Dying Day

by Kory M. Shrum

  “I’m sure she’ll be thrilled to hear that, sweetie.”

  Her lip trembles again. “If she doesn’t die before I can tell her.”

  Chapter 10

  Jesse

  The water slams against the shore. Angry waves pound their frustrations on the sand. Or maybe I’m projecting here. Where is Gabriel? Holy hell, where is Gabriel?

  The sound of shifting sand sends me whirling around to face whatever is coming. My heart is half hopeful, half fearful. Hope that it’s Gabriel, full of excuses and apologies—fear that it’s not.

  It’s not.

  Michael stands alone on the beach, barefoot in the sand. He’s wearing black capris and an open white shirt, exposing a bare chest. He sees me looking, and his grin spreads.

  “What did you do with him?” I call up my fire without thinking. The blue flames whip in the wind along my arms.

  “Oh, he’s still around,” he flashes me a fox-like smile, with rows of perfect teeth. “Unfortunately, he’s very hard to get rid of. Believe me, I’ve been trying for a long, long time.”

  “Why did you change your clothes?”

  He doesn’t look down like most people would at such a question, he only raises an eyebrow. “I thought you’d like the change. Something a little more casual. Intimate. It’s just us now.”

  My heart starts rocketing in my chest. “There will be no intimacy here. Got that?”

  He grins, pulling on his bottom lip with his teeth. “I could take you by force, of course. But given your history, I think that will escalate this a little too quickly. The timing must be perfect. So we’ll save that for the proper moment.”

  My mouth goes dry.

  “Meanwhile, relax and enjoy the seduction.”

  The hair on my arms and back of my neck stiffen.

  “Is it the form I chose? I don’t know why you wouldn’t like it.” Now he glances down at his body. “It has symmetry. Strong, but a touch feminine.”

  “Listen, I don’t care if you turn into Idris Elba. Touch me, and it’ll be the last thing you’ll do.”

  He considers me with those large, wet eyes for a moment. It’s like a face-off—very western. Behind him, the beach stretches on until it’s swallowed up by silvery fog. Behind me, it ends in a lush tropical forest. To my right, opposite the endless thrashing sea and shore to my left, is the beautiful beach house on its sandy dune.

  “Are you sure about that?” he asks.

  I watch his features shift and shimmer. The blond hair thickens, tangling into loose windswept waves. The face widens. The jaw softens and skin plumps. The eyes are bigger, lips poutier…It’s Ally.

  Ally stands on the shore, big brown eyes bright in the low light.

  Her nipples poke through the thin white shirt, and her legs are bare beneath the capris.

  I take a step toward her before I get ahold of myself. That isn’t Ally. She hasn’t been transported here by some angel mojo. That is Michael wearing her face.

  When I look more closely, I realize he isn’t wearing it quite right either. Ally is all innocence and steadfast perseverance. There has never been that much mischief in her eyes.

  “Come here,” she says. He says. And even though I know it isn’t her, just hearing her voice makes my limbs go weak.

  “No means no, sir.”

  “Don’t you miss me?” Ally asks, and despite the flaws in her face—his face—that voice is perfect. “I’ve missed you so much.”

  Fire leaps along my skin. I’d called my power without thinking, and now it rages along my skin the way the waves rage against the shore.

  “I’m so tired, Jesse. I want it to be over. Don’t you want it to be over?”

  I notice the shadows deepening along the sand. Thunder rolls. I dare a glance away from the Ally imposter in time to see the lightning spiderweb overhead. In that momentary flash, I glimpse the distinct form of angels flittering back and forth in the clouds, close, like sharks circling. They’re waiting for the moment to seize my leg and drag me under.

  “Don’t you want it to end?” the Ally imposter asks. Her eyes glow like amber fire. It’s beautiful, but it isn’t natural. Not unless she has a candle inside her head.

  Yes, every bone and thread of my body begs for it. Yes. I’m tired. I’m so tired.

  “We can stop running, Jesse. We can be happy now. Nothing will hurt us.”

