“A few,” I say.
“Roland Thomas was the first, but he wasn’t the last.”
I shake my head. “No, he wasn’t the last.”
Niko’s hands have a slight tremor now, and he looks everywhere but at me. I can’t blame him. Don’t I have trouble looking at my own face in the mirror? “I saw the clippings in your room when you were sick. I wondered—” He breaks off with a strangled sound, as though he can’t quite put the thought into words. He closes his eyes for a moment and then reopens them. “Why? I can understand why you killed Thomas, but why the others? Why didn’t you fight the Furies?”
“I did. I did the best I could, Niko. That’s why my parents sent me to Brighter Day. They’re quiet when They get what They want. But it’s hard to ignore Them when They’re hungry. There are so many bad men in the world who want to hurt women. Like Roland hurt me.” A horrible wave of pain crashes toward me, filled with memories that I don’t want. I resist it. I won’t give in to it.
“Amelie, I love you. But this—” All of the joy I might have felt at his declaration is consumed by the way he fumbles nervously for his coffee cup. I can imagine how it all went down. Niko looking at the grainy crime-scene photos, the articles triggering his suspicions into full-fledged doubts. This moment is my nightmare come to life. Niko now sees me for the fiend that I am.
How can anyone love a monster?
I wrap my hands around my mug and drain the scalding liquid in one gulp. There isn’t all that much I can say in my defense, so I don’t even bother.
Niko sets his coffee down and scrubs his hand across his face. It doesn’t take a genius to see that my affirmation may be too much for him. “The pictures. Did you really do that?” he asks again, like he can’t believe my earlier answer.
The waitress appears and refills our coffee cups, giving both of us curious looks before disappearing again. I’m shaking now, with despair, with fear at the direction this conversation is taking. I look down into my coffee cup. “I don’t know. I guess, in a way. I wasn’t in control then. You saw what I’m up against. Sometimes I have . . . lapses. When They’re in control, things get messy.”
“Messy.” His voice is flat. It was the wrong thing to say. “And what about when you’re in control? Do people still die?”
I’m about to say, “Only the guilty,” when the memory of Jefferson Halsey stops me. He’s right. When I’m around, people die. Guilty or not.
Niko takes the pause as agreement. “This is so much bigger than what you told me. Was any of that true?”
“Yes. It was all true. I just left some parts out.”
He laughs bitterly. “You don’t say.” Niko sits back hard and exhales. “What the fuck, Amelie?”
“Yeah.” My voice is little more than a whisper. Inside I’m being torn apart, each one of his words a jagged piece of glass slicing through my heart. “It doesn’t change the way I feel about you, though. I love you.” It sounds pathetic.
Niko closes his eyes for a moment, and then looks at me. Really looks at me. The pain in his expression gives me an odd sort of hope. “How do you know what you feel, Amelie?” he asks. “How can you even know what love is, or that you love me?”
I blink back tears and resist the urge to reach across the table to touch him. When I speak, it’s the honest, unvarnished truth, as ugly as it might be. “Because I never thought about hurting you.”
Niko’s face twists, his expression landing somewhere between horror and pain. What’s left of my heart shatters into a million pieces. I stare down at my lap, and my tears fall unchecked onto my thighs. I’m surprised to see them, but I can’t seem to feel anything else. The agony is too great. I deserve this. I should feel like my chest is being ripped open. This is what I get for being a psycho.
Niko leans forward, tipping my chin up so he can look into my eyes. “Don’t cry. Please. I still love you. But this thing with the Furies, and you killing people . . . I don’t know if I can handle this. It’s not like you’re skipping class or smoking pot. You kill people. And you lied to me about it. Worst of all, I think you might like it.” He pauses, and it’s a struggle to hear his next words, his voice is so soft. “You’re better than this. I know you are. You have to be.” His sorrowful tone is a slap in the face after his calling me a killer, and I can’t hide my flinch.
