Hoarfrost (Blood of Cain Book 2)

by J. L. Murray

  I was looking at a steely sky and could hear splashing nearby. I was rocking back and forth and people were talking, a murmur at first, indistinguishable from the noise of ravens somewhere far-off and the sound of lapping water. But after a moment, I made out voices.

  "We have to get her to the hospital," someone was saying.

  I blinked and moved my fingers, testing them. I opened my mouth and tried to speak, but my chest burned and no sound came out. How had I gotten here? I remembered falling, I remembered my stomach turning and the scream that wouldn't come as I fell. Spinning, spinning, falling through the world, and then nothing. I must have passed out. Had I died? I didn't think so, or I would have woken on the other side. Apparently I only died closing up holes in the world, not passing through. Or being pushed. Did Dekker see me fall from the sky like a shooting star? Or had I come up through the ground like a zombie rising from the dead? That would be more appropriate. I felt a weight as my raven landed on my leg.

  "She doesn't need a hospital," I heard Dekker say. "She'll wake up when she's ready."

  "She's dead." A woman's tired voice, barely audible. Esme Petrussi.

  "I feel like I'm dead," I rasped, finally able to speak. The raven cawed and pushed off into the air.

  "Frankie!" Dekker said, and whatever I was lying on moved. A boat, I realized. A rowboat. And then his face came into view. "Jesus, you're an asshole."

  "Yeah," I said, "I get that a lot. Right back at you."

  He helped me slowly sit up. "How long?" I said. "How long was I gone?"

  “You were dead for an hour, Frankie. Jesus Christ, you scared me.”

  “But how long was I physically gone?”

  "Gone?" he said. "You never left. Your sister disappeared, but you...you ran at that thing, that weird hole, and Esme was screaming. I turned to her, and when I looked back, you were lying on the ground. But you must have done something, because that rip disappeared, like it was never even there."

  "It was there," I said. I raised myself up onto my elbows, closing my eyes as my stomach turned. Esme was sitting at the front of the boat, looking at me with her eyes half closed. She turned and stared out at the misty sea. Her short hair was standing on end at the crown of her head, and she wasn't wearing a thread of clothes. I remembered her bursting into flame, running at Becky, seeming unsure why she was doing it. Esme shivered and her gaze slid past me to look beyond. She raised an arm sluggishly, as though it weighed a thousand pounds, and extended a finger to point. I turned, and so did Dekker.

  The shore was visible in the gloaming as we passed through the worst of the fog, but it wasn't the beach we'd left from. Looking up, I could see the back of the motel looming over the beach, looking as if a strong gale could knock it into the sea.

  "Dekker," I said in a low whisper. "The Mother and that shapeshifter, they did all this. He looked like my father when he touched Becky. If you see someone you know, someone you want to see more than anything, don't believe it. It's not real. It's a monster, and if he touches you..."

  "You go crazy," said Dekker. "Shit. How do I know if it's real?"

  "Don't trust anything," I said. "Don't trust anyone. Don't let anyone touch you if you can help it. It looks like someone you know, only it's not quite right. Glitchy. Like it's not completely a person. Do not let it touch you."

  "Okay," he said. "I get it. I won't let it touch me."

  As we trudged across the beach, I realized it was early dawn and there were no fires yet, no families in sweaters with cups of cocoa. And wedged up against a pile of driftwood was the body of the police officer I'd seen dangling from the vines on Becky's island, Willard. He was covered in hoarfrost, his eyes frozen open. And in the middle of his chest...

  "Jesus Christ," said Dekker. "She's been here already. The Mother of Hearts."

  “It’s morning,” I said. “Why hasn’t she tried to take Esme? Why hasn’t she shown herself?”

  “I don’t know,” said Dekker.

  “I think she has other plans,” I said. “I think she’s going to kill me.”

  Esme started to cry as she looked at Officer Willard. Not the screaming, keening wail from before, but quiet, mournful tears. I put my arm around her and held her close as we looked down at the officer's body, a hole in the middle of his chest where the Mother ripped out his heart. I couldn't stop staring at the gaping wound, the bones glaring white and splintered, the blood frozen in place like rubies. Dekker pulled us away, Esme still crying, and I craned my neck as we hurried across the beach, reluctant to look away from the crimson that glittered in the dead man's chest.