  Stop running. God, what I wouldn’t give to stop running? It’s been so long now I don’t know if I could stop even if I wanted to.

  My eyes fly open. I hadn’t even realized they were closed, or rather, were lured shut by that melodic voice.

  Imposter Ally is dangerously close. Our eyes meet and I see those dancing twin amber flames.

  I encase myself in blue fire, letting it make up for the shield that won’t come. Then I call Georgia’s black smoke.

  Ally’s face emphasizes a pout, while batting those long lashes. “You wouldn’t kill me, Jesse.”

  My soul aches. “I wouldn’t kill her.”

  “Her who?” Michael asks with Ally’s voice.

  I widen the arc of the fire until Michael is forced to stop advancing. Blue light dances off his skin.

  “Whose face am I wearing?” she asks.

  Gabriel’s warning returns. I cannot protect the others the same way I can protect you.

  “I just need a name.”

  “A name?” I whisper, my voice tight in my throat.

  Imposter Ally’s grin only widens. Warning bells go off in my head.

  No names. No names.

  “No names,” I murmur, feeling drunk and unsteady on my feet. “No names, Michael.”

  Her jaw hardens, eyes shift from glowing embers to a rich blue. In her place is the Michael I recognize, blond hair still blowing in the wind.

  “You’ll wish we’d done it that way,” Michael says and he calls up the starlight again. His palm disappears in the starburst of light. The black smoke I’m using as a layer to my shield is forced back, withering in the light. Hadn’t I seen a light like that before? In a church with no doors…

  The angel creatures above screech like birds of prey. My mistake is looking up, trying to anticipate an attack from above. It is the man with a universe in his hand who is the real problem.

  Sensing the impending attack, I try to call my shield, but the purple light only sputters and sparks. It’s still too weak.

  He blasts me. And no matter what I call up—blue fire, shadow, Rachel’s telekinesis, or Cindy’s water—nothing stops the starblade from striking me in the chest.

  Cold fire slices through me. I cry out. But my voice is lost in the wind and sea.

  I’m falling.

  I’m falling…

  “Good morning, Mr. Reynolds!” Ally chirps. I’m not sure how she sounds so damn chipper before the sun is even up. I’d rather stab myself in the hand with a fork than speak to people. “Are you ready for the most pleasant replacement experience today?”

  “I don’t think we should stand so close to him,” I say, pulling her away from the bed. She’s so pretty, but she can also be so gross sometimes. This guy’s sheets smell. Or it’s his pits. I don’t know. But we don’t need to make physical contact first thing, do we?

  I suppose this unattractive friendliness is meant to offset her gorgeousness. How can the rest of us endure without such a mercy?

  Mr. Reynolds still doesn’t respond when I turn on the bedside lamp, illuminating his bedroom in a butter-yellow glow. I nudge him. “Dude, she’s talking to you.”

  His eyes fly open as he jolts upright and presses his back against the wooden headboard. Crushing the comforter to his chest, he fumbles an earplug from each ear. His darting eyes search our faces. “Who the hell are you?” he asks.

  “A real charmer,” I say, and we’re off.

  He doesn’t get any more charming as the day rushes on. By 7:45 A.M., Reynolds has accepted that Ally is his death replacement agent and that she is going to spend the day shadowing him. He seems f
ine with this arrangement—probably given her big boobs and endless smile. However, as her glorified bodyguard, I have sucked down about six cups of coffee at this point. And while I’m feeling a little less murderous with each cup, I don’t really feel like I have a handle on this day yet.

  There is something weird about it. I can’t quite put my finger on what’s wrong…but it’s something. Something big. And my intuition is always spot-on, so…

  Franklin Street is busy, the honking horns conveying that not everyone is happy to be alive on this fine Monday. So nothing suspicious there. In fact, I’m totally down with these people, though I do like the September chill icing my cheeks as we march down the street. But seriously, I can’t shake this feeling.

  I’ve got two arms, two legs, two eyes, two boobs. Everything appears to be in working order. Phone? Check. Wallet? Check. Did I leave the stove on? Considering I can’t tell you the last time I cooked a meal, I’m going to go with no.

