“They detoxed me,” he said, a wry twist to his lips. “That was – disgusting. When I could keep my food down, and walk a straight line, they set me up with a challenge – one that I met, and then some. In five years, I became their top enforcer. No more school, no more family. I was disowned.”
“Enforcer?”
He lifted a hand and made an eloquent gesture, one that left her imagining a knife handle spinning between his fingers, the blade winking. “The worst part, I suppose,” he mused, “is that I was never ashamed of the killing. I rather liked it.” He said it as casually as someone might reveal a favorite ice cream flavor. Shrugged. “It was a life. The Delluccis fenced heavensent for the Castors, and I cut throats for them. I had what I needed to live comfortably. The world was a shithole. What else was there?”
His gaze cut toward her, sudden and bright. “And then I was ordered to escort a group of our dealers when they went to Castor to restock.”
He described a night black with low clouds, rain pounding on the roofs of black imports, and the black nylon of umbrellas. An old warehouse belching steam and smoke; a slot in the doorway where eyes peeped through at them, and demanded a password. A factory setup: women and children bagging and bottling pills with monotonous focus, sweat sliding down their temples; the building was hot, monstrously so, and shirtless mean streaked with filth fed coals into a furnace – atop which perched a small, barefoot child with tangled hair, and burning white-blue eyes.
“Do you know how they make heavensent?” he asked, tone deceptively mild. “It’s opium, synthetic binders – and conduit blood.”
She felt her mouth fall open, and closed it, swallowed. She’d heard of heavensent. It was still in circulation; it had been offered to her, once, a boy extending a grubby palm, three long, white oblong pills cupped like something precious. She hadn’t been tempted: to be out of her own head and unconscious was to invite Tabitha’s violence.
“But…the Rift was still closed,” Rose said. Her mouth felt dry. “The conduits were gone.”
“Most of them. The Rift was closed, yes, and there sat a conduit, pricking his finger and dripping blood down into a vat. Tony Castor was using a conduit to control the vices of this city, and telling the conduit all of it was a means to a divine end: ridding the world of the unworthy.”
“Holy…shit.”
“Exactly. I asked Dellucci about it later. If he’d known, if he cared. He feigned ignorance.
“I wanted to kill it. I was curious. Could an angel be exorcised? What happened if you killed the conduit? Would the angel heal it? Would the angel be forced out? I had so many questions. Mostly I wanted to know if its presence would draw other conduits. What would happen if another Rift opened, and the slaughter began again? I think that’s what Castor wanted, and why not? The smaller the population, the greater his power over what remained.”
He shook his head, rueful. And then grew serious, his expression etched with pain. “And then Simon reached out to me.”
He’d lost so much weight that Beck hadn’t recognized his own brother. Stomach cancer, stage four. The doctors said he might last another month, maybe two. He’d stood wavering on his feet in Beck’s small, bleak living room, wrapped up in multiple scarves and their father’s old wool coat, buttoned to the throat. I can’t bear the pain anymore, brother, he’d said, tears glimmering in his eyes. It hurts so much, and I just want it to stop.
Beck had driven him home when it became apparent that Simon didn’t have the strength to drive himself. Had been shocked, struck dumb, by the knowledge that their parents were both gone. Uncertainty and stress had given their father an early stroke, Simon had explained, as they made their way laboriously up the stairs, and then their mother, unable to bear the grief, had swallowed a bottle of morphine with a glass of wine, and ended it. Simon had found her in the tub, limp and pale, foam on her lips. He’d turned in time to make it to the toilet before he’d vomited – and then vomited for days, until a trip to the doctor had revealed his condition, already beyond treatment.
“I left him with enough marijuana to get him through the next two days, and promised to get him more. He wanted the heavensent – he was begging me, pleading and sobbing. I didn’t realize he’d already been taking it – that he’d gotten hooked. If I’d known…” He trailed off, staring blankly at the far shelf. “When I didn’t give it to him, he went to buy from Castor. He made the mistake of telling Castor about his condition.” His jaw clenched, and he didn’t speak for a long time.
