by Allison Pang
“It’s not much,” he admitted. “And it won’t last too long, but it should be enough to see what we need to.” He shook his mane and hesitantly stepped forward, illuminating the inside of the shed in a pale glow.
I let out a reluctant breath and pulled the door wider. Dirty sheets covered squared-off shapes against one wall, but aside from those and an obvious pile of painting supplies, the shed was empty.
“Topher,” Brystion breathed behind me, a quiet rage clipping the word with a finality that did not bode well for the painter.
“We don’t know that yet,” I said, but even I knew the words were nothing more than a futile hope that my painter friend was not involved. Without a word, the incubus strode toward the sheets, his jaw set grim and tight. I tried not to glance away as he pulled back the first sheet.
He let out a low cry, kneeling before the first painting. I crouched beside him, straining to make out the details. A woman’s form, hunched and curled, her limbs arched in a mocking sort of rigor mortis, fingertips pressing against the canvas as though she had tried to claw her way out of it.
Melanie made a retching sound. “That’s Lintane.”
“You knew her?” The moment the words slipped out of my mouth I felt like an idiot. She nodded her head, her lips in a grim line.
Brystion pulled back another sheet. I forced myself to look at this one. Another succubus, I assumed, this one curled into a fetal ball, her skin sagging and dried out into flakes upon the floor. The third was winged like Sonja, but there was nothing left of her feathered limbs except some crumpled bones. I sucked in a deep gulp of air, the taste of paint thinner like poison in my lungs. “Ion?”
The incubus turned his face to me for one awful moment, and those eyes shone like they might swallow the night in their grief. Behind us, Brigadun moaned, one hand over his mouth as though he might vomit. I struggled to stay on my feet, the realization that these had been real people pinching my heart as though it might burst.
“I’m so sorry,” I croaked, uncertain what to do. I reached out anyway, my cold fingers grasping Ion’s. I nearly flinched from the heat beneath his skin, the grip of his knuckles grinding into mine. “It’s evidence now. We should . . . save . . . them. For the Council.”
At my feet, Phineas suddenly swiveled his ears. “’Ware the door!” he barked, neighing as the door slammed shut.
Brystion whirled on the daemon. “What bullshit is this?”
“I didn’t know,” Brigadun said, the Glamour dropping from him with a shudder. “They told me if I brought her here”—he gestured at the suddenly wide-eyed Melanie—“they’d let me go.”
“And now you’re going to die,” Brystion snarled, lurching for him. He tore his hand from my grasp, neatly snatching at the daemon’s chin horn so that he couldn’t move.
“Hold up! Something’s burning,” Melanie said, glancing upward. “The roof. Shit. If they’ve set this place on fire and it hits that turpentine . . .”
“Assuming we don’t die of smoke inhalation first,” I added, my upper lip curling at Brigadun. “Nice job, asshole.” I tried for the door, slamming my shoulder into it, grunting when it refused to budge.
“It’s bespelled. I can smell it.” Phineas ran toward the far wall. “There’s a hole in the back. I can slip through.”
“Make a Door,” Brigadun begged. “Then we can all get out, and they won’t have any idea.”
Brystion and I exchanged a grim look. It was a good enough plan, even if I couldn’t follow through on it. “Do it,” I murmured to Melanie. “Get yourself out. I’ll be okay. If nothing else you and Phin can find Robert or someone else.”
“What about me?” the daemon whined up at me, struggling to break free from Brystion’s grip.
“What about you?” I retorted. “You don’t leave until I do.”
Melanie opened her violin case, fingers curling around the bow. “I need you to Contract with me,” she snapped at the daemon. “I can’t make a Door for myself.”
“What do I need to do?”
She pulled a tiny scroll from her back pocket. “Here, just push your thumb in that bit of wax.” He snatched the paper from her, pressing the scaled digit hard against the soft wax. “Now tell me where you want to go. Anywhere. Someplace safe.”
“The Hallows,” I shouted. “Go there.”
Brigadun nodded. “Sure. The Hallows.”
Ever the consummate performer, Melanie moved hurriedly but controlled, even as she started to play. The smoke grew stronger, something sooty falling from above.
