Highborn

by Yvonne Navarro

  “Bingo,” Redmond said grimly. “It appears that our Mr. Klesowitch was notably absent from work on all the same days that there were daytime shootings, which means five times out of eight. What are the odds.”

  It wasn’t a question, so Brynna didn’t try to answer. “Where are we going?”

  “Back to Klesowitch’s apartment.” He glanced at her. “Unless you’re too tired—I can take you home first.”

  She shook her head. “I’m fine. The wound is barely noticeable now.”

  He opened his mouth but the ring of his cell phone cut off whatever he was about to say. “Redmond,” he said into the receiver. He listened for a few seconds, his face darkening. “I’m on my way.”

  Brynna looked at him. “What was that all about?”

  Redmond’s jaw was rigid as he hit a switch on the dashboard. Blue lights began to strobe across the front of the vehicle as he pushed hard on the accelerator, weaving in and out of traffic. “There’s been some kind of incident at Klesowitch’s building,” he told her. “The beat cop who called me said something about a fire. He wasn’t making much sense and I couldn’t make it all out because of the sirens and the noise in the background.

  “But I think Clara Sweedlow is dead.”

  Seventeen

  “This doesn’t look promising,” Redmond said.

  They’d made their way past the multitude of vehicles outside, following the line of people into the building and up the stairs. The third floor hallway outside Clara Sweedlow’s apartment was packed with fire department and police personnel, and yellow crime scene tape had been used to cordon off the area at the top of the stairwell. Despite all the people, there wasn’t very much noise—no one, it seemed, had a whole lot to offer in the way of comments.

  “Ma’am,” said one of the firemen when he saw Brynna duck under the tape and follow Redmond to the apartment door, “you probably don’t want to see this.”

  “She’s fine,” Redmond said, making Brynna wonder if he was finally on his way to believing her origins. She had an idea that the scene he was about to see would help push that along.

  Redmond was only three feet into the apartment when he froze. “Jesus,” he breathed.

  Brynna stood next to him and said nothing. She’d seen things like this before—in fact, much worse—but this was probably a first for Redmond and the rest of the people here. For them it had to be a definite jolt.

  Most of the living room was untouched. The photos still hung on the walls, the curtains at the windows were clear and cream-colored, drifting gently where they were closest to the flow of the air conditioner. There was a slightly sweet scent to the air, and Brynna traced it to the flowers next to the couch. Earlier in the afternoon they had brightened up the room and given it life; now the fragrance was out of place and the cheerful colors were a mockery.

  There wasn’t much left of Clara Sweedlow except a foot encased in a pink leatherette slipper below a pile of gray ash and blackened cinders. Most of the old woman’s remains were still in her rocking chair, although the burn marks on the floral fabric extended only a few inches around the impression of where her body had been. The sides and back of the chair were untouched, as was the throw rug beneath it. Brynna knew the humans would expect to smell burned flesh and fat, but the air was pretty clean.

  “Some kind of a fire,” said one of the firemen uselessly. His uniform had markings on it that Brynna assumed indicated he was some kind of official. “Probably flammable clothes. Maybe she was smoking—”

  “She didn’t smoke,” Redmond said.

  The fireman frowned. “Well, she had to have done something. It’s all preliminary right now, but there’s no evidence of an accelerant, and people don’t just burn up by themselves.”

  “Spontaneous human combustion, Captain.”

  “What?” The captain turned toward a younger fireman who’d spoken.

  “I read up on it—we all did at one time or another. In fact”—he pointed at Clara Sweedlow’s foot—“this looks just like the photograph of one of the cases from back in the sixties, I think it was.”

  “I don’t want to hear you spreading rumors like that,” the captain snapped. “There’s a scientific reason for what happened to this woman. We just haven’t found it yet. Get back downstairs. Now.” The captain glanced at Redmond and shook his head in disgust as his chastised fireman headed out of the apartment. “Damned kids. They’ll believe anything they read on the Internet.”

