by Debra Kristi
Sebastian held her and attempted to comfort her. All the while, his eyes searched for that something, the something he’d picked out of her memories. The very something kicking his adrenaline into a top-speed spin.
He knew the moment he’d found it. On the wall, in a basic oak frame, hung a faded picture mounted on what probably used to be red construction paper. A very young Sophie stood beside a man, huge grins on their faces, a Christmas tree in the background. Across the top in kid-scribbled Crayola, it read Santa brought me a daddy for Christmas. Jon B Davies. On the other side of Jon Davies was another girl. A bit older than Sophie, she stood a tad taller and had her blonde hair pulled back in a pony.
Alice.
Sebastian’s mind summersaulted. He took a step back, dragging Sophie’s mom with him.
She pulled herself together and looked at him, confusion and knowing burning in her eyes. “What of Alice?” she said.
Shit. Sebastian dropped his arms, took another step back. His hand reached into his pants pocket, felt for Alice’s locket. Wrapped it securely in his grasp. He should give it to the woman, Alice’s mother—he knew that—but for the first time since he’d started his Reaping gig, he was petrified. This woman had lost not one, but two daughters, and the blame for one could partially fall on his own head. He took another step back, another step toward the door.
“Where are you going?” she questioned. “You can’t leave. You need to explain yourself. Explain this.” She waved her hands between them, implying the memory and emotion exchange that had just taken place.
“I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. But I can’t.” Sebastian turned and scuttled out the door. His body protested, argued his decision to run, but he fought against it, pushed his physical limits and bolted down the hall. She yelled at his back, but he didn’t turn to look, and he couldn’t hear her over the labored beat of his heart. His hand slammed on the elevator button, flattening against the surrounding cold metal plate, depressing both the up and down options together.
The doors opened almost immediately. In his haste to escape, Sebastian glanced at Sophie and Alice’s mom coming down the hall after him and stepped through the opening, taking notice far too late the elevator wasn’t sitting in wait.
Sebastian twisted and fell into the dark elevator shaft.
By the light of day, Club Afterlife lacked that special something that made it popular with the crowds by nightfall. Marcus stood in the middle of the dance floor and stared past the pool tables to the large entertainment balcony beyond. He thought of the first night he’d brought Kyra here, how everything had gone so much better than he had anticipated. Losing her memory had been unforeseen, but so damn perfect. Now look at the mess Marcus had to deal with. He shook his head. What had Leila been thinking, bringing Sebastian here?
“Well, let’s see it,” Marcus said, and turned to meet Rick’s waiting, watchful eye.
Rick pivoted, did an about-face, and led the way to a private staircase. Bright and stark was the stairwell, its main purpose the flow of supplies. They descended several flights, passing various levels of the club along the way to the basement. Heavy, dark scuffs, trash, and blood littered the last several steps before they walked through the door into the open storage area. The large metal door to the area beyond remained open, and men worked in the dank space with high-powered hoses, spraying the walls and floors. Where Marcus and Rick stood, several bodies had been tossed in a pile to the side. Someone had scrubbed and cleaned up the rest of the wreckage already.
Rick stopped and his gaze swept over the place, his lips twisting to the side.
“How many were there?” Marcus asked.
“According to the surveillance playback, about a dozen or so,” Rick said with a mild nod of the head.
“A dozen,” Marcus repeated, his tone dry, surly. “A dozen men, and we only manage to take out three of them, while losing all our own?” His nostrils flared.
Rick took a step back. “Well…” He pointed to the busy cleanup in the next room. “Something we can’t explain went down.”
“What happened?” Marcus’s eyes narrowed, then he stared past Rick and walked through the door to the other room. The large cage stood at the far end. A guy whose name he hadn’t bothered to learn was hosing the area down. Chunks of matter—flesh and blood—were pushed into piles by the water spray. “What in all dragons’ domain happened here?”
“That’s the thing. We’re not sure. The surveillance turned to static right after the first shots rang out. There’s no way of telling without getting ahold of an actual witness.”
“Then get me a fucking witness,” Marcus snarled. “I want to know what killed my men.” He stood rigid, felt the fury burning through his bloodstream. If the Mara bastard was responsible—
Marcus spun around and stormed back to the front room, to the pile of bodies waiting there. He kicked at the one on top, watched it topple over. Dark fatigues. No distinguishing markings on the clothing—but for one tiny little square of an emblem, a patch sewn to the lower left corner of the soldier’s vest. Easily overlooked. Marcus growled.
“So. He found me.” Marcus raked his hand through his hair and kicked the soldier again, for extra measure.
“It would seem so, sir,” Rick said, stepping up beside him. “But they didn’t seem as interested in where you were, as in what was behind this door.” He pointed to the large metal brute hanging wide open. “May I ask what, or who, you had locked up?”
Marcus turned sharply, stared right down at Rick. “No, you may not.” He pivoted and walked for the stairwell. “I want all this cleaned up before the club opens, and I want Davies and his silly army found and destroyed. Understood?”
“Of course. But shouldn’t Chet be here? Isn’t this his territory?”
“I have Chet working on another matter. Never mind about him.” Marcus paused in the doorway, looked back over the mess. “And get me Leila on the phone. I want to have a chat with her.”
“Sir?”
