by Daniel Marks
“Perhaps.” She crossed her legs elegantly and relaxed into the chair a bit. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Thank you, Dr. McKellar. “Well, then, if you’re aware of what I can do, why don’t we spare some time and just get to the question and answer portion of this game show.”
“Ooh, yes. Let’s do.” He grinned, a glow breaking through a crack in the dried mud beneath his chin like light catching on a choker.
“Let’s start at the beginning. Did you acquire the captured soul yourself, or did you find him on some antiques store shelf or something?” Velvet knew the answer to this one without the banshee uttering a word, but it never hurt to start small.
“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course I imprisoned the soul. Masterfully, too. Just slipped it right inside that crystal ball like an eight ball in the pocket. But that’s not the information you’re after. You want to know when the departure is coming.”
She did indeed want to know that, but it hadn’t occurred to her that he’d offer up such important intelligence. She nodded.
“Well, I won’t tell you,” he said smugly.
“Of course not. That’d be too simple.”
“Exactly.”
“Well, then, let’s stay with the incident at Madame Despot’s Fortunes and Favors.”
He nodded in an overly congenial sort of way.
“What was the purpose of possessing that particular woman?”
“The choice of Madame Despot was entirely incidental. A mere hack as a medium, the woman was less talented than a late-night infomercial psychic. She simply had a space for me to ply my trade. A comfortable one, too, don’t you think? Roomy.”
Velvet considered the Goth trappings of the fortune-teller’s rooms, creepy but warm. She had to admit she kind of loved it, but that was beside the point.
“Well, if you know so much about my ability to nerve read, then you must’ve been aware that we’d isolate your activity from the shadowquake. Did you think we wouldn’t come for you?”
“Of course I knew. We expected it, with a disturbance of this magnitude.”
Ah. He’d slipped. “We?” she said, smiling slyly.
“I meant that in the royal sense.” He bowed deeply, flourishing the movement with a flutter of his wrist like she’d seen many times in movies about kings and queens and such.
“I don’t think you did.”
“Well, regardless of what you think, little girl, I meant what I meant. Or we meant what we meant, as the case may be.”
More rigmarole, she thought. A word her mother used to use when Velvet was being “gamey,” as she’d put it. Most of the time, Velvet was just trying to talk her way out of some mess or another, missing curfew, getting an F on a science test, roughing up her brothers.
Same thing with this guy.
“It doesn’t make sense. You say you expected us to come. Well, then, why do it? An act of civil unrest? Terrorism? Have the revolutionaries turned to shadowquakes to make their point?”
“All of the above.” The banshee cackled and slapped his knee, clearly impressed with his response.
Velvet was not.
“What’s your name, banshee?” she asked.
“I’m certainly not going to tell you that.”
“Yes, you will.”
“No, I …” His voice trailed off. His eyes widened.
Velvet fondled the key and the charms dangling from its thick pinch point. She pieced out the sterling image of the skull and held it between her index finger and thumb. It was so delicate.
And the key was so sharp.
She lunged forward, throwing her shoulder against the bars of the cell, with such speed and ferocity that the banshee didn’t have a chance to back away. The key punctured his glowing forehead. He bucked a moment, spasming, fists pumping around the bars, and then he dropped to the dirt floor like a sack of flour. Velvet dropped to her knees along with him, the ribbon attached to the key still around her neck, linking her to the fallen soul. He was on his face, one arm extended past the bars nearly to his armpit. She maneuvered around and rested her weight on his bicep.
“Try getting up,” she whispered. “Just try it.”
All around her the hissing of the inmates echoed, becoming louder and louder as it washed through the prison like a tsunami. She wished that hushing them were as simple as screaming “Shut up,” but that had never worked before, and it certainly wouldn’t have worked then. She lifted his head and felt for the edge of the charm. What she found there made her stomach jerk inside her. The fall had forced the charm deep inside. She shuddered, braced herself, and gave the ribbon a tug.
Once. Twice.