“You don’t have to tell me,” she said, gently.
He jerked a nod. “That – that’s good. Good.” Another nod. An exhale. “That was how I met Kay. When I found out about Simon – when I went for Castor – his general was there, his top one. And the general’s wife.”
“Kay,” she said, understanding.
He turned his head a fraction, so he could meet her gaze, the barest scrap of a smile touching his mouth. “I took one look at her, and she looked back, and her eyes were screaming get me out of here. Castor wasn’t there. I killed Kay’s husband, and brought her with me, and I’ve been trying to kill the bastard himself every day since.”
She swallowed all the things she wanted to ask, because he really didn’t have to tell her, and he meant these discussions about the Rift to be a lesson, she knew. When he got lost in his own memories and emotions, she knew he hadn’t wanted to. “What happened to the conduit?”
“That one? I don’t know. The one I saw the other night is different.”
“You said his name was Daniel.”
“So he said. And I don’t think either of us need to be told which angel he’s channeling.”
“Gabriel.” She sat back hard, shoulders sagging beneath the weight of the information he’d just shared. “I don’t get it.”
“Which part?” he asked with a snort.
“I understand why the crime bosses are trying to control everyone. Money and power. I get that. But the angels…what is that about?”
He shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine.”
FOURTEEN
Kay maintained her stony silence for almost a week. Beck kept Rose busy with study; she pored over books about the Rift, and modern history in the wake of it. Brushed up on crime families and the nature of contemporary politics. She watched the news like it was homework, and searched papers and online articles for conduit sightings in the past decade. She found some – but, like the Big Foot sightings of old, all were easily disproved. Or, at least, that was what reporters wanted readers to think.
The consensus across publication was that conduits, if they’d ever existed, were long gone, and really just terrorists rather than supernatural phenomenon.
“I want to show you something,” Beck said one morning while they were clearing the breakfast dishes, something like excitement in his gaze, and Kay let out a big, theatrical sigh.
They both turned to her.
“Something on your mind, Kay?” Beck asked politely.
She heaved another sigh. “You’re just dead set on dragging her into this, aren’t you?” She sounded resigned, and not especially angry.
“Actually, Rose inserted herself into it when she came to gut a man in the kitchen rather than seek shelter. No use crying over spilt milk, and all that.” He grinned against the rim of his teacup.
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Listen, honey.” Kay turned to Rose, expression serious. “You can say ‘no.’ You know he’ll respect that, right? He’s fucked up, but he does have manners. If you don’t want to be involved in his crusade, you say so, don’t hold back.”
Rose thought of blood swirling in bathwater, and the way Beck had looked that night in the kitchen; the squeeze of his hand around hers on the knife handle.
“Your funeral,” Kay said, but attempted a grin. To Beck: “You gonna show her your playground?”
“That’s just where I was headed.”
Kay gestured to t
he table. “I’m not cleaning this mess up by myself. I’ve worked to the bone the last few weeks.”
“Of course.”
They washed up as usual, with Beck helping; he stowed the plates and glasses after Kay dried them. Then he rubbed his hands together in a rare, childish show of eagerness, canines flashing when he smiled. “Now. The basement.”
Rose grinned back, helpless in the face of his enthusiasm.
Kay rolled her eyes. “You two deserve one another.”
Beck ignored her, and went to the far wall, to the built-in cabinets to the right of the fireplace. A few crumbling old albums and books, a few sad silk plants resided there; Rose had scoped the titles while dusting, and found a few volumes on gardening practice that hadn’t been in favor since before the Rift. Beck reached for one now – for the small, Chinese crested dog bookend holding it in place, and tipped it forward.
She heard a latch click, and he said, “Watch your toes,” as the whole shelf came away from the wall and swung outward on a hinge: a secret door.
“That’s incredibly cool,” she said, grinning wide enough that her face hurt.
He shot her a wink over his shoulder. Reached into the opening and flicked a switch. An overhead bulb illuminated a set of stone stairs. “Down we go.”