  Redmond didn’t answer, but Brynna saw him glance her way. When the captain had finally moved out of earshot, he touched her elbow. “What the hell happened here, Brynna? Do you know?”

  “Lahash,” she said quietly. “It’s his trademark.”

  Redmond stared at her, horrified. “Trademark?”

  She nodded, making sure that no one else could overhear them. “Yes. He doesn’t do it often because it would call too much attention from bigger powers than him, but this is what he does to humans who really annoy him.” She glanced at the doorway, but the younger fireman was gone. “That guy actually hit it right on the head. Every recorded instance of so-called spontaneous human combustion through the centuries has been Lahash’s work.”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “No. Your scientists and forensics people will work very hard to come up with an explanation, and they’ll probably even come up with some chemical process. And why not? Life itself is a chemical process … until you get down to that very last question: What makes it start to begin with? And that same question applies here. What made the fire start to begin with? The answer is Lahash.”

  Redmond said nothing for a long moment. Then he asked, “And Lahash is like … you.”

  “Yes.”

  His gaze swept what was left of Clara Sweedlow. “Is this what you did to that witch doctor you said was in the jewelry store basement?”

  “Yes,” Brynna admitted. “I just didn’t leave anything. Lahash likes to sign his work.” She looked around the living room, and again was drawn to the photographs. She couldn’t help examining them, following them from one end to the other, the oldest to the most recent. It was clear where Clara Sweedlow’s life had started, from the grainy baby photographs taken almost three-quarters of a century ago to the sharp clarity of the more modern ones. Once upon a time, she’d been married and had children, and in the last one she was smiling around a couple of grandkids. It was a picture book of the old woman’s life, and now she was gone, her existence snuffed out by a petulant, vengeful being who could live forever and therefore had no perception of how precious a human life could be. A being like herself.

  “Let’s go,” Redmond said. “The uniforms will fill out all the paperwork. I’ve told them as much as I can.”

  “Yeah,” she said. She knew exactly what he meant. “Let’s.”

  They talked very little on the ride back to her apartment. Brynna watched the buildings and the people flash by as the car sped southward, still thinking about the brevity of human life. And yet the men and women kept going, most struggling to make their existences not only the best it could be for themselves but for their oh-so-short futures and their children, or sometimes just for others in general. They were tenacious and industrious, creative and inquisitive. They were strong.

  “I’m sorry,” Brynna said as Redmond eased the car into a parking spot close to her building.

  He shut off the engine. “About what?”

  “That Lahash killed that woman.” She looked down at her hands, thinking again about how quickly her own body healed and how well she could endure pain. Clara Sweedlow hadn’t had either ability. She probably hadn’t even understood what was happening, and she most definitely wouldn’t have known why. “She must have suffered terribly,” Brynna added softly. “It’s pretty unfair.”

  “Yes, it is,” Redmond said after a moment. “Come on. I’ll walk you inside. I want to check on the cop assigned to Mireva, anyway.”

  Brynna let Redmond go upstairs to Abr
ienda’s apartment while she wandered around her own place, not sure what to do with herself. Since she’d moved in, the building had gained a reputation as a place not to hang around or mess with. The gangbangers and dealers went somewhere else and the tenants slept more soundly; even the domestic spats had all but disappeared. Every time she came back from being gone for more than three or four hours, some small gift was left in her apartment or something was cleaned or changed. She guessed it was the people in the building because she didn’t bother to lock the door. But wasn’t it a lot more common for things to be taken away? Now there were things hung on the walls, well-used, inexpensive pictures and small, homemade wall decorations. There were towels in the bathroom, dishes in the kitchen, knickknacks here and there. What had been a dingy little hovel was actually starting to look like a welcoming place to live. Tonight, for instance, there was a bright red throw folded neatly across the bottom third of the bed, itself made with new (to her) sheets that had shown up last week. On Monday night, she’d come in and been startled to see a worn but serviceable blue love seat against one wall.