A thin drizzle of clear ooze dropped from the hole and puddled in the dirt. It glowed there for a moment, and Velvet resisted the urge to vomit upon seeing the squirming phosphorous worms that she knew were only displaced nerves. Pressing her fingers around the edge of the charm, she asked again, “What’s your name?”
She closed her eyes and let the banshee’s thoughts flood into her. There was blackness mostly, a dark as evil and unwelcome as the curling inky shadows that filled the streets during a shadowquake. But occasionally, and only briefly, those black clouds broke and Velvet could see his memories, sparking from his phantom nerves.
A street in Chinatown, but not from the Asian section of a city in America. It was from Vermillion there in purgatory. Velvet had never been to the district, but she’d definitely heard stories of it. Exotic and grand, Vermillion’s walls were laced with Salvaged pagoda tiles and hung with paper lanterns folded around the gaslight globes. A gigantic tower of stacked roofs was the district’s station. The Grand Pagoda sat atop a cliff, an atoll amid the murky glow of the city, the ascent to it cruel and forbidding. In storefronts, crimson robes and scrolls and ancient musical instruments hung from hooks, instead of the more traditional roast duck. She saw a narrow stairwell and a door with a sign that read Dr. Chan’s Homeopathy. Underneath that, intricate Chinese characters were carved directly into the door. As the door opened, she saw not a waiting room full of ailing patients but a printing press and stacks of paper as high as the ceiling, each piece imprinted with a similar logo.
A red panda.
The darkness clouded her vision again. She dug the charm deeper into the banshee, nearly all the way up to the knotted velvet ribbon. But Velvet was already listing into a deeper trance, and the sound of the banshee’s cries muffled to whispers.
Then she was walking down a thin alley. Cracks split the stone walls at regular intervals, and above her the sky was black, not with the ink of shadow but with an all too regular view of nighttime. No souls passed over. None.
She shivered. Something horrible was going to happen.
Horrible.
Her head was filled next with a confusing collage of crystal balls all lined up in rows on metal shelves, stacks of the paper figures—a few so closely resembling Manny it seemed she’d have had to sit for the artist while he or she worked—leaned limply against the wall like the fallen victims of a firing squad, and the sound of a man laughing, his cruel snicker a warning of horrors to come. The laughter brought her mind instantly back to Bonesaw.
He’d chuckle under his breath as he did his worst—as though the curls of skin he removed were wooden shavings from a perfect, adorable decoration he was carving, and not disfiguring torture.
The dread fueled her anger. The images flickered and decayed, and Velvet slowly returned to the Cellar, to the droning hiss of the prisoners.
It was enough.
She had her lead.
In front of her, the banshee was seizing like bacon in a frying pan. She scowled at the evil soul and let him squirm a few moments more before jerking the charm from the wound in his forehead.
He let out a long scream and scuttled into the center of the cell, beyond her reach. “You only think you know,” he whimpered.
“I know enough,” Velvet said bluntly, rising to her feet and brushing her knees of dust. She turned to l
eave him alone in the dark.
“Wait!” he called after her. “You’ll need to know a lot more if you expect to stop what’s already in motion.”
“Oh? And you’ll tell me?” She didn’t bother to turn back and look at the soul.
There was a slight pause, and then he offered a weak, “I might.”
His was a feeble ploy and a complete waste of Velvet’s time. The banshee would no more tell her his secrets than she would ever visit him again. Little did he know, this would be their last contact. It was enough to learn that Nick’s soul imprisonment was connected to the departure, as were the crystal balls. But for as many leads the interrogation derived, there were twice as many questions.
Were the paper figures the key? The effigy had certainly played no small part in the revolutionary’s plans this evening.
She’d have to talk to the only person she knew skilled in making such intricate things from paper. Mr. Fassbinder. He was sure to point her in the right direction.
She smiled wanly at the prisoner.
“I might be back. You never know,” she lied, and marched straight to the stairs, past the cursing souls in their cells.