It made sense that a house as grand and old as this one would have a basement, but Rose hadn’t seen a door that might lead to one throughout the rest of the main floor, and had never asked about it. If there had been a basement, and she’d been invited to visit it, Beck or Kay would have told her. She hadn’t expected a secret door. Much less the setup in the basement itself when they reached the bottom of the stairs and Beck flipped on more lights.
It was a long space, stone walled, dirt-floored, and with exposed timbers in the ceilings. The lights were in fact circular iron chandeliers that looked more than a few centuries old, retrofitted with electric bulbs. Benches and cabinets lined one wall. She spotted a fridge, and a deep-bellied stainless-steel sink. And workout equipment of…every kind. She spotted heavy punching bags, and speed bags like raindrops suspended from the ceiling. A kickboxing dummy, a balance beam, a pommel horse, flat, padded mats laid out beneath them. A treadmill, a stationary bike. Racks and racks of weights of varying size, and a bench with a barbell hooked on the rack. There were mirrors, so he could watch himself, and perfect his form. And there were targets set up on a far wall. A knife was imbedded in the bullseye of one, giving evidence to practice with throwing them.
“There’s a gun range, too,” he said, as they walked slowly through it all, pointing to a door off to one side. “It’s soundproofed and properly reinforced. Up to all the legal standards – though very illegal to have in my basement, obviously.”
Rose did a slow turn, taking it all in. “This is how you keep in such good shape.”
“A useful hunter has to practice often,” he said, a simple statement of fact, but she thought she glimpsed a bit of color across his cheeks and nose, a blush of pleasure. He was flattered. “I keep my blades sharp.” He reached to finger a bit of loose stitching on the edge of the pommel horse. “And I keep myself sharper.”
“You want to teach me,” she guessed.
He smirked, chin tucking as he looked down at her. “You’ve already got a knack for it. I thought we might refine your skills a little.”
She nodded, his eagerness infectious. He’d taught her so much already, sharpened her basic knowledge of the world, and she felt richer for it – in mind and spirit.
But this, the practical teachings of violence – that was a whole other kind of gift. One she could use to defend herself.
“Next time,” he said, “no one will get the drop on you.”
She took a deep breath that shivered with anticipation. “What should we start with?”
He lifted his arm, and a knife slid out of his sleeve and down into his palm. “You’re already comfortable and willing.” He twirled, a graceful flick of his wrist, and offered the handle to her. “Now let’s make you expert.”
~*~
Two weeks later, the insistent tapping of two fingers against her shoulder snatched her out of another dream about the blood tide. She’d been swimming in it this time, a powerful breaststroke and kicks of her feet propelling her through the viscous warmth. She hadn’t been able to see Beck, but she’d sensed him beside her, keeping pace; the animal pulse of awareness of one’s mate and pack member.
“Wha…?” She sat back with a start, blurry gaze darting around the room.
Kay tutted and sat down across from her, in Beck’s usual seat. “You passed out over your homework.”
“It’s not homework,” she protested, because that made her sound like a child, and like Beck’s pupil in a way that reminded her, unpleasantly, of him turning his head away from her that night in the bathtub. Though they’d been working together morning and evening, nothing so intimate as that moment of shared breathing – of going to bed across the pillow from one another – had happened since.
“Uh-huh.” Kay took a drag off her cigarette and gave Rose a chance to rub the grit from her eyes and shake off the last shreds of the dream. “He working you too hard?”
“No.” She reached for her tea and found it cold, but still sweet and bracing. “Just overdid it on the treadmill today.”
Overdid it on everything. Her muscles ached, but it was a sensation growing more normal all the time. And she was already stronger. Today they’d worked on the balance beam, Beck’s shoulder under her hand, his hand at her waist, as she walked, and then skipped, and then leaped down the narrow length of wood, building her core muscles – now screaming a protest as she leaned back and stretched – and her confidence. When her abs had been quivering, and sweat had broken out beneath her clothes, they’d moved to the heavy bag, and she’d finished with cardio on the treadmill.
Kay’s unimpressed look said she knew exactly how hard she was pushing herself, even though she hadn’t been present for any of their training sessions. “If you’re trying to impress him,” she said, flatly, “there’s no need. He already thinks you hung the moon.”
