Hoarfrost

by J. L. Murray

  He laughed softly. "Bunch of fuckers. Do you believe them?"

  I stepped toward the man and he shifted uncomfortably. A raven screamed and landed in the tree and the man jumped. "Who are you?" I said.

  "I have many names," he said slowly, looking over at the raven then back at me. "You may call me Ome. But my other half might go by something else."

  "Your other half?" I said. "You have a wife?"

  Straightening, the man suddenly took a step toward me, pushing his hat back, and his face came into view. My mouth dropped open when I saw why the shape of his head had seemed wrong before. He looked back at me with rueful eyes in a handsome face; and his other face laughed, echoing into the night. Two faces on one head, each as different from the other as it was possible to be. The face that I'd been speaking with looked sad, his straight nose and high cheekbones giving him the look of a doll, too beautiful and fragile. The other face had cruel lines around its mouth, and fatigue streaked around his eyes. When the cruel face opened his mouth to laugh again, I could see his teeth were stained brown.

  "Now you see," said the first face, speaking even more softly than before. "Duality has an ugly face."

  "What the fuck is this?" I said. "Another nightmare?"

  "Frankie, you're going to have a choice, and you're going to choose a side."

  "Fuck off," said the cruel face, smiling a horrible smile. "She's going to fuck everything up. She's going to be the end of us all."

  "You're going to have a choice," said Ome again, pointedly ignoring the comment.

  "What kind of choice?" I said.

  "Whether or not to save the world," he said, and he closed his dark eyes. "They will come to you now, from all over the world. Everyone seems to know the right way, that's the trouble with gods. We're all so sure of how right we are. But you, Frankie. You are the one who needs to decide. You're the Walker of Worlds."

  "Gods?" I said. "This is not fucking real."

  "It is as real as you are," said the man, opening his eyes. His other face seemed to have fallen asleep, gone slack and drooling.

  "Why the hell wouldn't I save the world?" I said. "Is this about the fire?"

  "Fire?" he said, interested. "Have you seen something?"

  I shrugged. "Just a hallucination. I saw hoarfrost, and the ocean turned to ice. And then there was this fire in the sky and washing over the world in a wave. It destroyed everything. But when I blinked, it was gone. It wasn't real." But the man – the god, if he was to be believed – looked rattled.

  "You're beginning to see. So young and already becoming."

  "Becoming a fucking nutcase," I said.

  "And I will answer your question with more questions. Why wouldn't you save the world? What if you had to sacrifice him?" he said. "If your lover had to die, would you save anyone else? Or would you sacrifice them all to keep him safe?"

  "Dekker's not my lover."

  "He was. He will be. Until the end of time. But that may come sooner than you think."

  "Are you telling the truth?" I said. "There's been a lot of bullshit going around, and you supernatural assholes are the absolute worst."

  "We are," he agreed. "Another choice you need to make. Whom should you trust? Should you trust Cain and Abel? Lilith? The wraiths, as you call them? They come from another place, you know, they're not really Abel's."

  "You seem to know a lot."

  "Abel, the victim; Cain, the killer; Lilith, the...what shall we call her?"

  "I wouldn't know where to start," I said.

  "You can't trust her, above all. Lilith is worse than any of us. She's using you, Frankie Mourning. Yet, you cannot stop killing her monsters. If you stop, the world will suffer, but continue and things will get far worse. So many choices. And, you should know, no one is quite sure where Lilith went. She's been missing for nearly a month."

  "So?"

  "It's curious, is all." The raven shrieked again and the man took a sidestep to get farther away from its tree.

  "So, you're a god, but you're afraid of a little bird, and you're afraid of me. Why the hell should I trust you?"

  "You shouldn't," he said, watching me earnestly, his malformed head shifting as he nodded approvingly. "Si, you are right to wonder, mi amiga. You cannot trust any of us. We are no different from anyone else: We all lie."

  "That baby," I said, "with the creepy wings. What the hell was that?"

  "Don't you recognize her?" said the man, tipping his cowboy hat low again and shadowing his grotesque faces. "Your sister thought you were an angel."

