by C. E. Murphy
Gunfire sounded a second time and Haas fell to the floor, surprise etched in his features. Rosie jerked a step forward, but Jean was there, coming out of the shadows like a demon herself, and pounced on Haas with a knife against his throat. She looked flushed with victory as she grinned up at Rosie. "He's still breathing. We don't want all of them dead, not if we want to hear what Valentine Vaughn is up to!" She almost shouted Mrs Vaughn's name. "Look at us, Rosie Ransom. Modern women who can't see past the ends of our own noses to think another woman might be the one getting her hands dirty! Boy, do we owe Hank an apology."
She put her hand in the air and Rosie pulled her to her feet, glancing her over quickly. She looked like she'd been in a fight, or several: bruises, scrapes, torn clothes, her hair awry, but her eyes were brighter than they'd been since Ruby's death. "There were only three of them that I found guarding the perimeter, but I took care of them, Rosie. I did it. I'm a demon hunter."
"Brava," Irene murmured from the boxing ring. "My goodness, what an intrepid little trio you are. I wondered where my scouts had gone, but I simply didn't imagine you had a third, Miss Ransom. That really was rather clever." She stepped over to Hank and his father, prodding their limp bodies with a toe. "Well, this is all rather inconvenient. I could keep your friends in thrall, but I'm afraid you'd Artifice them, and that would leave me weaker. So I'll give you a gift, Rosie. Redeem Haas and I'll let Miss Fandel and Mr Thompson go. Otherwise, I expect they might suddenly have the urge to kill themselves, and I'm sure you don't want that."
"Redeem him," Rosie echoed in surprise. Jean, at her elbow, hissed, "So he does know something useful!" and Rosie exhaled a breath of comprehension.
Irene smiled, sharp and unfriendly, then lifted the sword she still carried, examined its bloody length, and laid it gently against her own throat. "I've never done this before," she said with Valentine's cultured tones. "How many people can say they've experienced their own suicides? I think I could hold on just to the very moment of death, before fleeing back to my own body. Imagine using that pain and fear to influence someone. The opportunities are rife."
"Don't." Rosie's tongue felt thick in her mouth. "Don't. I'll Redeem him. Just let Rich and Irene go." Beside her, Jean made a terrible sound, the same sound Rosie fought from making herself. She cast a despairing glance at Jean, whose jaw worked and whose eyes bulged, but she gave a grief-stricken nod. They still wouldn't have Valentine if their friends died, and whatever knowledge Haas held didn't seem worth their lives.
"Redeem Haas," Irene purred, "and I'll let your friends go." Her head turned to examine the two Vaughn men fallen in the boxing ring. "I should have brought Harrison with me," she said in a voice filled with venom. "I owe him years of torment for this sham of a marriage." She returned her attention to Rosie, who had already knelt beside Haas. His eyes were open, face contorted with rage and his mouth working, but he hadn't yet recovered from the damage Jean's bullets had done.
There was blood, a lot of it, and pain, and fear, and a burning anger in Rosie's breast that might have allowed her to try Redeeming the soul, casting out the demon and saving the man, but even as she put her hands on his forehead and chest, she wondered if that would be cruel or kind. He might not live beyond the demon's departure, anyways. She had no way of knowing how badly injured he was. Even if he lived, Hank had shot him in the spine more than once. It seemed likely he would never move again, and who knew if that would be better or worse than dying now. Worst of all, though, was not knowing if expelling the demon might leave the man to die in pain, when now it seemed probable that only the monster would suffer.
The magic rose in her as she wondered, separating what remained of humanity from the stain of corruption. The demon held on, struggling to survive with far greater strength than any of the others had, and coming so close to succeeding that Haas overcame his injuries, yanking a hand upward to close it around Rosie's biceps. "You don't know. You don't know what it means, what she's done—"
Rosie inhaled so sharply it was almost a scream, then bent closer, whispering, "What? What do you mean, what—"
Haas did scream, a long thin wail of defeat that shivered into Rosie's bones and stayed, turning her cold from the marrow out. The demonic essence spun away, but the human soul lingered, bright color in search of guidance. Rosie stared at it helplessly, not knowing what to do or how to do it, then made a frantic scrabble with her hands, like she could catch the ephemeral thing and shove it back down into the laboring body beside her.
