Redeemer

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Redeemer Page 22

by C. E. Murphy


  "Besides, I thought you weren't too sure about what you wanted."

  "It's worse than not knowing, Jean. I know exactly what I want. I want to not get married right now. I want to go to school." Rosie curled her fingers in frustration, like she'd shake something. "I also wanted to have a chance to talk to him about it, and I imagined—I imagined we'd be able to see each other again and think about who we are now and what we might do, but instead he just showed up out of the blue because he thought it would be romantic, and instead of getting to talk I was just floored and it looked like I was on a date with Hank and now Rich is angry and—" Rosie cut herself off with a click of her teeth before blowing air out noisily. "And I can't blame him for being mad. I just … none of this is turning out the way I thought it would. It's all a lot worse."

  "Yeah." Jean's voice dropped to almost nothing. "I hear you."

  Rosie echoed, "Yeah," and gave Jean a third hug. "All right. Okay. How are you?"

  "I'll feel better if I can learn how to hit something. I just wanted some company. I don't have to be here to have it, and doing something will help. Let me change into some trousers and we can go." She untangled from the hug and headed for her bedroom.

  "Hank's probably not going to like it," Rosie called after her.

  Jean's laugh came back like a blow. "Do you think I care what he likes? Besides, it sounds like he went out of his way to make you feel bad, so I vote we go out of ours to make him uncomfortable." She returned in dungarees and a blouse enough like Rosie's to make her grin. "Look at us, in Redeemer uniforms."

  "You need a kerchief." Rosie tried to ruffle Jean's hair and got her hand knocked aside for her troubles as they headed out the door.

  Hank, true to expectation, looked like he'd sucked a lemon when he saw Jean behind Rosie. "What does she think she's doing?"

  "She thinks she's coming with you to learn to fight demons, and that if you talk about her in the third person again she'll kick your cane across the room." Jean climbed into the back seat, leaned back, folded her arms, and cocked a challenging eyebrow at Hank as Rosie got in the front of the car.

  "You can't. You're not a Redeemer."

  "So what. Neither are you. Drive, James."

  "I'm not going anywhere with you in the car."

  "Then I'll get out of this car, get in my own, and follow you wherever you're going," Jean said evenly. "Or you could stop wasting our time and just drive us all there."

  Rosie bit the inside of her cheek to fight off a smile and turned her gaze toward the window. She felt Hank looking at her like he expected her tacit support, and kept her attention out the window until he said, "Tell her she can't come, Rosie."

  "I say she can. She's the one who stuffed the rebar into that … omar …"

  "Ochim."

  "Right. The ochim. And gave me a chance to kill it. I'd be dead without her, so I definitely think she should come with us. I bet there's nothing in your rule book that says girls can't hunt demons."

  Hank threw the car into gear with such aggravation that Rosie lost her battle to stay solemn and grinned broadly out the window. Jean made a sound of satisfaction that turned Rosie's grin into a laugh, and Hank, plainly furious, said a few things no gentleman would say in front of ladies. But they weren't ladies, Rosie thought. They were Redeemers and demon hunters, and that changed everything.

  The drive to Hank's library went faster when she knew where they were going, and Jean managed to contain her curiosity until they drove down the blind alley. Even then, all she whispered was "What the … ?" before biting back the same kind of delighted squeal Rosie had let loose with when Hank had opened the hidden garage door. A couple minutes later they were beneath the Industrial Building, where light poured through the half-height windows and lit dust motes in the air.

  Hank had changed things since Rosie's last visit. A punching bag hung in one corner now, and a tall stump with stubby, padded arms stood across from it. A balance beam stood six inches off the floor, held up by concrete blocks, and a vaulting horse lay near it. Rosie hopped onto the balance beam and ran along it before stopping at its far end to turn and look at Hank. "What are these for?"

  "Improving your balance and learning to jump using whatever leverage you've got. You're going to need every advantage you can get. Run back and forth on that until you fall off, then get up and run for the vault and jump it."

  "What, just like that?"

  "I want to see if you can."

  "Can you?"