  Brynna sat on it now, settling back to wait for Redmond and kicking off her athletic shoes with enough force to send them across the small room. She was tired but not as sore as she expected; this last bullet wound had been the least troublesome. The reactions of her human body—hunger, exhaustion, and especially emotion—still often surprised her. The curtains, which were really nothing more than a couple of mismatched sheets, were spread across the front window to keep out the summer heat and the stares of curious children. Sometimes it didn’t hit Brynna until she came home how much she was on edge outside, how she always expected a Hunter to show up at any moment. Now that she was out of the public eye, Brynna almost felt safe. Almost.

  She’d become familiar with Redmond’s footsteps and she heard him long before he turned the doorknob. He stepped inside and shut the door behind him, pausing for a moment before he came and sat next to her. Brynna thought he looked as tired as she felt. “What did you just do?” she asked. “At the door.”

  “I locked it.”

  “I never lock it.”

  He looked at her in surprise. “Oh—sorry. Habit, I guess.”

  Of course—that’s what normal people did. Brynna wondered if Clara Sweedlow’s door had been locked. It wouldn’t have made any difference.

  “How’s your arm?”

  Brynna glanced down automatically, a silly thing to do because her arm and the bandaged wound were covered by the long sleeve of her shirt. “It’s okay. It’ll be gone by tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Have you changed the dressing?”

  “No. Should I have?”

  “It could get infected,” he said. “No matter how strong you think you are, the world is still full of bacteria. And weren’t you the one who said it’s all just a great big chemical reaction?”

  “But it’s fine.”

  “Wound dressings should be changed every twenty-four hours,” Redmond said firmly. “No arguing.” He got up and went into the tiny bathroom; she heard him rummaging around for a minute, then he came back with clean gauze and tape. “Sleeve up,” he ordered.

  Brynna obeyed. She didn’t want to, but at the same time, she did. It wasn’t a good idea to have him so close. He was just a man, a human, and it wasn’t safe. Maybe by modern human standards it wasn’t much, but they had a history. That first touch, that kiss … no one knew better than Brynna how it could work on the psyche. Memory, desire, pheromones, hormones. They all played a part in how the universe went round. Birds and the bees. Demons and angels and humans.

  Redmond’s touch was gentle, surprisingly adept. He frowned as he tugged the medical tape free, glancing at her to see if it hurt. Brynna met his gaze then made herself look away; the old saying about eyes being the windows to the soul was truer than humans realized, and there was too much going on in his eyes. No matter how tempting, getting involved with a human, with Redmond, promised too many pitfalls for a fleeting bit of pleasure. She was supposed to be seeking redemption, not thinking about delights of the flesh, but that was getting damned hard with him sitting right next to her. Brynna could smell his aftershave, something human-made but woodsy and not too sweet. It shocked her how appealing the scent was, and how much of an impact this contact was having on her. Could he hear how her breathing had increased? No—he wouldn’t notice. She had to hide it, to keep herself under control. Just a few more minutes and he would leave.

  “It looks good,” he said after he’d switched the existing bandage for a new one, then secured it. “I’m amazed, but I have to admit that you’re right. It’ll probably be gone by tomorrow.” Brynna could see it wasn’t necessary, but he reached over and rubbed at the tape to make sure it held.

  “You shouldn’t be touching me,” she said.

  Brynna had hoped that by saying it out loud, Redmond would instinctively take his hand off her. Instead, her words had the opposite effect—rather than let go, he slid his hand down and wrapped his fingers around hers. “Why not?”

  She was going to say Because it’s not safe, but she never had the chance.

  IT WAS FIRE.

  It was ice.

  It was like nothing Redmond had ever experienced.

  The bed was a twin with a lumpy mattress and faded, overwashed sheets that were scratchy and thin with age. He hadn’t been on anything like it since his Army days at Fort Riley, when he’d shivered under coarse blankets in a drafty barracks and you could see your own breath in the morning. But that bed—about the same size and appearance—had never been like this one. This one was …

  Endless.