The light dissipated with her touch, leaving sparks that faded into her skin. Haas gave a rattling breath before falling still. A choked sound broke from Rosie's throat and she tried again, fumbling at nothing now, trying to bring it back and press life into a body it had left behind. Jean pulled her away from Haas's body. Rosie fell against her, hot tears burning her cheeks, but they both jerked their heads up as Irene's frightened voice, her own frightened voice, called, "Rosie?"
TWENTY-SIX
"I couldn't stop it. I couldn't stop her." Irene sat huddled in a ball, curled up in Rosie's arms and staring sightlessly at the Vaughn men. Jean had already unpiled them from one another. They were both bruised but breathing, and without a doctor, there wasn't anything else she could do for them. Rich hadn't woken up yet either, but after one futile effort to move him, Rosie and Jean had left him on the concrete floor to wake up on his own while Rosie tried to comfort Irene, who kept whispering, "I'm sorry I didn't believe you about the monsters, Rosie. I'm real sorry."
"It's okay. Nobody would." Rosie kissed her hair and rocked her, hating that she even wanted to ask, but she did: "Do you remember any of her thoughts? Her plans?"
"No." Irene shivered so hard she almost fell out of Rosie's arms. "It was like she was a—a balloon inside me, pushing me down. I couldn't get into the balloon. I can remember what she did, what I did, but not why." She looked at her hands, stained with the red-haired demon's blood, and started to cry.
"That's normal." Hank Vaughn spoke groggily, without moving from where he lay. "The few instances we have of recovering someone from a Redoubling, that's what they've reported. The balloon analogy is excellent." He drew a breath that sounded like it didn't so much fend pain off as acknowledge it, and worked carefully on sitting up. That brought his father's still form into his line of vision, and fear spasmed across his face. He moved too fast, or tried, and coiled on the floor again, trying to hold his head without touching it.
Jean said, "He's alive," and tension flowed out of Hank's spine, although he made no effort to sit up again. "We're all alive," Jean said after a moment. "Us cowboys. We made it. The Indians had a bad day."
"… Valentine?"
"Well." Jean drew the word out, glancing at Rosie, then shrugged. "The chieftess got away."
"She let them go." Rosie hugged Irene closer to her. "She let Rich and Irene go after I Redeemed Haas."
"You should have—" Hank shook his head, the motion barely visible in the cradle of his arms. "I don't know. I don't know what you should have done."
"I would have tried to Redeem her, Hank. Not kill her. There was a second there with Haas where I thought …" Rosie gave up with a shrug. "Maybe it wouldn't have worked. I don't know. But I wasn't going to let her kill Rich and Irene, either, even if it meant letting her get away."
"I would have." Hank slowly pushed himself to sitting, his gaze bleak when it found Rosie's. "I was going to."
"I'm just as glad you didn't. Not just for them, but for you. I don't care if she's a demon. You shouldn't have to kill your own mother."
"She's not …"
Irene spoke. "But she is. It hurt her feelings when you said she wasn't." She gave a dry laugh and hid her face against Rosie's shoulder. "He's a monster, Ro."
"No. Even Valentine said so. Maybe if she'd gotten to him earlier, but no." Rosie shook her head, meeting Hank's eyes. "And even if he's got demon blood, it's what you do with yourself that counts, right?"
"Lucky me." Hank put his h
ead in his hands. "My demonic parent didn't think I was worth guiding."
"She can hide things from you, Hank. Maybe you could hide things from her, too. Maybe keeping your empathy tamped down was how you protected yourself from her." Rosie let Irene go as Rich finally groaned and pushed to his hands and knees, halfway across the concrete floor. He saw Haas's body and gave a hoarse yell, jerking several feet away without really seeming to move his arms and legs, then came to his feet almost as jerkily, glancing around in confusion. The quick motions obviously made his head hurt: he lifted both hands to it, a wince racing across his features, and Rosie didn't think he asked anyone in particular when he said, "What the hell was that?"
