Undead to the World

by DD Barant

  Charlie looks grim. “Look, about Stoker—”

  Which is when we hear a hoarse scream.

  We bolt for the house. Through the door, up the stairs, straight for Cassiar’s room. Deputy Silver’s standing at the top of the stairs, holding back Silas Bloom, who’s pale and shaking and saying, “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God.” I realize it must have been him who screamed.

  I can see the interior of Cassiar’s room through the open doorway. There’s blood—a lot of blood. And what’s barely recognizable as a human form lying on the bed.

  But it’s not Cassiar. It’s Therese Isamu, the wife of the pire I killed.

  THIRTEEN

  Therese Isamu. Real name Teresa, real identity the curator of the Human Achievement Museum. The sight of her corpse floods my mind with memories, followed closely by a surge of grief. Get ahold of yourself. This isn’t really her.

  No, it isn’t. This is the woman who greets me at the beginning of every shift with a friendly smile, who gives me meals on the house, who loves dirty jokes. This is—was—my friend.

  “What’s going on here?” demands a voice from behind me.

  I turn. David Cassiar stands on the steps below me, looking puzzled.

  Oh, boy.

  “That’s a very good question,” Sheriff Stoker says, stepping out into the hall and pulling the door shut behind him. “Mr. Cassiar. You and I need to speak.”

  “Certainly,” Cassiar says. “Would you care to step into my room, since you’ve been inside already?”

  “That, that, that,” says Silas. He looks like he’s about to cry. “That’s Therese, isn’t it? I mean, some of her, right?”

  Stoker frowns. “Quinn, take Silas downstairs and get a statement, all right? Jace, downstairs and get back in the car—you and Charlie shouldn’t even be present. Mr. Cassiar, I’m going to need to talk to you right here.”

  Deputy Silver escorts Silas down the stairs, past me, Charlie, and Cassiar. I stay right where I am, and Charlie doesn’t budge, either. He climbs a step and whispers to me, though. “Jace. Let’s go. I need to talk to you.”

  Maybe I should listen. Maybe I should do what I’m told. Maybe I should leave the bloody crime scene to the professionals—oh, wait. That’s me.

  “Cassiar’s not your guy,” I say. “Give me two minutes with you in that room and I’ll prove it. And I won’t touch a thing.”

  “Excuse me?” Cassiar says. “Prove what, exactly? And who is Therese?”

  Stoker stares at me. I meet his gaze levelly.

  “I must be the crazy one,” Stoker mutters at last. “Mr. Cassiar, don’t go anywhere. Valchek—you got two minutes.”

  I nod, and wait for him to open the door again. He pulls out a pair of latex gloves and puts them on first.

  We go inside. He shuts the door again.

  My first good look at the body triggers another cascade of memories, but this time they’re more professional than personal; forensics training, mostly. I try to focus on that.

  “The amount of blood suggests she died from exsanguination,” I say. “There’s a blood trail from the window, but it’s not extensive—probably from a minor injury as she was dragged to the bed. Blood spatter indicates arterial spray from a neck wound; her throat was torn open while she lay on her back.”

  “Torn?” Stoker says.

  I point. “Look at the edges of the wound. Ragged, not straight. A knife or other sharp implement would have done a much cleaner job.”

  “What else?”

  “Major organs are missing: heart, liver, lungs. Flesh on her upper thighs. If this body was found in a forest, it would be a clear case of animal predation.”

  “But she isn’t out in the woods. She’s in a bedroom.”

  “Yeah. Not her bedroom, either. That’s because she was brought here and killed—by someone who leaped up to the second-floor window while carrying her. Probably by the throat so she couldn’t scream; that would explain the blood trail, too.”

  He looks at me with no expression at all on his face. “Uh-huh. So an animal did this.”

  “I didn’t say that. What I am saying is that Cassiar didn’t. If he were going to do something as stupid as taking a woman back to his room to kill her as messily as possible, why would he go to the trouble of entering through a window on the second floor? Makes no sense.”

  “One little problem with your theory. This much blood and a wild animal? There’d be tracks all over the place.”