  TWENTY-TWO

  "It's not safe here," I said, pacing across the room. I was a jangle of nerves, my head full of racing thoughts, startled by my reaction to the dead man on the beach, repulsed by how beautiful I found him. But mostly, every time I slowed down, every time I closed my eyes, even just to blink, I saw Becky's face speaking to me. My sister was dead, had been dead for a long time, but every time she died, it seemed to be my fault. And her words, pulled out of her soul as she spoke them: She was just like you.

  "Frankie, sit down," said Dekker gently, and I ignored him, turning to look at Esme, lying back on the bed, staring at the stained ceiling. I spied the half empty bottle of bourbon on the night stand and I grabbed it, throwing the waxy lid across the room, letting the whiskey run down my chin as I gulped it down. I set the bottle down, gasping, wiping my face with the back of my hand.

  "Frankie," Dekker said again, and I turned to see him watching me, something in his eyes that I didn't recognize. It wasn't shame, and it wasn't anger, but something else, and then I knew. Loss. He thought he'd lost me, or that I was lost to him. Maybe he was right. I couldn't think straight, and instead of calming me, the bourbon only made me feel the grief of losing my sister yet again. My own loss, the odd betrayal I felt at Dekker's lies. What did it matter? I thought. Why did I care that his name wasn't real, that he hadn't told me everything? But I did care. And in a way, it meant everything. It meant that everything between us up until this point was a lie. He, himself, was a fabrication.

  "Jacob Solomon," I said softly, and Dekker met my eyes. "I guess you look a bit like a Jacob. Did your friends call you Jake?"

  "No," he said flatly.

  "Jacob Solomon." I could see my own pain reflected in his eyes, and that's what hurt most of all.

  "Stop it," Esme said from the bed, and we both turned to see her watching us. "You're going to regret it if you lose each other. It's going to kill you from the inside out. It'll rot your heart if something happens to him and your last memory is something terrible you said."

  Dekker and I were absurdly standing in the middle of the room, facing each other as if ready for a street brawl. My hands were balled into fists and I was surprised to see tendrils of black smoke curling around my fingers. I could kill him by mistake, I could hurt him without meaning to. My anger and pain were even more dangerous than Esme's. I walked to the window and opened the drapes, looking out at the water.

  "We have to get back to the cabin," Dekker said after a moment. "If Abel is the way to help Esme, we have to get back there."

  "The car is at the cabin," I said, without turning from the window. "At any minute that beach is going to fill up with cops, and this is the first place they'll come."

  "And if Esme doesn't rest, who knows what will happen to her," Dekker said. "We're going to help you, Esme, we just need a plan."

  "You could leave me here," said Esme. "Or I could walk out into the sea and just keep going. I wouldn't hurt anyone else. Maybe this Mother of Hearts would find me first and put me out of my misery."

  I turned to her, suddenly angry. "It's not about you," I said, surprised at the venom in my words.

  "Frankie..." Dekker said, sitting on the end of the bed and looking worriedly at Esme. Esme herself opened her eyes and looked at me, sitting up, startled.

  "You lost your husband," I said, "and that is fucking sad. It's goddamn tragic. It wasn't you
r fault, it wasn't his fault, it just happened. Someone fucked you up, gave you something you didn't want, and Will died. I am truly so sorry that happened, and if I could take it back, if I could go back and take you out of that bar before the fire came, I'd do it in a second. I'd give up anything to take that pain from you."

  "I don't even know you," Esme said, folding her knees to her chest.

  "That's right, you don't know me, and I don't know you," I said. "But you have something that's more important than both of us. You have a child. You have a family."

  "I don't have a family anymore!" Esme said, crying again. "I killed my family when I killed him."