Rosie and Irene both rose to climb through the ropes, and both hesitated, frowning at each other uncomfortably before Irene's shoulders caved and she fell back a step, eyes downcast. Rosie looked between Rich and Irene, though Rich didn't seem aware of the interplay, then slowly continued on, hopping down from the ring to go to Rich. "Are you all right?" She winced as deeply as he had, knowing he wasn't okay, but no other question seemed any good either.
His eyes were depthless in the shadows. "What the hell happened, Rosie? What did … what were they? What are you?"
"They were demons." Rosie's soft answer sounded wearily ridiculous to her own ears. "You were possessed by one, or by part of one, at least. By part of Valentine Vaughn. I'm a—I can kill them. The demons. They call it Redeeming. I'm a Redeemer."
"She … I was her. I was her. I couldn't even remember what it was like to be me. You knew about this? You didn't tell me?" Anger and disbelief warred in Rich's voice. "How could you not tell me?"
"It just happened. It started Friday night with Goode, and …" Rosie's shoulders lifted and fell. "What could I have said that you would have believed? Rich …" She reached out tentatively, but Rich's gaze pulled from her to Irene.
"Oh, my God, Irene. She was in you too." He left Rosie standing there with her hand extended, hurrying to the boxing ring even though the speed obviously made his head hurt more. He cleared the ropes and took Irene's face in his hands, murmuring to and examining her. Rosie couldn't hear him, and wasn't sure she wanted to. Irene unfolded her arms from around her ribs and stepped into Rich's embrace, hiding her face in his chest. He slipped an arm around her shoulders and the other hand into her hair, cradling her, and Jean, watching, folded her arms and bit a knuckle, gaze darting between the entwined pair and Rosie.
Rosie let her hand drop and her eyes close, trying to figure out if hurt or resignation or anger or all three slipped out on her sigh. When she looked up again, Hank knelt beside a wakening Harrison Vaughn, relief cragging age lines into his face. Jean still watched Rosie, sympathy etched deep in her gaze. Rosie turned her palms up and shrugged, not knowing what else to do, and came back to the boxing ring to help everyone out. They left in pairs, a small, shuffling band of broken spirits: Irene and Rich huddled together at the front, Hank, refusing any assistance with his father, limping in the middle, and Rosie, with Jean, taking up a strong rear position.
"It'll be all right," Jean said quietly, the first time words like that had passed her lips in a week.
"Yeah. Yeah, it's gonna be …" Rosie nodded, unable to quite say it herself. The six of them trooped through the building wreckage to the front door and came to slow, bemused stops to find the Cadillac no longer in the drive. Rosie gave a rueful little laugh. "Well, there's no reason for her to have walked out of here, is there, not when her driver was here."
"She's got a head start," Hank said dully. "We're never going to catch her."
"Rich, did Doherty drive you over in his car? Irene?" It took a moment for either of them to respond, Irene finally looking up with a nod that suggested she'd only barely heard the question. Rosie turned to Jean. "Can you drive them home? I'll drive Hank and Mr Vaughn home in their car, and …"
"And I'll come pick you up in mine after I've dropped Doherty's back off at the factory," Jean said.
"Don't let anybody see you."
A thin smile pulled Jean's mouth. "See, you're turning into a sneak after all, Rosie Ransom." She went with Rich and Irene, encouraging them to help her find Doherty's car while Hank looked like he would muster a protest, if only he could find the heart to.
Rosie shook her head. "Don't argue, library man. You two are both beat up pretty bad." And that didn't even touch on the emotional battering they'd taken. She got the keys off Hank and didn't say a word when both men crawled into the back of the car together.
The Cadillac sat in the Vaughns' driveway when they arrived. A knife of anticipation slid through Rosie's belly, but the driver, George, came out of the house as she parked, his forehead wrinkled with concern. "Mrs Vaughn flew through here, sir," he said to Harrison as they got out of the car. "Packed a bag and took the Jaguar. She said you'd know what it was all about."
Harrison nodded, though he didn't look like he knew what much of anything was about. Hank glanced back up the driveway. "She must have been moving like a bat out of hell for us to not cross paths with her."
Rosie said, "She probably went south," but nodded. "But yeah, she must've been. Look, you get your dad inside. I'll go make sandwiches or something."
"Bertha will take care of that."