  Hank gave her a withering look and thumped his right leg, reminding her of his injury. Rosie made a face and did as she was told, managing half a dozen scurries along the beam before she missed a step and slid off with a painful thump. Jean stepped on it behind her as Rosie scrambled to her feet and ran for the vault, feeling both ridiculous and like a kid again. The vault's back stood higher than she expected. She slammed into it rather than sailing over, and crashed to the floor with an embarrassed laugh.

  She hadn't gotten up yet when Jean, who hadn't fallen off the beam at all, launched herself at the vault, planted her hands firmly on its back, and cleared it with casual ease. Without breaking speed, she ran for the punching bag, spun, and kicked it hard enough with her heel to send it swinging, then punched it hard twice when it swung back to her. Rosie, gaping from under the vault, rolled over to see what Hank thought of that, and found him tense-jawed with reluctant approval. "Great," Rosie said with a grin. "You've got one natural and one Redeemer. Too bad they're not the same person."

  "You'll learn."

  Rosie heard the thin smile in Jean's voice as she said, "And I'll keep you alive in the meantime. What's next, Vaughn?"

  "One fancy kick doesn't mean you know how to fight. Come on, Rosie. Let's see what else you've got."

  Forty minutes later, Rosie had had enough, not that Hank had any intention of letting her stop. She could throw a punch, and it turned out she could throw a knife better than Hank could. Even her first few throws matched his accuracy when he demonstrated, and she got better with each try after that. Jean kept picking up swords and axes that Hank made her put back down, muttering that they would always have their fists with them and swordplay could come later. He showed them footwork for boxing, moving more heavily than either of them did, then put them in gloves to throw a few punches at one another so they could experience hitting another human being.

  Rosie ducked Jean's first punch and threw a fast left that crossed Jean's eyes. Hank barked in surprise, stopping the fight, and gave Jean a quick once-over to make sure she hadn't been badly hurt. "Either she's got a glass jaw or you hit like a pile driver."

  "I've been using a riveting gun for three years." Rosie gave Jean an apologetic smile. "You okay?"

  Jean rubbed her jaw. "I've been riveting for three years too, and I'm bigger than you. Just you wait." She balled her fists again, but the flurry of blows she rained on Rosie were nothing like the hits Rosie had taken from the banshee. Bare-knuckle and feet versus boxing gloves accounted for part of it, but somehow they felt easier to take, like she'd toughened up inside. She ducked out of the hits and threw a punch of her own, remembering how much the kidney shots had hurt, and yelped in worry when Jean gasped and dropped to the floor. Hank, mouth pinched with approval, helped Jean to her feet, then took the gloves off her to put them on himself. "Don't worry," he said dryly as he lifted his hands so she could lace the gloves, "if you can hit a girl, I'm sure you won't have any problem hitting a cripple."

  "I'm a girl," Rosie muttered, as if it made a difference, and caught a glimpse of his sour smile before she threw a series of punches, every one of which he blocked. They fell back, nodded, and tried again, until Rosie finally got a glancing blow in past his guard.

  To her surprise, Hank nodded. "Not bad. Now try to block me." He threw a punch so fast she didn't have time to get her hands up, much less block it. Her eyes crossed as his fist stopped half an inch from her nose, the scent of sweat and leather strong. Hank dropped his hands, said, "Try again,"
and threw the same blow, to the same effect. Rosie lost count of how many times they went through it before she got her fists up in time and ducked out of the way, but when she did, she struck back, nailing him with much the same blow she'd taken Jean's breath with. Hank gave a startled, pained gasp that contrasted with an approving grin, then beckoned Jean to go through the same exercise. Rosie stripped her gloves off, gave them to Jean, and backed up, watching them both intently and copying Hank's moves, even if she fought an imaginary opponent.

  Jean had more natural talent, simple as that. She learned to block and hit faster than Rosie had, even advancing on Hank a few times, though when she landed a blow, Hank didn't reel the way he had when Rosie had hit him. Rosie shadow-boxed behind them, trying to mimic Jean's speed as much as Hank's expertise, but gave it up when Jean finally fell back with a sweaty, satisfied grin. Hank, hardly grudging at all, said, "I admit it, you've got potential. We're going to need to do this daily, though. You're going to have to figure out how to work around it."

  "Before work or after," Jean said with a shrug. "Both, at least for me, once I go back to work, if it has to be four hours a day like we've done today. Rosie doesn't have to worry about that right now."