  He had the sensation of floating, or sinking, or falling off the end of the world. And yet the edge was never there to slip over, the wall was never there to offer a solid connection to the earth. Sheets that should have been rough and uncomfortable surrounded his limbs like ocean waters, warm and tropical and fluid, that seeped into everything and caressed him in all his most secret places. Brynna’s hands followed the sensation, or maybe the sensation followed her hands—her touch was cold, then hot, then cold again, until Redmond couldn’t tell which was which.

  At forty, Redmond had been with his share of women, but Brynna was different. Her body was lean and supple, almost hard, but it fit him perfectly. None of his previous partners had looked anything like her—he’d always preferred smaller, more rounded ladies—but now they all felt lacking, in too many ways to recount. Everything about Brynna somehow eclipsed them, wiping their faces and existence from his mind until all that was left were long-ago echoes in his memory.

  He felt like he was suffocating with pleasure, like all the air was disappearing from the room but oxygen itself was too trivial to matter. Brynna always seemed to know exactly what to do and how to do it, and if there was anything that could have been better about their joining, it was that she talked the entire time. Not just murmurings of endearment or the sometimes nonsensical cooing of sex partners, but full, odd sentences, questions that she demanded he answer—

  “You’re not offering me anything, right? You’re not giving me anything?”

  —but in only a negative way, when in reality he would have given her anything in his power.

  “Not now, not ever. Right? Say it, Eran Redmond, say that you’re not giving me anything.”

  Over and over, insisting that he never, ever offer her anything more tangible than this single, ecstasy-filled night in her apartment.

  She smelled of the darkness, rich and heavy, like a forbidden flower from some lost and impenetrable jungle. Her kisses were sweet and spicy-hot, her teeth and nails sharp enough across his flesh to sting but never drawing blood. It was fantastic and tortuous at the same time, a ride of sensuality that did not so much rise and fall as skyrocket and plummet, a roller coaster of the body that always seemed to teeter on the edge of simply stopping his heartbeat.

  And the night itself felt like it stretched to infinity.

  “I CAN’T G
O HOME? Are you serious?”

  Michael Klesowitch stared at the Holy Man, trying to fathom the bomb he’d just dropped on Michael’s head. It didn’t have nearly enough time to settle before the next one came down with all the gentleness of a sledgehammer.

  “You can’t go back to your job, either.”

  Klesowitch’s mouth worked, but he couldn’t get his brain to slow down enough to make a coherent sound come out. This wasn’t what was supposed to happen—it wasn’t right. He was supposed to be rewarded for doing God’s work, not punished. No job, no place to go—

  “It’s only for a little while,” the Holy Man said. His voice was soothing and gentle, but it didn’t make Klesowitch feel any better.

  “I don’t want to be a martyr,” Klesowitch blurted. “I didn’t sign up for that. I just wanted to help.”

  “Sometimes there is a high price for doing what’s right.”

  Klesowitch blinked at him. A high price? Had the Holy Man—Hank—really just said that? This wasn’t a high price. This was everything.

  “I don’t believe you,” Klesowitch said suddenly. He didn’t know why he’d said that, he just had. He felt like a teenager, spewing words at his parents without thinking about them, without regard for the consequences.

  Hank looked wounded. “Have I ever lied to you?”

  Klesowitch didn’t answer. He couldn’t. If Hank had lied, how would he know?

  Can’t go home. Can’t go to work. Can’t go home.

  It just kept repeating in his head, like the chorus of a hymn. Hank had intercepted him coming out of the grocery store, walking along to Klesowitch’s car and watching as he put his two bags inside. These two bags—there was nothing else. Other than his car, his gun, and the clothes on his back, this was everything he owned in the world now. Klesowitch’s eyes burned with tears. He would be a street person, a homeless man sleeping on park benches and eating from the garbage cans behind restaurants, huddling beneath cardboard boxes over the steam grates on Lower Wacker Drive in the dead of winter. How had all that had been his life up to now come to this? And this man, with his pristine hair and clothes by designers whose names Klesowitch couldn’t even pronounce—what did he know of homelessness and street life? Of poverty? For that matter, what did Michael himself know about it?