He pulls away and drums his fingers on the tabletop. “I need some space to think, to figure out what to do. Maybe we can talk about this in a couple of days. . . .” He trails off, hands held out beseechingly. I look away for a few long seconds. When I turn back to him, he pushes his hand through his hair and swears under his breath. I don’t want to see the emotion on his face, so I quickly look down. “I’ll give you a call in a couple of weeks, okay?” he says. It’s not a promise. It’s a blow-off. Because I couldn’t be honest with him and because I’m a killer, I’ve lost him forever. My anchor.
And now I’m adrift in a sea of despair.
He tosses a five on the table and departs, leaving the manila folder. The reality of what has just happened hits me like a sledgehammer. I clutch at my mug, swallowing my sobs until I hear the door of the diner open and close. Then I release any control I have left.
I cry loudly for a few minutes, a black wave of sorrow causing me to hunch over in pain. The waitress hovers behind the counter nervously. She has probably witnessed this scene before, and she makes no move toward me. It is only when the mug shatters in my hands that she hurries around from behind the counter, worry etched into the fine lines of her face.
“Oh, sweetie, let me get that for you.” She pries chunks of broken ceramic out of my hands, and I let her have them. She sweeps them up, and I push the folder holding my guilt toward her as well. She takes it with a curious look, and I’m relieved when she dumps the entire mess into a nearby trash can. I don’t want any reminders of this afternoon.
Tears run freely down my face, and I swipe at my snotty nose with the back of my hand. It’s only when I pull my hand away that I realize a piece of the mug sliced open my palm. The sight of the blood jars me, and I panic a little. I grab for the napkins from the dispenser, smearing the stainless steel with scarlet. I scrunch the paper in my hands, trying to slow the bleeding. The sight of my hands clutching bloody napkins just reminds me of the moment with Niko in the cafeteria, and I start crying all over again. Sobs shake my body, and I want to lie down on the floor and die.
Did you miss us?
A brush of wings, the soft movement of scales. A hot wind blows my hair back from my face, drying my tears. The Furies fill my brain, murmuring soft assurances, soothing hurt feelings, and blanketing me in concern. The ache in my chest subsides and is replaced by a warm outrage.
How dare he leave a girl like you! Tisiphone’s voice is husky and soft, and soothes my fears effortlessly.
Men are only interested in one thing. Filthy creatures. Megaera hisses.
My hands heat painfully, but when I open them, the cuts from the mug are gone. I smile, full of joy. I’ve missed Them.
I pause. Wait, have I? I could have sworn that I was glad to have Them gone.
Before the thought is completed, a warm wind calms me. I can almost feel the cool touch of the serpent’s hand on my cheek. She coos lovingly in my ear.
Let’s go hunting, dear.
Yes, let’s.
I drop my last twenty onto the table for the waitress’s trouble and head out of the diner. I run full tilt to my car, my head bursting with their compliments and suggestions, with their admiration and encouragement. A few people step aside on the sidewalk to avoid me, but I ignore them. This is what I was meant to be, a vessel for Their workings.
By the time I slide behind the wheel and head toward the highway, I’ve forgotten all about Niko stomping on my heart.
KILLER, HANGOVER
I wake with a groan, disoriented and sore. Weak sunlight filters through the boards on the room’s lone window, and I sit up.
Wait, boards?
I survey my surroundings, and my heart sinks. I don’t know where I am, but I’m pretty sure it’s an abandoned building. Wooden slats cover the windows, and the room has the musty smell of disuse. I lie on a dirty mattress, the fabric reeking of piss and dust. I sneeze, probably because there’s a thick layer of grime covering the battered wood floor. Something scurries in the pile of crumpled newspapers in the far corner, and I shakily get to my feet. When I stand, I try to flex my fingers, which are stiff from the cold. I watch my fingers curl and uncurl. There is something off about them, and I stare until my tired brain can figure out what it is. I gasp, and it ends on a choked sound.
My hand is covered with soot.