  “I never said it was a wild animal, either. But whoever or whatever did this, it didn’t leave tracks coming in because of how the body was carried; the blood dripped to the side, not where it was stepping. After it was done, it leaped from the bed to the windowsill. Never touched the floor at all.”

  Stoker glances at the window. It’s closed.

  I smile and walk over to it. “Look at that. Somebody closed it. Must be a very civilized beast. But look at the sill.”

  Stoker does. There’s a smudge of blood, one that runs underneath the window itself. Stoker opens the window—and there, on the sill, are what look like several very large paw prints, outlined in blood.

  “Agile, too,” I say. “Perched on the sill and closed the window from the outside. You’ll find some blood transfer on the exterior wall, I’m sure. Maybe even some fur.”

  Stoker studies me dispassionately. “Any theories as to why?”

  “Oh, that’s obvious. This is a message. A warning.”

  He nods. “Looks like someone isn’t fond of Mr. Cassiar.”

  Or maybe it’s just the company he keeps. “You’re going to take him in anyway, right?”

  “Of course. If nothing else, for his own safety. And to find out who exactly is trying to scare him off, and why.”

  “I can help. Let me talk to him.”

  Stoker frowns. “You know I can’t do that. This is a murder investigation, and he’s in the middle of it. I shouldn’t have let you in here in the first place.”

  “But you did. And I did what I promised, didn’t I?”

  He considers this. “All right. But I talk to him first, alone. Then we can talk to him together.”

  Not ideal, but it’s the best I’m going to be able to do. “Okay. But I’m going to need Charlie to get me something.”

  * * *

  I can tell Charlie is desperate to talk to me, but Stoker doesn’t give him a chance. Stoker takes me to the station in his car, while Silver takes Cassiar in the other. We have to wait for the county coroner to arrive first, but seeing how that’s Doctor Pete, it doesn’t take long. I’m cooling my heels in the back of the sheriff’s car, and give the doc a little wave when he looks my way. He seems more bemused than anything.

  At the station, I get put in a cell to wait while Stoker questions Cassiar. Charlie tries to get in to see me, but Silver tells him he can’t. He does, however, relay my message about the errand I need Charlie to run. I can hear a muffled argument through the door, but apparently Charlie thinks better of storming the place. I hope it’s the right decision.

  An hour later, Stoker unlocks my cell and escorts me to the interview room. Cassiar’s there, looking completely unfazed for a man who’s just been told a woman was brutally murdered in his bed. Or maybe Stoker’s keeping him in the dark about that, though I can’t see why. Maybe he wants me to tell him and gauge his reaction.

  The only thing in the room besides us, the table, and two chairs, is a television on a rolling stand. It’s got a DVD player built right in.

  “Charlie get you that thing I asked for?” I say.

  Stoker hands me a brown manila envelope. “You want to tell me how this is going to help?”

  “Oh, you’d be surprised,” I say.

  This is a big risk. I need Cassius, and that means that whatever voodoo whammy Azura pulled on Charlie, I need her to do the same with Cassiar. Cassiar in jail doesn’t help me at all; Cassius—in or out of jail, with or without the use of his eyes, ears, or limbs—is an invaluable asset. I need t
o get him into the game, and do it now. That means showing my hand to Stoker—but hey, that’s going to happen sooner or later anyway. Maybe it’s even a good thing; if Stoker is someone from my other life, maybe he’ll turn out to be an asset, too. Just because he’s an evil cult member in this reality doesn’t mean he’s some sort of monster in his original incarnation, right?

  Right?

  “Jace,” Cassiar says. “Are you under arrest, too?”

  “I told you,” Stoker says. “You’re being detained as a material witness. You’re not under arrest.”

  “And neither am I,” I say. “I just wanted to speak to you.”

  Cassiar frowns. “Privately?”

  “Afraid not,” says Stoker.

  “But first,” I add quickly, “I need to show you something. Bear with me, okay?”

  Cassiar understands as soon as I slip the DVD out of the envelope. He glances at Stoker, then back at me. He gives me an “it’s your funeral look” as I turn on the set.