Rose sighed, and resisted the urge to massage the tension from the back of her neck. She was exhausted – but in a good way. Felt secure in Beck’s confidence, trusted by him; felt more worthy of his efforts every time. It made her braver than she’d ever been. “Kay,” she said on a sigh. “Why do you hate me?”
Kay blinked, face blanking with shock. “What?”
“You were kind and motherly when I first came, and now you hate my guts.”
More blinking. Smoke curled up in ribbons, and Kay finally took another drag, exhaled through her nose, gaze fixed to Rose’s face. Rose had the sense she was being assessed – and whatever Kay found in her expression, it softened her own.
“I don’t hate you, honey. Don’t think that.”
“Why are you angry with me, then?” She wasn’t going to be put off with a handwave and a vague reassurance, not this time. “Are you–” An unhappy thought occurred. “Are you jealous? Are you and Beck–”
Kay snorted, and a grin split her face – a genuine one, rare in the last few weeks, but much-appreciated. “No. God no. I’m too old, for one, and besides: I’m done with fucking gangsters, thank you very much.”
“He’s not a gangster,” Rose said, immediately defensive.
“No, not anymore. He’s crazier than that, and twice as dangerous.”
Rose frowned.
“He told you about working for Dellucci and Castor?”
She nodded.
“Then you know he used to kill people for a living. He still kills people – and don’t fool yourself into thinking it’s for a good cause. He got a taste for it, and he likes it.”
Rose shrugged. Held her gaze steadily, unperturbed.
Kay rolled her eyes – but smiled again, another flash of real humor. “Jesus.” Her gaze softened. “No sense trying to warn you off, is there?”
“No.”
; “Well. Has he explained the whole hell theory to you, yet?”
~*~
When she asked about it, Beck did something unusual: he hedged. “Hell theory?” He lifted his brows, poised with a finger halfway down a page of text.
Rose bit back the smile that threatened. “Kay’s words, not mine.”
“Ah. So the two of you are conspiring again.” He said it fondly, corner of his mouth twitching.
“No. But I think she’s done trying to convince me…” She trailed off, not wanting to finish and hurt his feelings.
His grin widened. “I see. Well. Yes.” Cleared his throat, settled back in his chair and laid the book out on the table. “The ‘hell theory.’ It’s a bit more complex than that.”
Wasn’t everything with Beck?
“Let’s suppose.” He turned the book to face her, and she found herself looking at an old painting depicting what could only be a battle of heaven versus hell. Beautiful, winged angels, and monstrous demons clashing with swords and tridents. Flames leapt, and clouds descended to earth, and caught between were humans, sobbing, and flailing, and fleeing, and dying. “That the conduits truly are possessed by beings that are…heavenly.” He didn’t say angel, and the omission stuck out to her. “Let’s suppose they came down from the heavens to herald the end of the world. My question, then” – she lifted her head, and met his gaze, got caught in the glittering intensity of it – “is: where was the other army? Where were hell’s forces on the battlefield? Because the way I understand it, an apocalypse takes a war between both sides.”
She glanced back at the painting; ran a careful fingertip along the edge of the page. Thought of Tabitha, of Tony Castor, of the men who’d kicked down their doors and died choking on their own blood. “Maybe hell’s already here,” she mused. “Maybe we’ve all gotten so used to it that it seems normal. Demons walking around in human skin.”
His eyes widened, briefly: a moment of true startlement. Then he smiled. “Very good.” He nodded, and sat back, fingers linking together over his flat stomach. “I’ve thought of that. Quite a lot. It makes sense. But.” He bit his lip, thinking. “The Rift was a cataclysmic event on a scale we’ve never seen before. The conduits I’ve seen…” He frowned to himself. “Mankind is exceptionally cruel. Our capacity for violence to one another, our technology – the war machines we’ve created over the centuries, from the rack, to nuclear bombs. How are we not influenced by evil?
King Among the Dead (Hell Theory Book 1) Page 13