  I’m wearing my favorite Three Stiffs with Picks T-shirt, and what’s not to like about a soft cotton t-shirt? The local band’s members are necronites like Ally, which means they have the same neurological disorder, but they aren’t death-replacement agents and have no government contract like she does. What’s wrong with showing a little pride for my #1 compadre?

  “You have a very interesting job,” Mr. Reynolds says, flashing Ally a smile. I’ve seen this “let’s-get-to-know-the-cute-girl” bit before. Like, a lot. He turns to me. “Do you die, too? Are you the backup?”

  Ugh. Conversation is the worst. “I’m here to put a foot up your ass if you step out of line.”

  He flinches.

  “Or a fist, if you prefer. I’m not picky.”

  Ally shoots me a pleading look behind his back. Brinkley, her government-assigned handler, pops into my head. One more bad review, Jesse, and I’ll have to find someone else to oversee her replacements. A real buzzkill, that guy.

  And I guess they could get anyone to do this job. Anyone who can dial a phone or wrangle people who get out of line is basically qualified.

  “Dear Sir or Madam, I am sorry for this inconvenience. In the light of your impending death, this must be a stressful time for you. Please accept my apologies for this situation and let me offer my reassurance that no matter what happens, you can count on the fabulous Alice Gallagher to save your ass.”

  Brinkley made me memorize this verbatim, and to be spiteful, I haven’t changed a word. Not even the Sir or Madam part. Okay, maybe I changed save you to save your ass, but what’s the difference really?

  Reynolds office is laid out like a bi-level, encased in glass. The entrance has two glass doors that push open. The outer wall is a full window overlooking downtown Nashville. The floor is pale hardwood, shining in the slanted autumn light. A spiraling staircase with see-through steps coil off to the right, very modern.

  His desk and bookcase are as transparent as the window behind him. So much glass! Oh, think of how many smudges I could make in one day here! This guy is gonna love me!

  I’ve only managed to draw a very dynamic interpretive portrait of mankind harnessing the power of fire on one of the windows when Ally calls out my name. There’s a tone to it that turns my stomach.

  “Jesse…”

  I turn, heart hammering in time to see Mr. Reynolds freeze in mid-motion. It looks like he was unravelling a laptop cord. Ally says something to him, but too softly for me to hear.

  Reynolds hesitates, and I recognize it for what it is. Clients often freeze up when Ally starts to react. No one wants to die. To the clients, in this moment before it happens, it seems as if any movement could be the wrong one. She steps forward and he steps back.

  This is where everything goes wrong.

  He hits the rail of his upper office and slips right over the edge. Ally rushes to his side. From where I stand, it looks like she tries to grab his lapel and pull him back to safety. But there’s simply too much of him. Instead, she rolls over the rail with his momentum, a small yelp of surprise escaping her.

  They crash into a glass desk, which shatters on impact. Shards of glass spray my face like water. I try to block the spray with an open hand and by turning my face away. I may or may not have a stream of choice words pouring from my mouth, the least of which: “Who designed this shit!”

  I collapse on my hands and knees beside the wreckage. I’m trying to push all this glass off of Ally and make sure she is okay.

  “Hurry, Jesse,” she whispers as blood pools in the corner of her mouth.

  Seeing the blood, something in my brain clicks. Some reality shifts at the sight of Ally bleeding on top of a man.

  She isn’t the agent.

  She isn’t supposed to die. She can’t die.

  I grab her and haul her into my lap, reality crashing down on me as this strange dream twists itself into a nightmare.

  “No, no, no, no!” I say, shaking her a little as if death can be brushed off or scared away.

  Her brown eyes flutter. She coughs, more blood bubbling out between her white teeth.

  Then I see the shard of glass in her throat, crystalline from the light coming through the window.

  I take a cell phone out of my pocket. I’m babbling to the authorities to meet me here, to bring medical help, that Alice Gallagher is dying…

  But they will never make it in time. Her eyes flutter closed.

  “No! No!”