  Azura pops up in the scene menu, which I hope means she’s accepting calls. Her image flickers to life, but before she can speak I quickly say, “This is the interesting part, Mr. Cassiar. It’s very small, but if you get close to the screen you’ll be able to make it out.”

  Cassiar does so. Stoker frowns, sensing something’s wrong. “Hey!” he snaps. “Get away from—”

  I slam my body into him as hard as I can. Stoker masses a lot more than I do, but I’ve got desperation and surprise on my side. We both smack sideways into the wall, but Stoker shoves me away an instant later. I go careening into Cassiar, knocking him away from the TV. Not good.

  I grab Cassiar by his lapels, spin both of us around, and get us headed back toward the television. “Azura, now!” I bellow.

  White light.

  * * *

  It’s not like it was with Charlie.

  I’m hanging in some sort of void. Blank nothingness, like having your eyes closed but more so. And then I hear Azura’s voice in my head: Uh-oh.

  Uh-oh? What do you mean, uh-oh? I demand.

  I’m not getting a connection to Cassius. Dimensional harmonic’s all messed up.

  Can you fix it?

  I’ll try. A pire as old as Cassius has a really strong psychic signature, which helps. I think all the illusion spells in your area are distorting things, but I’m compensating for that now … got him!

  The nothingness goes away, replaced by—

  Warm, golden light. The kind of buttery sunshine I associate with early summer mornings, before the day gets too hot. The light isn’t coming from overhead, though—not exactly.

  My hand is warm in his, but it’s not him I’m looking at. I’m gazing in rapt awe at my surroundings instead. We’re in a lush, tropical jungle, palm trees and thick foliage all around us. Bright blue and yellow parrots preen themselves on branches or call to one another. The air is humid, warm and heavy and rich. We’re also indoors, the plant canopy reflected upside down off the glass panes overhead. This is an artificial environment filled with real life, a carefully tended biosphere inside a transparent shell. During the day the sun shines through the roof and walls, but right now it’s the middle of the night.

  Not that you’d know it. The whole place is illuminated as brightly as it would be at noon, and not from electric lights, either. No, the light seems to be coming from everywhere, almost as if the air itself is glowing.

  “How are you doing this?” I ask, wonder in my voice. I know he’s responsible, I just don’t know how.

  “Magic, of course,” he says.

  I turn to look at him. He’s dressed like a Roman gladiator: sculpted golden body armor, a leather kilt, and sandals, all of it over some kind of bodysuit. His whole outfit is glowing with the same soft light. I can’t see his face—he’s also wearing a crested helmet with a visor that mostly conceals his features—but I’d know those blue eyes anywhere.

  “David?” I say wonderingly. “No. No, you can’t be—”

  He flips the visor up, showing me I’m right. “Now you know why the Solar Centurion never lets you get too close, Rhiannon. You’re too sharp to fool.”

  The Jace part of my consciousness remembers exactly who the centurion is: a member of the Bravo Brigade, legendary heroes who fought an evil cult back in the fifties. I have no idea how long Cassius has owned the armor, though, so I still don’t know what decade this memory is from.

  “So the sunlight the centurion armor emits,” I say. “It doesn’t hurt you, even though you’re a pire?”

  “That’s right. I can make it do things normal sunlight can’t, too—like light up this greenhouse.”

  He reaches up and takes off his helmet. His blond hair is charmingly tousled. I should be angry at his deceiving me, but I’m not. I came to terms with the fact that it’s David’s job to keep secrets long ago, and eventually realized just how heavy and lonely a burden that job is.

  Now what I feel is gratitude and sorrow. There are things David knows that he wishes he didn’t: things that someone has to know, things that can’t be changed. Only endured.

  I reach up and put a hand against his cheek. I love him so much, but I can’t live in his world. Not anymore. Not the way he does.

  “So this is it?” I say. “Your final attempt to change my mind? To show me that even pires can enjoy daylight, now and then—or at least they can if they have a magic-powered suit of armor?”