I turn my head to the side and vomit, deep, violent heaves that bring tears to my eyes and make my stomach muscles ache. Nothing comes up but bile, and my throat burns. I collapse back onto the mattress. I want to get up; the smell from the mattress makes my stomach twist again. I’m too weak. Tears leak out of my eyes and down into my ears, and I take a few steadying breaths before leveraging myself up into a standing position once again. Waves of dizziness batter me, and I widen my stance to keep from falling back onto the putrid mattress.
I make my way to the doorway, the spaces between the window boards providing enough light for me to see the gaping holes in the floor. My sweater scratches my neck, the once soft material now stiff and unyielding. It’s black, so a visual inspection reveals nothing. I pull at it, and a sickly sweet scent assaults my nose. Bits of black ash, thick and oily, fleck onto my fingertips, and I take a sharp breath. The dark material is saturated with the substance, like grease from a grill, and a deep sense of foreboding settles in for a long stay. This is bad, because it means I wasn’t in control of the justice that was handed down. When I carry out justice, there is no blood, no soot, no sign of anything amiss. When They are in control, it’s a massacre. I can’t remember what happened, but if my current condition is any indicator, it was bad.
I need to get out of here.
The door leads to a hallway and a staircase that doesn’t look safe to use. The handrail lists away from the stairs, and there are dark spots where the treads are missing. I’m debating trying to find another way down, when I sneeze and lose my balance. Gravity takes care of the rest.
I topple forward, crying out as I flip over and my spine strikes something sharp. I fall forever and finally come to rest with my head and shoulders on the dirty wood floor and my legs askew on the stairs. I groan. Not exactly the preferred method for descending stairs.
Pain ratchets up my spine and steals my breath when I try to move. I lie there on the floor, waiting for my body to respond. Fear slices through me. What if I’m paralyzed? I try to wiggle my feet, and they respond with sheer agony. I quickly do an inventory of the rest of my body. I’m hurt, and very cold, but I don’t think anything is broken.
I spend the next few minutes carefully picking myself up off the floor and making my way toward the front door. I stand and lean heavily on what I hope is a water-stained wall. I can see the front door, but the thick coating of dust on the floor makes me think I didn’t come in that way. The cops would have been here long ago if I had just broken the front door down. I turn in a slow circle and see a dark dusting that marks a trail to the back of the house. My stomach roils again. Hansel and Gretel have got nothing on Them.
I follow the shadowy spots down the hallway and back toward what I figure was once the kitchen. The copper pipes and appliances are both long gone, but the window over the sink is broken and unblocked. Even better, the back door hangs drunkenly off its hinges.
I walk out into a small courtyard, and freeze. A light dusting of snow covers the cracked and weed-choked concrete patio, but it’s not enough to hide the fine black powder that covers everything, or the bodies piled by the back gate. There are at least three of them, younger guys dressed in puffy jackets and baggy jeans. The one closest to me lies on his stomach. Even in death his face is contorted in fear.
I prop my hands on my knees and heave a little. The cold air helps clear my head, and the endorphins flooding my system block some of my horror. I have to find a way out of the yard, but the bodies of Their victims block the fence’s only gate.
Our victims, dear. You were right there with us the entire time.
Pain slices through my head, and the memories of last night overwhelm me. I swallow a moan at the scenes that play out in my mind’s eye. From what They show me, the three men here aren’t the only ones. The Furies were in control for almost three days, and in that time They cut a deadly swath through several of the rougher neighborhoods in Philadelphia. Drug dealers, pimps, murderers, thugs, and random passersby all fell to Their wrath. Anyone They could get alone for more than a few minutes was fair game. I whimper and hide my face in my hands. I can’t keep doing this. It’s wrong.
More important, the more I let Them have Their way, the closer I am to completely losing mine. Their price is too high. Despair swells in my chest, and I hug myself as I cry quiet tears.
This must be what rock bottom feels like. I hate what I’ve become. I don’t want to be this person. No matter what They want me to believe, I’m not a cold-blooded killer. I won’t be.