  I woke up panting in the dark.

  Gritting my teeth against the pain in my ribs, I made my way to the bathroom and dry heaved into the toilet. Then I drank from the faucet with a flimsy plastic cup. It was just a dream, just another dream. I refilled the cup and drained it again.

  "Just a stupid dream," I said to my reflection, as if saying it aloud would make it more true.

  I remembered falling through a mirror just like this, into another world, Moledet, Cain's world, and had to swallow down a metallic taste in my mouth. I put my hand to the glass, and it was cold and smooth and not at all a doorway to another world. I thought of my sister, giving herself up to live in that world in exchange for my life, and I felt a pang of guilt. I didn’t know how to get to Moledet now that the mirrors had closed up. I didn’t know how to help Becky. She was lost to me.

  All I could do now was kill the monsters, Lilith's children, when I found them, and kill the killers in the meantime. So here I was, pale and slightly ill, dark bruises under my eyes that one good nap wasn't going to cure, and Jason Halloran's finger prints, yellow and starting to fade, bruised into my neck where he'd strangled me. I'd have to wear my collar up.

  I lifted off my shirt and began unwinding the bandage with care. The last of it stuck to the wound on the back side of my ribs and, closing my eyes and taking a steadying breath, I ripped it off, biting my cheek so I wouldn't scream. When the wave of nausea passed, I turned, inspecting my wounds in the mirror. Scratches and cuts dotted my back, starting to heal, bruises different stages of green and purple and yellow, silvery scars that were years old. The wound in question was almost halfway down my back, a nearly-black bruise like a halo around a precise incision, stitches tidy and uniform. At least whoever Dekker got to stitch me up wasn't just some guy off the street. Or if he was, he obviously knew what he was doing.

  I looked at my bloodstained shirt, ripped along the back like I'd survived a shark attack, and dropped it in the trash can. Picking up my leather jacket from the bed, I wrinkled my nose. It was giving off a smell like meat gone bad, and upon inspection, was covered in splatters of dried blood and a few dried chunks of something I didn't want to think about. I spent a good fifteen minutes trying to wipe it down with wet rags, turning the white washcloths brown before I dropped the jacket back on the bed and grabbed the white shirt Dekker bought me. If I didn't have any painkillers, I was going to need a drink. Every breath felt like sucking in glass.

  The clock on the nightstand glowed 8:29, and when I looked out the window, the sky had turned the color of corroded steel, nearly night but not quite. I touched the window glass, watching the waves for a few minutes. There were four small fires now, people around each one. Families, friends, wearing sweaters and laughing.

  I turned away.

  The fish restaurant was called McGillie's and it had a surprisingly swanky bar. I slid carefully onto a stool, nodding at the bartender, glancing toward the dining room where I could see tables set against wide windows that had a breathtaking view of the misty sea. The bartender came over with a shit-eating smile on his face. He had dark hair and broad shoulders, and was probably a recent college graduate. He had a lean, hungry look to him behind the smile, though, and I found myself smiling back.

  "Long day?" he said, leaning his elbows on the bar. The restaurant was full, I could hear the chatter and clink of silverware.

  "You could say that. What's good here?"

  "Ever
ything," he said, raising an eyebrow. "I can make you something sweet if you like."

  "Bourbon would be better."

  He nodded. "You got it. Guess it really was a long day."

  "They're all long."

  A couple had come in and sat at the other end of the bar, giggling with their faces close together and I looked away from them quickly. The smell of food was making me equal parts queasy and hungry. The bartender came back with a decent-sized glass full of amber liquid.

  "On the house," he said, winking. "Don't go anywhere."

  He headed over to the couple to take their order. I took a sip and looked over as a middle-aged man with a sunburn sat down a few stools away from me. He nodded at me, but I turned back to my drink. It was smooth and thick and I was sure was a lot nicer than the Maker's Mark I drank when I was feeling posh. He shouldn't have bothered. I just needed to drink something fast and plentiful. Giving me top-shelf whiskey was mostly a waste. But I couldn't help but close my eyes at each sip.