The last one hissed, “He knows your sin.”
This time Velvet hissed back.
Chapter 13
Slow shimmying descents were perfect for napping. Something about the rhythmic clanking of the railcar’s wheels and the droning whoosh of air against the windowless frames lulled Velvet like nobody’s business. And God did she ever need the rest.
She leaned her head against the wall and leveled her eyes on the horizon, where the inky sky met the gray rooftops and ash fell like dreary rain on the black umbrellas of a funeral. The night was circular, she decided, a tedious loop of tasks and responsibilities. Moments recalling moments, followed by the same and more of the same.
The exhaustion was taking hold.
After the events in the Cellar, Velvet had met with Manny in her private curtained sitting room, candles beating their shadows against the fabric walls like a stiff, quiet breeze. They’d both agreed that the visions required the utmost discretion.
“The revolution is amping up,” Manny said, her eyes downcast, the glimmer fading with her mood. “It has to be stamped out before something terrible happens. Something horrible.”
Velvet leaned forward in the wingback chair, her fingers tracing the ridges of its dense brocade. “Do you think this goes beyond the Latin Quarter? I mean, if Vermillion is involved.”
“No. I don’t think so. The disturbances have been fairly isolated to our district. And, let’s face it, the Latin Quarter has always had its share of rabble-rousers. We’re a militant bunch. We’re fighters. You know that better than anyone, I suspect.”
Velvet nodded. Their team was consistently called to consult with other districts when the other districts experienced problems. Primarily because the Latin Quarter’s Salvagers never hesitated to settle issues with violence. Their reputation as the muscle was both well-earned and widespread. And the citizenry of the Latin Quarter weren’t a whole lot different—back alley brawling was a favorite pastime. Maybe they’d learned to raise their fists instead of their voices in the same way a child learns to be abusive by watching her parents. Imitation is the highest form of flattery. Was that the saying?
That didn’t explain Velvet, though.
Not at all.
Manny delivered her directive with a sigh. “Follow up on your leads, and I’ll set someone to the task of investigating this Vermillion connection. You’ve done righteous work this evening. It’s appreciated.”
Velvet stood up. The religious connotations of the station agent’s words weren’t lost on her, but it seemed that, like everything else in purgatory, good and evil, the righteous and the sacrilegious, all the big issues were less black-and-white and more gray.
Mind-numbingly gray.
She’d never been a religious girl, and she still wasn’t. Until there was proof that anything existed beyond purgatory, Velvet would simply do her job—Salvage souls that didn’t have any business in the daylight, and that would be that.
It didn’t make her a good person.
Just a good worker.
The railcar jerked forward, jarring Velvet from sleep. The platform on the square appeared on her right, along with Quentin, Logan, Luisa, and Nick, crammed together on the single bench, their heads tossed back in sleep, mouths open and spewing light in columns like modern art sculptures. The twins’ feet dangled above the cobblestones, and Nick’s arm lay across their laps like the lap bar of a carnival ride, the posture protective rather than creepy.
She slipped from the car quietly and watched them a moment. Truth be told, she wanted them to rest, even if she never seemed able to get the chance. They deserved it. Deserved whatever they wanted. They were the best Salvage crew in the world, and she didn’t tell them that enough.
Of course, if she did, there’d be plenty of eye rolling and “whatevers.” But that was beside the point.
She was about to bite the bullet and express her admiration, when Quentin twitched, his knee jumping slightly. Then, as though some unconscious language existed between them, Logan and Luisa responded; the boy by brushing away an invisible fly, the girl by emitting a gentle moan, nearly a whisper.
And then, from the other side of the bench, Nick’s long leg flopped absurdly. Talk about some fast bonding.
She glared at it. At Nick. And then all of them. Leave them alone for an hour and look what happens, cozied up like BFFs. Stabby thoughts were swimming all around her. What did they see in the guy? And Luisa! What could she possibly think might happen between Nick and Velvet? Like him? She didn’t even know him.