“Maurice did this,” I said to Brigadun, though it wasn’t really a question.
He nodded, his eyes miserable. “I don’t want to die.” Melanie’s song changed, the beginnings of a silver Door taking shape against the back wall. And then the daemon let out a gurgle as his head slid from his body, bloody ichor rolling from his neck. The music cut off with a wail, and the Door faded into nothing.
Brysion shook his hand in disgust as Brigadun’s head fell with a sharp thud on the rotting wood floor. I gasped, my brain shutting down for a moment, so that time seemed to move in slow motion.
“Perfect timing,” a voice growled from the shadows. I cried out as large scaled hands snatched at Melanie, slicing into her arm. Another daemon emerged from behind a loose pile of boxes, a bloody dagger dripping from his hand.
Brystion moved in front of me, ignoring Brigadun’s now twitching body. As he engaged the daemon, he pushed me back toward the painting of Lintane, my bad knee twisting so that I stumbled. My face pressed against the canvas, the woman’s fingernails like brittle seashells.
From a distance, I could hear Melanie shrieking at me to get up, her voice wavering in pain, but all around me were shadows, the glint of scales lighting up against the flames. I rolled away from the painting, glancing up to see Melanie driven to her knees, the violin twisted in her hands as she tried to hold on to it.
With a crunch of bone, her fingers snapped as the daemon snatched at her wrist and bent it back. “No!” Her eyes rolled up to the back of her head and I shot forward to catch her before she faceplanted into the floor. The daemon leered at me, waving the violin just within arm’s reach. “Not my violin,” Melanie sobbed, struggling in my arms. From the corner of my eye, I caught Phineas bolting through a tiny hole at the bottom of the shed. “Help,” I muttered, knowing he wouldn’t hear me.
Brystion growled and moved to intercept the new daemon, his hand grasping the other’s wrist, trying to wrench the violin away. The knife-wielding daemon staggered to his feet, one arm hanging loose at his side.
“Brystion!” The words crackled from my throat a second too late, the knife slashing wide and fast, embedding itself in Brystion’s thigh.
He grunted, trying to whirl upon the attacker and yet not let go of the violin. My hands scraped the rotting floorboards as I tried to pull Melanie away. My fingernails bit into something hard, a handle.
I wiped soot out of my eyes. Brystion’s form was wavering in the heated air, the Glamour getting fuzzy at the edges. I thought I caught a glimpse of something black poking through the seams of his skin, but then he was rolling on the ground with the other daemon, the violin forgotten.
Without even realizing, I grabbed the handle, dimly recognizing it as a rusted triangle hoe. And then I was on my feet, swinging it toward the violin-stealing daemon’s head. He shouted something, the words lost in the cracking of the rooftop, as a rain of sparks fell down upon us. A siren wailed in the distance.
I swung again, the impact vibrating up to my elbows as the ancient hoe shattered against the daemon’s head. A rotting beam collapsed and then another and he faded into the smoke, violin still in hand. A moment later, a voice rattled off something in Latin, and then he brushed by me and crashed through the door, fresh air flushing in.
“Brystion,” I yelled, trying to pick Melanie off the ground. “We have to get out of here. Now,” I coughed.
He shifted to his feet, limping over to where
Melanie and I were. He dropped the knife that had been embedded in his leg, while behind him, the prone forms of Brigadun and the other daemon lay motionless. I turned away before I could see the bloody details.
Without a word, the incubus picked Melanie up, cradling her shock-ridden body gently against him. I followed, chucking the splintered remains of the hoe to the floor. The clean air swept through my lungs, making me gasp even as I staggered away. “What about the paintings?”
“Let them burn,” he said shortly, his leg buckling slightly. Melanie moaned, a guttural sound of heartache. The red flashing lights of an approaching fire truck reflected off the nearby houses, the strobe effect making me dizzy. I glanced back at the shed and realized that if mortal authorities found evidence of nonhuman bodies in there, things were not going to go over well.