  I scream until my throat burns. I scream and stumble out onto the sand. The impact jars me out of that long-ago memory—not a memory. And not a dream. A trick. A nasty trick.

  I open my eyes to see Michael’s face. He’s grinning, triumphant. He twists the blade and wrenches it free from my body. Blood spurts out of me onto the beach, darkening the sand.

  I press my hand over my wound. I roll over onto my back, trying to breathe. Can I die in this dreamscape? This mental gate as Gabriel called it?

  Michael looms over me, his profile blotting out the light from the storm clouds above.

  “Alice Gallagher?” he asks with a devilish smirk.

  I taste blood in the back of my throat.

  His smile only widens. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

  Chapter 11

  Ally

  I sit down at one of the computer terminals in the rec room and log on. While I watch the pinwheel whirl and click to life, I worry about Maisie. I convinced her to leave Gloria’s side long enough to eat and get some sleep in our pod. But the look on her face when I pulled back the covers and urged her and Winston to crawl into the lower right bunk said it all: She’s as miserable and heartbroken by our circumstances as I am. True, I haven’t buried both my parents this week, but I am facing the loss of the person I love most in this world.

  And it is the losses that are tearing us down. The sad, defeated expression on Maisie’s face—an expression that no child should ever wear—echoes my own worst fear: we will never all be together again. We will never be whole again. Because even more loss is coming.

  After I’d closed the pod door behind me, I had waited just in case she cried out or called me back. She did neither. Moments passed and I heard her soft crying, muffled as if into a pillow. I didn’t go in and comfort her. If she waited until I left to cry, she wanted to do it alone.

  And I respect that.

  I bring my attention to the computer flashing in front of me. A few more strokes of the keys and the terminal finally grants me access. I launch a browser, go to my email, and type in my password. I see the familiar Four Unread Messages notification. Three of the messages are spam, one alerting me to a sale at Ann Taylor Loft as if I’m ever going to have time to go buy some sweaters. One is informing me that I’ve won a free cruise—oh how I wish that were true—I’d even take an Antarctica cruise, if it’d drop me off at a certain South Pole.

  And the last email is telling me that Viagra will be 40% off if I just open the email and download the “exclusive” coupon.

  I delete all of these emails and
open the last. It’s from someone called Blue Komodo. If anyone else read the email, they would see this:

  1*161312$419229@@819@@18*1*161312$419229@@212^269@@111824!^6!!DBB25@@9222623@231213&426724!(719@@72215@@

  But as I’m reading, I see this:

  I know where she is. I know where you are. Pick up: 23:00. Be ready. Don’t watch the telly.

  This is Gideon’s cipher. One of three that he made all of us memorize not long after he came to our aid on Brinkley’s order. He’d been very tight-lipped about what he’d learned and from where. I’d only learned that he was Brinkley’s surrogate son, and a sort of apprentice through Brinkley’s own journals. That he used to be the second son in a family of goat herders in Afghanistan, that it was Brinkley himself that killed his brother when he was forced to pose as a suicide bomber outside the military base where he was stationed. Brinkley was the sniper ordered to shoot the boy down. When Brinkley returned the boy’s body to his family, offering his life in exchange for his guilt, they gave him Gideon instead—begging him to smuggle their only surviving son out of the country before terrorist factions recruited him by force as they were doing to so many boys in their village—as they had done with their firstborn.

  I never even started to crack the code on the tangled history between those two: Brinkley and Gideon. And all those years they spent together after Gideon’s adoption. I know he went from Afghanistan to India. India to London…that he has many shady, unscrupulous connections. That he is a flirt.

  And that’s all I’ll probably ever know about him.

  I read the message again, frowning harder. This last bit of the message is curious because I can hear it being said in Gideon’s chiding, British accent. He would say it like a dare. Not don’t watch the television but rather I dare you not to watch the tele. I check the timestamp and see the message was sent less than an hour ago. Has something else happened? Already?

  Or does he think I haven’t heard about Jesse in Antarctica? Or is this a different kind of warning altogether?