  Someone sat down next to me as I finished the bourbon and I looked over and groaned. "Goddammit, are you stalking me now?"

  "Nice shirt," said Dekker. "You look like a waitress."

  "You always know just what to say."

  He motioned to the bartender and the handsome college boy came over, watching me.

  "You want another?" he asked me.

  "We'll have a couple plates of fish and chips and two bourbons," said Dekker, looking hard at the bartender, who smiled and shrugged and winked at me as he turned to go. "What the hell was that?" Dekker stared at me.

  "I can't help it if I have charisma," I said, my voice tired.

  "Look Fra–" he shook his head. "Dolores."

  "Oh, Jesus."

  "Dolores," Dekker said again, pointedly, "I was serious about tomorrow. We have shit to do. So don't go getting all nuts tonight, okay?"

  "You know what?" I said, irritated. "I may have agreed to help you, but that does not mean you get to dictate what I do in my free time. Just back off. This possessive act is not flying with me. I left, remember?"

  "Oh, I remember," said Dekker, anger flashing in his dark eyes. "Don't worry, Dolores. I remember just fine."

  "Everything okay?" said the bartender, back with our drinks.

  "Sure," I said. "What's your name again?"

  He grinned. "Mark. And yours?"

  "Dolores Peck," I said, ignoring Dekker's stare.

  "Dolores," he said, "you don't meet a lot of beautiful women named Dolores."

  "Call me Dot."

  "Okay, Dot. So is this...all on one tab? Or separate?" The last he said hopefully, casting an irritated side-eye in Dekker's direction before catching himself and giving me a million-watt smile. I wondered what his monthly budget was for tooth whitener. I glanced at Dekker, who was glaring into his whiskey.

  "Let him pay," I said. Mark nodded, though seemed disappointed as he walked away.

  "Are you done?" Dekker said.

  "Done with what?" I said. "I'm just talking to my good friend, Mark."

  "I'm not the enemy here, Frankie," he said, his voice low.

  "You drugged me and pumped me for information," I said. "Excuse me if I'm a little pissed off right now."

  "You can't let those fucking wraiths run your life. If you want to be with me, be with me. Otherwise, maybe it's better if you do disappear."

  "I tried that," I said, my voice cold. "You showed up inside my motel room with a gun in your lap. How did you know I was here, anyway?"

  "Kind of hard to ignore the murder of crows in the parking lot."

  "Unkindness," I said. "They're ravens, not crows. It's called an unkindness of ravens. Or a conspiracy."

  "Whatever," he said, draining his drink.

  "Why am I here?" I said, lowering my voice. My lungs hurt when I breathed, my ribs felt as if they were grinding against each other, I was tired, exhausted, and Dekker was being shiftier than usual. "What's with the fake badge in my room? Dolores, the pantsuit, all of this. Why can't we just do it the normal way?"

  "The normal way?" he said. "Like Montana? Half the town died. You know that, right?"

  "Half is being a little dramatic."

  "And that is not a fake badge in your room. That badge is real. I know people. The ID card, that might be a little bit fake. Just the picture."

  "Is that my autopsy picture?"

  "Well, your mugshot looked nothing like you now. My guy just had to photoshop your eyes open. You should really let me take your picture sometime."

  "Why are we pretending to be FBI?" I said, suddenly finding myself angry.

  "Because it's the best way to get law enforcement to tell us things. We can't all get the cops drunk and tease information from them. That works for you, and this works for me. Don't worry, I've been here for a week already, I've built relationships. You just have to follow my lead. Plus, I told them you were green, so anything outside of protocol can be explained away."

  "So I'm pretending to be a rookie? A female rookie. I'm sure the cops will treat me with endless respect."

  "Are you mad that you have to pretend, or mad that you have to pretend to be a rookie?"

  "I can be both. How many women in all these relationships?"

  Dekker hesitated and raised his nearly-empty glass to his lips, mumbling as he answered. "One. Two if you count the nurse." Mark set two plates of food in front of us, grinning. His smile was irritating now, and every time he winked at me I wanted to clock him. I glared at Dekker.