  He puts his hand on top of mine. “No. I know your mind is made up. I simply wanted to fulfill a wish of yours. You said once you’d like nothing better than to just take a walk in a garden with me on a warm summer afternoon. This is the best I could do.”

  I smile at him, tears in my eyes. “Thank you,” I say simply. I pull his hand down, clasp it in mine, and pull him forward down the path.

  We have the place all to ourselves. The perfume of a dozen kinds of exotic flowers fill the air, mingling with the smell of sun-warmed leaves and moss. I look around, drinking it all in, but searching for something, too.

  I finally find it beneath a tree dripping with crimson blooms. I stop and turn to face him. “I have a question. Two, in fact.”

  “Yes?”

  “First of all, does the sorcery just protect your face?”

  “No. My entire body is immune to this particular wavelength of light as long as I wear the armor.”

  “Which brings me to my second question. How much of the armor do you have to keep on for it to work?” I give him a mischievous smile. “Because there’s something else I’ve always wanted to do with you under the sun.…”

  As it turns out, the breastplate and gauntlets are the important parts of the ensemble; the helmet works with them, but he can remove it as long as it remains nearby.

  We kneel on the moss together, and I push him onto his back. The leather kilt comes off first. It takes some ingenuity and patience to get the bodysuit off while keeping the armor on, but I’m in no hurry. I want this to last.

  Finally, with more than a few giggles during the process, I have my centurion the way I want him. Then it’s my turn.

  I strip for David slowly, turning in the omnipresent sunlight, bathing in its glow, letting it warm every inch of me. I want to give that warmth to him, to press the heat of my skin to the coolness of his. I want to burn in his arms like a star.

  But practicality gets in the way. Even while David uses magic to grant his lover’s wish, hard reality won’t be ignored. The armor that covers his chest and belly isn’t made to be embraced; it’s a reminder of the barriers between us that we can’t remove, no matter how hard we try. Even while he reveals as much of himself to me as he can, some layers of protection can’t be removed. That’s just how things are.

  But that doesn’t mean I’m going to give up.

  I get on top. An embrace is nice, but sometimes you just need to go for a long, hard ride.…

  I don’t experience her orgasm, of course, any more than I remember Amy’s parents. These are Cassius’s memories,
not Rhiannon’s, and though I’m seeing it through her eyes it’s being filtered through his mind.

  But that doesn’t mean the intensity of the moment doesn’t affect me. Even though I’m in Rhiannon’s head—or some kind of magic/memory analog of it—my own memories are starting to intrude and overlap. The way he manages to brush his thumbs over my ribs without tickling. The firm grip of his hands on either side of my waist. His rhythm. And, oh God, the way that man can use his mouth.…

  It goes on forever, and it’s over too soon. I slump onto his breastplate like a marathon runner collapsing onto a metal deck, surprised to find the sculpted surface pleasantly cool.

  “Thought … it’d … be … hot,” I pant against his chest.

  “Funny, no one ever complained before.”

  I raise myself up on my arms and give him a ferocious grin. “Your armor, idiot.”

  “Ah, now I see. I was expecting a different sort of comment.”

  “Well, I was also going to point out how … rigid it is.”

  “My armor.”

  “Yes.”

  “I see.”

  “Honestly, how are we supposed to snuggle like this? It’s like lying on top of a rock.”

  “I refer you to my initial statement vis-à-vis complaints.”

  I laugh and roll off him. We both sit up, him with his arms behind him and his hands flat against the ground, me with my knees drawn up and my arms wrapped around them. We regard each other, our eyes full of emotion, not speaking. There’s too much between us for the moment to last, though, the silence filling up with the memory of arguments past and consideration of those in the future.

  “Don’t,” I say softly. “Don’t start.”

  “Then don’t end,” he says.

  “That’s what human beings do, David. We’re not meant to last forever.”

  “Then become something else. I did.”

  “I’m not you.”

  “And pretty soon you won’t be anything.”

  I shake my head. “You know better than that. I just won’t be here.”

  He sighs, and stares up at the foliage. “I’m so…”