  "Get over it," I said gruffly. "Because if you don't, Matthew isn't going to know that some supernatural prick put something in you that turned you into a human torch. Matthew isn't going to know that you loved him and his dad so much that your heart shriveled up when Will died. Matthew is only going to know that you didn't love him enough to fight for him. That his dad died, and his mom didn't care enough to survive. He's going to think he's not enough, Esme. He's going to think that you cared so little for him that you went off and killed yourself and you never gave a single shit about him."

  I swallowed hard, and caught my breath. When I spoke again, my voice was quiet, and Esme met my eyes. "That's what he's going to think for the rest of his life. And that's why you have to survive. That's why you have to fight for him. Because he's not going to know your pain if you don't share it. He's only going to know that you're gone."

  I remembered my father, the last night he was alive. I tried to tell him what he already knew, that my mother was a monster. He reeled back and slapped my face. And then they killed him. If he'd cared enough about me, he'd still be alive. If he'd loved me enough, this wouldn't be happening.

  But, then, that was a lie, too. This was always going to happen. It had to play out this way, and if my father was still alive, maybe I wouldn't be ready. If my father was alive, maybe I would be the one to kill him. I was always going to end up here in this shabby motel, with a police chief that burst into flames and a man who loved me too much to tell the truth. And in the end, I would always kill my sister, over and over again. I was no better than Cain.

  The room was silent, and for a moment, I was afraid I'd gone too far, that Esme's eyes would fill with fire as they had on the frozen sea. But instead, she nodded. She didn't cry, but I could feel her pain, and I could feel her heart breaking as she realized I was right. She reached for the phone on the night stand.

  "May I have a moment?" she said softly. "I need to call my son."

  Dekker and I stepped outside, the bite in the air sending a shiver through me.

  "Where's your coat?" he said.

  "It smells like death," I said, wishing for the bourbon again but knowing it wouldn't help. "I think it has brains on it."

  "That sounds about right," he said, and I wanted to laugh, but I couldn't. Someone was coming up the stairs as we leaned against the railing, looking down at the street. I could see the pancake house next door, still surrounded by police tape, its windows dark. A jangle of metal on metal set my jaw on edge, and I straightened as I saw him come up the steps. Ron stopped when he saw us, his handcuffs still clinking as they swung from his belt, his gun firmly secured at his waist. He put up his hands.

  "I think I know what's going on here," said Ron. "Please. I need to see her. I've seen the tape."

  "The tape?" I said.

  "At the hospital. The little doctor, the new fella. I saw him drug her. She clocked him and then you two carried both of them off. And..."

  "And what?" said Dekker.

  "I know who you are," said Ron. "I know you’re not FBI. I know what you do, and I can't say I approve, but I understand. You kill bad guys, right?"

  "That's one way to put it," I said.

  "I know what's happening to her," said Ron. "I don't understand it, but I know. I need to see her. She's my best friend, always has been. It hasn’t been easy being in the closet in a place like this. Esme's never judged me, always shown me respect. She's the only reason I have to stay in Westport, so if something terrible is happening to her, with the fire and all, I want to help."

  "How do you know about the fire?" I said.

  "The bar." He swallowed and blinked as if trying not to cry. "Can we go inside? This is a damn small town."

  "Not until I know you're telling the truth," I said. "How did you know about the fire?"

  "There was a camera," he said, lowering his voice. "Will had some break ins a while back and I helped him install it. It's digital, uploads to a server. I was the only one who could access it besides Will and Esme. I saw...I saw what happened." He held up a cell phone as if to demonstrate. "I could show you."

  "I believe you," I said. "Will’s death, it wasn't her fault."

  "I know," said Ron.

  "Does anyone else know?" Dekker said.

  "No," said Ron. "I didn't even tell anyone I was coming here. All I care about is Esme, so if you kill me, you'll get away with it. No one knows I'm here, no one knows what happened. I just want to help her. And I think that's what you want, too."

  "Let's go inside," I said. "It's a long story."

  As it turned out, it wasn't such a long story. All he really cared about was Esme. I told him about Cain and Abel, and that something was after Esme now, a monster that wanted to kill Abel, a monster that should have shown up by now, and he accepted that, too. Esme was quiet, but when Ron turned and took her hand, she let him.