Rosie looked at Hank blankly for a few seconds, then breathed a humorless laugh. "Right. I forgot you had people for that sort of thing. I'm amazed you knew how to make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich."
"Army teaches you all kinds of things." Hank accepted George's assistance getting Harrison Vaughn into the house, and though she knew she was understood to be welcome, Rosie sat on the expansive front steps instead of following them in. The whole awful mess at the abandoned factory had hardly taken an hour. The sun hadn't set yet, all gold and gleaming on the horizon. It seemed like it should be later, like they'd done a lot of dark things that should have taken place under the cover of night. Rosie shook her head and pulled her knees up to rest her cheek on them.
"Miss?" The maid, Bertha, came out. "Miss, there's food inside, if you'd like to come in."
"Thank you." Rosie got up and followed the woman in, suddenly remembering to say, "Hey, you make a good cup of coffee. I didn't get a chance to say that the other day."
Bertha gave her a startled look that turned into a quiet smile. "Mrs Vaughn says it's all in the beans, miss."
"I've met a lot of lousy coffee," Rosie disagreed. "Yours was good."
"Well, thank you, miss." Bertha led her into a ridiculously formal dining room where a plate of sandwiches and a pitcher of lemonade looked simple and out of place. Rosie glanced around for the Vaughns, then put her hand over her stomach as it rumbled, and sat down to eat.
Hank joined her a few minutes later. "Dad's resting. He says he doesn't remember what happened. He's lying, but I guess there's no point in pushing him about it."
"You're sure he's lying?" At Hank's nod, Rosie said, "So your empathy is working again."
He pulled his mouth in pained agreement. "Looks like it. Mom packed up every jewel in the house and lit out."
"The Jaguar should be easy enough to trace."
"Assuming she doesn't just dump it somewhere." Hank gave a reluctant laugh at Rosie's abrupt horror. "Well, wouldn't you?"
"I might park it somewhere safe!"
"Detroit girl," Hank said with a smile. They finished their sandwiches, and Rosie smiled as Bertha brought them milk and cookies, like they were six. "George can drive you home when we're done," Hank offered, but Rosie shook her head.
"Jean's dropping Rich and Irene off and coming to get me. I don't have any way to tell her not to. But we should save some of these cookies for her."
"I'll ask Bertha to make another couple sandwiches." Hank got up to do that, and came back not only with sandwiches, but with Jean, who looked tired and sweaty but also satisfied in the evening heat.
"Maybe we didn't get every demon in Detroit before the funeral," she said as she sat down to eat, "but I guess we got
enough of them. I feel like Ruby can rest in peace now. And I'm not going to stop," she said to Hank, fiercely. "If you two are out there Redeeming and hunting demons, I'm going to be with you."
"At this point, Miss Diaz, I wouldn't dare argue with you." Hank hesitated. "I'd like to come to the funeral, if it's all right."
Jean gave him a steady look, then nodded. "I think that'd be fine. It's at one o'clock tomorrow."
Hank nodded. "I saw the notification in the paper. I'll be there."
"Thanks." Jean asked about Harrison, and Rosie let herself drift along without taking part in the conversation, wondering if anybody would ever find the bodies they'd left in the abandoned factory. All of them must have had people who'd loved them, once upon a time. It seemed like tipping Detective Johnson off might be the right thing to do, but then again, they'd dumped three bodies themselves in the past week. Drawing attention to more couldn't be smart.
"Where's the right side of the law in this?" she wondered quietly. The other two stopped talking to look at her curiously. "We have to stop the monsters, but is it right to let all those people who hosted the demons just … disappear? Shouldn't we call the cops, so at least they know to look for them?"
"Rosie …" Hank shook his head, but Jean shook hers harder, overriding Hank.
"Rosie's right. It's bad enough knowing Ruby's dead. Not knowing was just as bad in its way. It's stopped being about the demons now, hasn't it? It's about their families. If they've got people who love them, they need to know what's happened to them, if they can."
"And the ones we dumped?" Hank asked grimly.
Rosie shook her head. "We shouldn't have done that. I don't know what else we should have done, and it was all panicky and awful and I'm not gonna beat us up for doing it. But we shouldn't have, and next time—'cause there's gonna be a next time—we need to have a plan for what to do instead."