  "Gee, thanks for the reminder." Rosie picked the gloves up, returning them to the pegs they'd hung on, then shuddered from her spine out as a deep chill ran through her. She took up the knife she'd thrown earlier as if she'd done it thousands of times. One moment, it lay on its pegs nearby, and the next, it was unsheathed and ready to throw.

  Glass shattered behind her. Rosie spun at the same time, throwing the blade with an almost-casual expertise. With crystal clarity, she watched it tumble end over end, passing within a hair's breadth of Jean's face, until it came to an abrupt stop in the eye of a woman sailing through falling glass toward them all.

  ✪ ✪ ✪

  Jean screamed more piercingly than Rosie thought she could, with Hank's shout registering a few octaves below. Rosie's hands felt icy but her heartbeat stayed calm as she watched gold and silver coalesce over the fallen body, drawing darkness out of the woman's corrupted soul. It shouldn't be a relief, watching someone die, but she couldn't feel much else. Regret, maybe, but a distant tired kind of regret, like remembering something sad from a long time ago. A shudder ran through her as the last of the foulness drained away, and her knees lost their strength until she sank to the floor, folding her arms around herself as if she could hold on to the strange serenity of the demon's death. Jean's screams were mere echoes by then, nothing more than memory. Hank looked at Rosie in astonishment. "How did you do that?"

  A thin laugh escaped Rosie. She mimed picking up a knife, throwing it, and Hank's expression shifted from astonished to irritated. "I meant how did you know to do it."

  Rosie laughed again, more body to it this time, but still not much real humor. "I don't know. I got a chill and picked the knife up and threw it and then she was there. It was there."

  "That's great! It means you can sense them!" Hank smiled like a schoolboy, but Rosie only stared at the body.

  "Does it mean they can sense me, too? Because how did it know I was here? I'm guessing you haven't had demons crashing through the windows up until now."

  Hank's smile went slack. Rosie put her face in her hands, then looked toward Jean, who hadn't yet moved. "Are you okay, hon?"

  "I never saw anybody move like that," Jean whispered. "You were so fast. I think it would've gotten me if you hadn't been so fast."

  Rosie and Hank both studied where the demon had fallen and where Jean stood before Rosie exhaled softly. "Wow. Yeah. Yeah, I think …" A vision of the blade glinting between Hank and Jean as it flew magnified itself in her mind and she curled her arms around herself again, fighting off another shiver. "I think it's a good thing you didn't move."

  Jean's eyes widened in horror. "I didn't think of that. Great. Great!"

  Hank rolled the body over, making it obvious that hardly any blood had spilled. That seemed wrong to Rosie, but then, the ochim hadn't bled all that much either. Maybe demons didn't. A lot of blood had misted from Goode's chest, but Hank said vampires were different from other demons. Rosie knotted her knuckles in front of her mouth like it would stop her galloping thoughts. Hank jerked back from the body like it had burned him and his voice rose in horror. "I know her. Christ, I know her. Her name is Helen Montgomery. She, um. Knew my father. But she wasn't a demon. I met her. She couldn't have been a demon then."

  "Why couldn't she have been? Is there some kind of sign you're not telling us about?" Rosie didn't even believe that herself, and could hear it in her own question. Hank might be kind of a twerp, but he'd been pretty straight with her, and if he knew how to pick demons out of a lineup, he would have told her.

  "I wish there was. No. I just know she couldn't have been."

  Rosie bit her lower lip. "Hank, Pearl said there was an industrialist involved in the demon presence here. Your father …"

  "My father's not a demon!"

  "How do you know?"

  "Because I can sense them!" Color flushed Hank's jaw and he spun away from Montgomery's body, limping halfway across the basement before slowing like he'd lost his way, rather than because he wanted to. He cast a glance at the girls, then slumped before continuing wearily to the tables. Rosie and Jean exchanged startled looks before Jean pulled Rosie to her feet. They followed him a few steps across the room before stopping in confusion. He glanced back again, face twisting bitterly, and limped to the liquor cabinet to pour a glass of dark red liquid, sipping before he even tried to speak. "I'm a monster, Rosie. I'm one of the bad guys."

  "Well, that's just silly. You're part of Ex Libris. You fight the demons. How can you be a monster?"