  "The nurse," I repeated, deadpan. "So not only am I pretending to be FBI, but there's only one other woman cop. Superb." I sighed. I took a fry, ate it in a swallow, took another, and before I knew it I was shoveling food in my mouth. I hadn't eaten in a few days. "You act like you've done this before."

  "I may have," he said.

  "How do you know people?"

  "What?" he said, sounding like I'd caught him off-guard. He blinked at me.

  "You said you know people. The ID card. How does a police detective know people who can make flawless FBI identification?"

  He shifted in his seat, uncomfortable. "I was undercover for a while," he said. But I could see the lie in his eyes.

  "What's really going on?"

  "I've told you all you need to know right now." He avoided looking at me, pretending to be focused on his fish platter.

  "Oh, all I need to know. That's a relief." I motioned to Mark and he rushed over. I smiled at him. "Bottle of Maker's, please," I said.

  "A double?" he said, confused.

  "Bring the bottle," I said. "No glasses." He frowned, but brought what I asked for. Dekker was silent, eating and looking angry. When I grabbed the bottle and limped for the door, Dekker jumped from his stool.

  "Goddammit, Frankie," he called.

  "My name is Dolores," I said without turning around.

  FIVE

  It was dark when I walked outside. Dekker hadn't been kidding, about a dozen ravens littered the parking lot, eyes flashing gold in the floodlights. A family sitting in their minivan watched them with apprehension. Every bird exploded into the air as I walked out, screaming down at me. I stalked across the parking lot and headed for my room, ignoring the pain. I got to my room and cracked the wax seal on the Maker's, drinking it down in long, slow swigs. When my head was satisfactorily addled, I took a breath.

  I didn't know what pissed me off more: Dekker's condescension or the fact that I was still here, doing exactly what he told me to do. Or because I'd agreed to come in the first place, knowing what little control I had over my actions, knowing how I felt about him. I took another drink, walking to the large window, pushing open the curtains. The glass was covered in a layer of condensation and I wiped some away with the sleeve of my shirt. It was completely black outside. I could only see a small parking lot illuminated by a streetlight below.

  I wiped my mouth with my hand as something bright caught my eye. At first I thought I was seeing things. I blinked, squinting down into the lot.
A pale shape stood there, under the streetlight that barely seemed to make a dent in the darkness. It looked like a ghost, ethereal and shimmering, the shape of a person in some sort of white hood or cloak. A shiver ran up my spine as I looked down at it. I had the distinct impression it was looking up at me. I squinted my eyes, trying to make out the exact shape of it, but it seemed to shift, as if there was something in my eye, as if it wasn't really there.

  A sharp knock startled me. I instinctively looked toward the sound.

  "Frankie, open the door."

  "Dekker?"

  "Can I just talk to you for a second?"

  I looked back to the window. It had become fogged and I wiped it again, peering down into the parking lot. But there was nothing there. Just a few beat-up cars and a pickup truck. I shook my head and took another swig of Maker's.

  "Frankie, please," said Dekker. I glared at the door. "I've got your food."

  My stomach growled as if in response. I should have stormed out after I ate. I walked to the door softly so Dekker couldn't hear me and peeked through the peephole.

  "I know you're there, Frankie. I can see your shadow under the door." In fish eye lens style, I watched Dekker blinking solemnly at me through the peephole. I sighed heavily and unlocked the door, turning the knob to let it swing open, then walked back and sat down on the bed, hissing in breath at the twinge in my side. Dekker walked in, holding a plastic bag in one hand, a book under his other arm. He shut the door behind him, freezing as he looked at me, a strange expression on his face. I tipped up the bottle and drank, not breaking eye contact.

  "You know Mark charged me triple for that bourbon," he said. He didn't sound as irritated as he should have been.

  I held the bottle out in front of me. "I guess you should get to drink some of it then." He frowned, taking a step toward me, then stopping. I shrugged, taking another swallow.

  "I brought you something." He finally came into the room, taking slow steps toward me. He held out the book he'd had under his arm. I stared at it, a bit stunned.

  "My scrapbook. I thought I lost it."