her hard and we hit the ground in a flailing jumble. The creature riding her shrieked with hateful fury, rearing back from its host to bare rows of razorblade teeth. Striking like a cobra, it darted for my face.
That was a mistake.
Spirit-fire blazing around my hands, I seized the incorporeal horror just under its flaring black hood. Its cold flesh sizzled on contact. Both host and rider fought with manic ferocity, the cacodaimon pushing the woman’s body so hard her tendons crackled. She went for the throat, clawing and biting at the vulnerable flesh between jaw and neck. Roughly, I smashed her face with my shoulder so I could focus on the cacodaimon. Once I tore it from her nervous system, she would drop like a cast-off suit of clothes.
Contact with the soot-black flesh sent gnawing waves of numbness up to my wrists, but I didn’t let up, throttling the invertebrate nightmare until its hold on its host finally began to slip. Long coils of sectioned tail unspooled from its vessel like some hellish tapeworm, the little scythes of its claws scrabbling against the thick leather of my biker jacket. The barbed tip finally ripped from the base of her spine and the woman shrieked once, back bowing until her head nearly met her heels. Ripping bloody gouges in her face, she did an awkward pirouette, then pitched heavily onto her side.
The Resurrection Game Page 1