Velvet cleared her throat, but the sound came out a pathetic choking gag.
Quentin yawned loudly, stretched, and peered up at her through squinted eyes. “It’s like the next day, right?”
“Try the next night,” Logan muttered, reaching his arms over his head and belching.
“Ugh.” Luisa groaned and stood, tossing Nick’s hand to the side brusquely. “That must have been some interrogation.”
“It was. I’ll tell you about it … later.” Velvet planted her hands on her hips. It was going to take more than shoptalk to distract her. “You’re all looking pretty cozy.”
Quentin nodded. “Yeah, Nick’s almost got me talked into approaching Shandie.”
Her mouth dropped open, and she turned her gaze on Nick, gawping in disbelief. “Seriously? What are you, a wizard?”
Nick shrugged like it was no big deal.
The most girl-phobic boy ever had been completely cured by a few minutes with this guy? Really? Velvet wasn’t buying it. She stomped down the ramp, waving them off. “You guys are fucking with me.”
“Oh, no. It’s true. Yeah,” Quentin said, heading her off. He straightened and puffed out his sunken chest as far as it would go. “I’m gonna get my girl.” He let the word “girl” stretch on with swagger, and Velvet felt her stomach turn.
“You certainly seem to think so.”
“Well, to be fair, in a roundabout way, it was sort of Shandie’s idea,” Nick said from behind her. “The guys were showing me around the square, and all the weird paper stuff for sale here, like I’d died and gone to Office Depot. And I noticed this girl hanging around in the background. Giant Mickey Mouse hair, expensive clothes, smirk.”
“That’s Shandie,” Velvet agreed.
“Yeah. The same one Quentin was drooling all over back at the station.”
“You mean the one he was stalking?” Velvet asked, glaring at Quentin.
“Yeah!” Nick materialized at her side. His elbow brushed her upper arm as he bounced on the balls of his feet with pride. “Only this time, she was the one doing all the stalking.” He swatted Quentin on the shoulder and winked smugly. “ ’Cause our man here is smokin’. Right? Right?”
Quentin beamed. There was no denying it: he was pumped up on whatever crack-fueled advice Nick was
pushing, and was itching to throw himself at the enemy. Bile rose in Velvet’s throat.
“No way.” Velvet stepped aside, putting a little air between her and the boy throwing a monkey wrench at her team. “That’s sort of awesome, Quentin.”
“That’s what I said,” Luisa quipped, strutting past and down the center of the main street. The rest of them followed her.
“So, you’re ready, then, Quentin?” Velvet asked, gearing up. “Sigmund Freud here has cured your panic attacks in one session?”
“Aw. Come on,” Nick wrapped his arm around Quentin’s shoulder as they walked. “Fear of rejection is the killer of many romantic teen scenarios. It’s the scourge of adolescence. All I told him is to embrace the possibility that Shandie won’t like him and go for it anyway. She is, after all, pretty hot.”
“Yeah.” Quentin beamed. “What’s the worst that could happen?”
She could tell you to eat shit and die, Velvet thought, but kept her mouth shut.
But it was Nick who said, right after, “She could tell him to eat shit and die, right? Words. Just words. That kind of stuff never lasts. People are fickle; they may laugh at you and stuff, but they always move on to the next tragedy as soon as it happens. In the end, it’s more about Quentin than it is the girl. It’s about courage. The act of talking to her. Exposing himself.”
Logan busted up laughing.
Nick rolled his eyes and crammed his hands into his back pockets. “Not that way. I mean, being vulnerable with her. That’s what’s gonna make you a man. It’s going to kill that fear and bury it as deep as the bodies he thieves are kept.”
“What are you, some sort of guidance counselor?” Velvet asked.
Nick nodded. “I’m the fucking Geek Whisperer, dude.”
Quentin slipped past them and joined the twins already nearing the main entrance to the Retrieval dorm. Velvet snatched Nick’s arm and stopped him dead in his tracks.