  "Ezzy, you should have told me."

  "How do you tell anyone something like that?" said Esme.

  "You just say, 'Ronny, I'm a superhero now.'" He grinned at her and she gave him a sad smile back. "I'd believe you in a second. You're already mostly superhero anyway. Why not add fire powers to the mix and make it official?"

  "I'm afraid I'm going to hurt someone," said Esme. "Even this motel, if something happens, I'm going to kill someone."

  "I brought you something," said Ron, and pulled a prescription bottle out of his pocket, rattling the pills within. "I didn't know what to expect, but these are pretty powerful sleeping pills. I had insomnia a while back, and these will knock you out. I wasn't sure what you'd need, so I thought it couldn't hurt to bring them. I also have some food and some booze in my car downstairs. Oh, God, I'm so glad you're okay."

  "I'm not okay," she said.

  "I know, Ez," he said. "I know you're not. I meant, I’m glad you’re still in one piece."

  "We have to get Abel from the cabin," said Dekker. "It's about a half hour out of town. Can you take us?"

  "Please," said Esme. "Just give us a little time. I'm so tired. I can feel it, burning me up from the inside, wearing things away, trying to get through again. I just need to sleep. I called my son, and it hurts. It hurts more than anything I've ever felt. I'll take the pills so I don't burn anyone. But just let us have some time. Let me catch my breath."

  "Abel can fix you," I said. "We should go right now. Before the detectives figure this shit out."

  "No," said Esme firmly. "No. I don't know if he's really going to help me. To be honest, I'd sooner kill him than let him touch me again. He’s the real reason Will died. Abel murdered my husband. I need Ron here, and I need to sleep. So you're either going to have to drag me out of here kicking and screaming and possibly torching this whole place to the ground, or you're going to have to let me sleep. I've done everything you've asked. I want to help, I want to see my son again. But you need to give me a moment."

  I looked at Dekker, clenching his jaw. He shook his head, unsure how to proceed. I turned to Ron.

  "Give us that booze you were talking about, and we'll be right next door if you need us."

  "Done," said Ron.

  TWENTY-THREE

  The thing about forgiveness is that you can't control it. Regardless of how much you set your mind to forgive someone, you can't un-know that they betrayed you, no matter how small the slight. I couldn't forget my daddy
slapping me across the face, just like I couldn't forget Becky sitting on my chest and putting matches out on my face. I knew it wasn't Becky, not really, but when I thought of my sister, that was the first thing that came to mind. Aside from seeing him violently murdered, the first thing I remembered about my father was that slap. It didn't mean I didn't love the both of them more than life, it's just that forgiveness is damn tricky. So when Dekker and I walked into his motel room, I honestly didn't know what was going to happen.

  I opened the drapes and looked around at the room, exactly like mine except his small Formica table was in much better shape. Dekker walked to the bed and sat down, looking over at me.

  "I could walk to the cabin," he said. "Bring Abel back in your car."

  "It would take longer to walk than to just wait an hour or two for Ron to give you a ride," I said. I looked out to the sea again.

  "Why do you keep doing that?" said Dekker. "Looking out at the water like that. Are you expecting something?"

  "Yeah," I said. "The end of the world."

  "Frankie, I don't know how many times I can apologize to you. I don't know what to do. How do I convince you that I'm on your side? Should I die for you? Should I kill for you? Because I'd do either in heartbeat. I think you know that."

  "Shut up, Dekker," I said. He was quiet for a long time and I thought maybe he'd gone to sleep. I watched the ocean, watched the beach. I couldn't see the body from where I was, but there were no cops, not yet. I saw a few joggers and I wondered how someone could pass right by a heartless corpse and not notice.

  "Frankie," Dekker said suddenly, and I spun around because he was so close. I frowned when I saw that he was on his knees in front of me.

  "What are you doing?"

  "Let's get married," he said, taking my hands in his.

  "Fuck you," I said, pulling my hands out of his. I suppressed the urge to kick him and instead walked past him and grabbed the bottle of Maker's off the table but I didn't drink it. I just held it and looked at him, getting to his feet, looking dejected.