I tugged on his sleeve to bring that little fact to his attention, but the explosion as the shed launched itself to the moon left the words ash in my mouth. I had only a moment to wonder just how much turpentine had been stored inside, and then the blast hit me in the back, thrusting me to my knees. I caught a whiff of brimstone. Maybe daemons were flammable too? In front of me, the incubus stumbled, pressing his body into the side of the house and hunching over Melanie.
Something sharp prickled into my palms and I realized I’d fallen onto the rosebush, its thorns lancing deep. My head throbbed with the smoke and the roar of the fire trucks, and yet all I could see was the dark crimson of my blood streaming from my fingertips, dripping onto the grass as though I might empty myself unto the earth.
The door to my apartment gave a welcoming creak, but it might have been the crack of doom for all the comfort it brought me. Brystion and I limped into my living room, a bloody, stinky mess of smoke and daemon ichor, grass stains and gashes. Whole in body, if not in heart, anyway. Phineas had not returned, and Melanie . . .
I’d let the ambulance take her away to the county hospital where I couldn’t follow. A quick phone call to Robert ensured she would be well guarded, and Brystion managed to wheedle our way out of too many questions. Just some concerned citizens walking home from the local bar, smelling something funny . . .
I don’t know if I would have bought it myself, but the incubus could be mighty convincing. He somehow managed to flash a brilliant smile despite his pain.
Melanie’s hand was broken, but it was the violin she was inconsolable about. “Find it, Abby,” her shattered voice shivered beneath the wail of the sirens. “My soul is inside it. The daemons have my soul.”
Her words continued to echo in the back of my mind, hollow and aching, swirling with the disappearence of Phineas. The tears rolled hot and wet down my chin. Silent, fragile at first, my throat locked into a whispering sob. I fought to hold it back, knowing that if it was allowed to come forth, all my grief, all that reality would have to be looked at, analyzed, and accepted. My gaze fell to the manila envelope on the table, and my limbs started to shake. “I can’t do this, Ion. I can’t lose anyone else.”
Brystion’s lips pressed gently on my temple as he pulled me even more tightly against him. “It’s all right,” he murmured. “I’ve got you. Let it go, Abby. Let it go.”
With a hoarse cry, I shattered, as though his words gave me final permission. My knees buckled as helpless rage and anger, as a sadness I had no words for, poured from me.
She’s gone. We’re sorry, Abby, but we had to bury her last week. You were still in a coma, hon, and well . . . we didn’t know if you’d wake up . . .
My head shaking in disbelief as the world broke into thousands of pieces, put back together like a retarded Humpty Dumpty, eggshells becoming nothing but powder, the yolk spilling down the wall. My body trembling uncontrollably, eyes rolling into the back of my head, voices screaming beside me. Pain as my head cracked the side of the hospital bed, my mouth dribbling a cocktail of spit and vomit . . .
She’s seizing! Get a doctor!
. . . and then nothing but blessed darkness as consciousness slipped away . . .
“She’s gone.” I mouthed the words, but no sound emerged. “She’s gone.” I tried harder this time, wincing at the pathetic tone. I closed my eyes against it. “She left me,” I whispered again.
Brystion turned me around, one hand snugly around my waist, the other cradling my head against his chest. This last act of tenderness did me in. I erupted into sobs, hard, ugly noises muffled in the cloth of his shirt. He was kissing my forehead, fingers running through the tangled mess of my hair.
“She didn’t mean to leave you,” he whispered. “You know that.”
“My fault,” I gasped. “I was driving. All my fault. If I had just paid more attention to the surroundings. We were arguing . . . and those motherfucking headlights came from nowhere . . .” I cringed beneath the memory of shattered glass and twisted metal, a high-pitched scream that just went on and on before I realized I was the one screaming. And Mother . . . Mother wasn’t moving at all, her face a pulpy mess of blood and tissue . . .
I choked on the emotion and fled into the bedroom, into the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet. In moments there was nothing left in my stomach, but I still sat there, heaving painfully. I welcomed it. It was something real to focus on, a problem I could at least pretend to fix, or wait for it to pass.
My arms trembled, smearing spittle over my lips as I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. “You want any help?” Brystion’s words were as soft as a caress.