A breeze kicks up, slicing through my sweater and ruffling the hair on one of the bodies, an olive-skinned man with dark hair and wide staring blue eyes. In another life he could have been Niko. I shiver, and consider taking one of the jackets off the bodies in front of me.
No, that would be worse than rock bottom. I’ll just freeze, thanks.
There’s a slat missing in the side of the fence, and I head toward it. Looking at the bodies in front of me makes me feel crazed. I did that. I killed those men, burning away their souls. It wasn’t just Them. I gave in to Their demands, and now there are dead bodies littering the streets.
“I have to find a way to get rid of Them,” I mutter to myself.
Why? Tisiphone wails in my mind. You enjoyed it every bit as much as we did.
Memories threaten to push forward, and I mentally shy away from them. Tisiphone is right, and the knowledge fills me with self-loathing.
I push out through the narrow gap and walk down the alley. It’s still very early, and although the sun is up, the streets are deserted. Thank the gods for that. If I had an audience, who knows what would happen.
There are very few cars on the street, and my body is stiff from the cold. I think I might have frostbite, because I can’t feel my fingers or my toes, and my feet are heavy and wooden. Now that I’m away from the house of death, my body begins to register a million different aches and pains. It’s all too much for my mind to deal with, so I do what I usually do when I’m overloaded.
I run.
I start with an easy jog, going past mini-marts and hollow-eyed street people with shopping carts. My feet pound erratically as I push past the pain in my hip. I’m hoping the dull throb means a bruise and not something worse. After a few blocks my body begins to warm, and I wiggle my fingers. I pass a church. Sharply dressed black women file inside, their colorful church hats making them look like exotic birds. I ignore their stares and hushed whispers. It’s Sunday, and a weekend has passed without me. I increase my pace.
I run through lights, narrowly avoiding cars with thumping sound systems and families headed to breakfast. I’m not counting the blocks, but my mind has finally shut off its agonized wail of shame, when I see it. A stack of blue and white parking tickets are jammed under the windshield wiper, and someone busted out my back window, no doubt to get to my purse. Even the enormous dent in the driver’s-side door is beautiful. It’s a miracle it hasn’t been towed, but that’s my car. I almost cry in relief.
I slow and come to a stop, looking around the block to make sure no one watches me. I pull the parking tickets off, and they flutter to the ground like broken butterflies. My frozen fingers delve into my front pocket, searching for my keys. Tears course down my face when I touch the cold metal, and I open the already unlocked driver’s-side
door with shaking hands. I get in, start up the car, and crank the heater to high. My coat is on the passenger seat, and I slowly pull it on. I shiver as I wait for the air from the vents to warm up. It’s all I can do not to break down. I bite my lip until I break the skin, using the pain and the salty tang of blood to help me focus. “I’m not like Them,” I whisper, the words swallowed by the roar of the heater and the hum of the engine.
Please let it be true.
GIRL MADE OF MAKE BELIEVE
I’m a wreck. I cry the entire drive, unable to stop sobbing long enough to even pay the toll. The booth operator gives me a bored look as I dig through my wallet for money. Meanwhile They suggest that I gouge out the man’s eyes.
What a lovely shade of blue. That’s your favorite, right?
Their mocking laughter echoes through my mind as I throw a couple of crumpled bills at the booth operator and peel away. It’s amazing I even have any money, but there was a thick roll of twenties in my pants’ pocket, most likely from one of my victims. It disturbs me that They were careful enough to take the time to think about money. They are starting to think about the long term, about the possibility of a future. It’s unsettling. And They chose locations and victims that wouldn’t be readily discovered. They are adapting, becoming smarter about things. That scares me.
They’re going to win. And I don’t even know how to fight back.
The sun on the highway blinds me, and I flip the visor down to shield my eyes. When I do, a sheet of folded paper falls into my lap. I pick it up in surprise, and almost drive off the road as I try to read it. It’s an e-mail, from Dr. Goodhart to someone at an e-mail address I don’t recognize. The message is only two lines:
Marie: parents due tomorrow, early. Black Lexus, plates FVX1393.
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