  Hank shrugged, putting on a show of not caring that the strain in his voice belied. "It happened in Europe, after the attack. I was soaked in blood, but I didn't realize I'd … ingested any. But it started almost immediately. I could tell what people around me were feeling, more than what anybody can tell. Anybody could tell the sergeant was always angry, but I knew, I knew, it wasn't just anger. He felt guilty and helpless because soldiers under his command were dying and he thought he should have been able to stop it. That drove the anger. It wasn't just that Sam, the soldier in the bed next to mine, was afraid. We were all afraid. But his fear got worse when one of the medics came around, because Sam was falling in love with him and knew he shouldn't." Rosie gasped, shocked, and Jean huffed a sharp, pained breath. Hank gave them both hard looks and kept talking. "It just kept going. I knew everything like that about everybody around me, before Ex Libris came for me. And when they did, I knew it wasn't just that they needed bodies. They were desperate for them. Anything to keep their part of the war effort going. They were dying too fast. None of it was words, all of it was just feelings. I thought I was losing my mind.

  "But then they explained about the demons, about Ex Libris's rules and laws, and I knew then that I wasn't just a survivor. I was a monster. And all I could do was hide it and hope I could stay alive long enough to prove I was worth something. With my torn-up knee and my demonic empathy. I wasn't worth sh …" He turned his head, not far enough to see the women, but enough to remind himself they were there, that he was talking to girls, not other men, and didn't finish the word. "The first time a demon came near me after the attack, I knew it was there. I could feel it, its … emptiness. No emotion, just bleakness. I got the drop on it, even with my busted-up knee. Impressed everybody. Didn't tell them how I'd managed it, either. Just lucky. And I kept just getting lucky, until they sent me here."

  He finally sat, moving like an old man. "My father's not a monster, Rosie. I know he's not. And I know the demon army isn't here in Detroit, either, because I'd be able to feel it if it was. And I know Ex Libris would kill me, if they knew that for sure."

  "Why didn't you just tell me?" Rosie waved away the look Hank gave her, understanding that he'd just explained, but shook her head anyway. "I'm not Ex Libris, Hank. I— hey
! Is that how you got Detective Johnson to let Pearl go? Can you … empathize the other way? Make people feel things?"

  Hank thinned his lips and looked away. "I told you I can be charming when I want to be."

  "Charming," Jean echoed. "That's terrifying. How can anybody around you know if what they're feeling is real?"

  "Like I said," Hank muttered as Rosie bugged her eyes at Jean, trying to silence her. "I'm a monster."

  "For heaven's sake, Hank, you're not a monster," Rosie said in exasperation. "A monster wouldn't have just told us he was one."

  Jean returned to the dead woman's body, looking between it and Hank. "Is Rosie a monster too?"

  Guilt flashed across Hank's features, making cold drain through Rosie. "Jeez, am I? I mean, do your library men think I am?"

  "The jury is out on Redeemers," Hank said quietly. "Generally, yeah, but there are so few of you and you don't usually—" He caught his breath, and Jean, in a hard voice, said, "They don't usually live very long, do they? So they're useful enough for the little while they're around that you sons of bitches overlook them being by-your-definition monsters."

  "I don't think Rosie is a monster. I don't feel that she is." He turned his attention to Rosie. "You don't feel blank, like demons do. There's not an emptiness where you are. You feel human."

  "Well, so do you! I don't get a warning when you show up like I did with—with that, with her. And if I'm useful, then you must be too. Jeez, Hank, they're fools if they don't want to know you can sense demons. Empathy, how's that bad? Doesn't it mean you understand people better? Doesn't—" The words clogged in her throat as she remembered, too clearly, his sarcasm over Rich expecting Rosie to wait for him. She'd thought—well, she hadn't known what to think, but now she couldn't help wondering if he'd only been reflecting her own emotions, reflecting a streak of nastiness she didn't even know she had.

  Her expression must have changed, or maybe just her emotions, because deep lines of regret appeared around Hank's mouth. "There," he said. "See? You just started wondering about me too. Not if I'm a monster, probably. That's not really like you. But you're doubting me, and yourself. Now add a fear of demons infiltrating the Ex Libris ranks to your paranoia, and ask yourself if you might not think it's safer to kill me after all."

 

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