I shook my head, trying to give him a smile and failing utterly. A question formed in his eyes, but he didn’t ask it. He just returned the gesture with a small smile of his own. Without a word, he slipped past me to the bath, and the shower came to life.
I sighed, slumping against the cold tiles, my head on my knees. For a moment, I wondered what it would be like to just curl up on the floor and melt away into nothing. But no, there was no honor in that. Groaning, I stood and staggered to the mirror.
I looked like hell. Between the smeared makeup, the tear streaks, the swollen face, and the rest of it, I was surprised Brystion hadn’t run screaming into the night. “Must be True Love,” I muttered, stripping off my filthy tank top. It was stained with vomit and sweat and reeked of fear. Numbly, I kicked it away, my skirt getting the same treatment.
Beside me, the incubus had done the same, bruises scattered along his shoulders, scratches etched into his arms from the other daemon’s claws. The wound on his leg had started scabbing over. My mouth opened, a worthless apology dangling from my tongue, but he merely shook his head and slid back the curtain, gesturing at me to follow.
There was nothing sexual about it this time, just my weary hand slipping into his for balance. Carefully, we washed each other, each breath pushing air to another sore spot. I forced myself to look at each of his wounds, knowing full well that I had none on myself, save from the thorns . . . and those were my fault.
I let him wash my hair, watching the soap bubbles run down the drain with the last of my emotions. He gently massaged my scalp before tipping my head back into the water for a final rinse. And then the water was off and he had a towel around me, ruffling it over my skin, tsking at the first sign of goose bumps. Snagging a towel of his own, he murmured something before disappearing into the bedroom, a gust of cool air taking his place.
Left with nothing but a weary silence inside, I dropped the towel, wrapping myself in my old bathrobe. I suppose it wasn’t exactly haute couture, but it wasn’t like I had anyone to impress. I finger-combed my hair, studying my scar in the mirror like I always did. With a sigh, I covered it back up. I may have earned the damn thing, but that didn’t mean I was ready to display it.
Emerging from my steaming cocoon of comfort and lavender shampoo, I padded into my bedroom, turning on the small light next to my bed. The faint smell of something warm and breadlike emanated from the kitchen. I poked my head around the corner.
Brystion looked up as I peered past him, his lips twitching when my gaze fell on the tightly wrap
ped towel at his hips. “I made you some toast,” he said softly. “And some tea.” He gestured at the mug as though uncertain of my reaction. “Hardly a gourmet meal, but you need a little something in your stomach. Go lie down; I’ll bring it in.”
I retreated without hesitation to the shelter of my bed. The blankets were still wrecked from yesterday morning. I couldn’t help the quiet chuckle falling from my lips, remembering Brystion holding the frying pan. How quickly things had changed.
I slid under the sheets, tucking the coverlet up around my shoulders. The faint beacon of his scent still ghosted there, and I pressed it to my cheek, wondering if that’s how it was for women visited by incubi—to just wake up to an empty bed with only a barest hint of their dream lover drifting over their skin like a heady perfume.
I glanced up to see Brystion standing in the doorway, amusement etched across his face. He held a tray with a plate and a steaming mug. He carefully set it down on the table next to the bed, before sitting beside me. His back was still damp and the hair on his shoulders gleamed. “You need anything else?”
“Just let me see if I can keep this down,” I said wryly, clutching the teacup between my fingers. The mug was uncomfortably hot, but I didn’t want to put it down. I sipped it slowly, my eyes shutting as the sweetened liquid slipped into my throat, chased by something with a bit more kick. “Added a little something extra, I see,” I murmured, turning my head to face him.
“Whiskey.” He gave me a lopsided grin. “You look like you need it.” It roiled in my belly for a moment and then settled pleasantly.
“Mmmm.” I took another sip. “It’s pretty good.” Suddenly ravenous, I snagged the toast, finishing it up in short order, the second piece following suit. He watched me eat in silence, leaning forward to brush a few stray crumbs from my robe, the back of his knuckles grazing my chin. I froze, the heat from his hand matching the burning fire in my belly. I raised the now trembling cup to my lips, washing the last of my toast down a throat suddenly far too dry.