“Just do it.” Marcus stomped up the stairs, his feet coming down on each step with a heavy clang. His mind was calculating, deciphering, planning. If Davies was on to him, then it was time to use Davies to his advantage. This was nothing more than a crimp in his otherwise perfect plan. The edges of Marcus’s lips twitched and lifted, warm contempt spreading through his chest like a plague.
The black of the elevator shaft moved past Sebastian’s falling body at incredible speed. Soon he’d be broken bits on the bottom floor.
And then he wasn’t. The swirl of a Reaper’s vortex rose around him, encircled him, pulled him in. Next thing he knew, he was lying on a foggy forest floor.
How had he done that? Sebastian wasn’t sure, but he wanted to know. There were so many things he wanted to know. He stared at the branches of the trees above him for a breath or five before forcing himself to move. Everything within him protested when he pushed up on his elbows, stood, and took a step. He recognized where he was, though, and the prospects of a more comfortable resting place propelled him.
Red and blue and purple, a rainbow of colored lines aglow. They flashed and swirled, running in loops, dips, and high mountain climbs. Sebastian used them as a guide through the fog, stumbling on the first step into the clear. The puncture in his side screamed mercy. It slowed his pace beyond his liking. He thought of Kyra and an ache churned in his chest. He should be seeking her out, making sure she was safe, but he wouldn’t be much help to her in his present condition. If anything, he’d probably bring her more trouble. And so he found himself shuffling through the fog. The damn, irritating fog.
Still—Kyra was a dragon, and according to his father, dragons were dying!
He pinned his gaze upon the small funnel cake cart near the front of the carnival’s entrance. Madame Rue didn’t see him. Soon enough, she would. He would make sure she couldn’t avoid him. He planned to hit the side of the thing and collapse. Then she would see him and get help. Somebody was bound to make sure Sebastian g
ot to his tarot card trailer and his bed. All he needed was a few hours of sleep. He’d awake in better shape. He felt sure of it.
Sebastian.
His name whispered through the lingering crowd. Unsure if he’d actually heard it or not, Sebastian looked to his left, and then to his right. Zeke sat in his usual spot on the bench by the quiet river. Or was it a lake? So hidden by the mist, no one was sure how far the water extended.
Entertaining the idea of joining the old blind man lasted a mere millisecond. Sebastian seriously wanted for his bed. Zeke waved, and Sebastian found himself waving back. He paused, his face wrinkling. It made no sense to wave at a blind man. His hand came down on the edge of the funnel cake cart. The delicious aroma of batter and strawberries mixed with a metallic smell. It was wrong, and it turned his stomach. He knew it meant a shift in the carnival. Things were about to move, like they often did. It was part of the allure of Mystic’s Carnival—the magic. Things were always shifting and moving, pathways changing. One could never be certain of their direction. The carnival knew where people needed to go, and it led them there. Where you wound up wasn’t always where you wanted to go, but you got where you needed to be.
Tiny sparks began to fizzle and pop in the atmosphere, and the support beneath Sebastian’s hands vanished. He faltered, taking a step to catch himself. His shin connected with something hard, mid-bone.
“Gotcha.”
A hand grabbed him. The pain sliced through him, the support pressing too close to his wound.
“Have a seat,” Zeke said.
Sebastian plopped down on the bench beside the old codger. “Nothing personal, but I’d much rather be in bed right now than hanging with you.”
Zeke folded his hands over his cane and looked out toward the funnel cake cart and the entrance portal beyond. Sebastian knew the old man wasn’t seeing any of it, but it didn’t matter. “Tired, are you?”
Sebastian slumped in his spot, unsure how long he’d be able to hold a conversation, or himself, up. “Very.”
“Haven’t seen much of you since Higgins’s service. What have you been up to?”
Sebastian’s thoughts ran through the memories of Higgins. His sacrifice for Kyra, his service, what Zeke had asked of Sebastian after Higgins’s death, what Sebastian had ultimately done for them both. Sebastian had learned so much about the Higgins and the phoenix that cold, rainy day. He looked toward the busy carnival and wondered what it was he had seen when he’d pulled Higgins’s body out of Purgatory. What it had meant for the old man. “The usual. Keeping myself busy, that’s all.”
Sebastian rested his elbow on the arm of the bench and let himself fall against it, supporting himself by one hand pressed against his cheek.
Zeke cleared his throat. “See Madame Rue, there?” Sebastian turned his gaze back to the funnel cake cart. “She also misses Higgins, and Kyra. She throws herself into her work as a means of coping. Is that what you are doing?”
Sebastian took a deep breath. He wanted to close his eyes and not open them again for an eternity of time. He fought the desire, and instead looked back at Zeke. “Do you think I’m avoiding dealing with things? Because if so, you’re way off base. I’m going to get Kyra back. She is in need of help and I’m going to bring her that help. I merely need to recoup first.”
Zeke’s head bobbed up and down slowly. “Good. Good. I have faith you will do right by her.”
“I’m glad somebody does.”
Zeke’s hand squeezed Sebastian’s, stirring him from a complacent state. “You must believe in yourself and trust your gut.”
Sebastian stared at Zeke’s hand. How does he always know exactly where to reach? “I’m just feeling a little defeated at the moment, and all I want to do right now is hole up and lick my black hole of a wound.”
Zeke’s head turned in Sebastian’s direction. “And how is that going to help Kyra?”
Sebastian’s defenses raised a degree. “How can I help her when I’m mangled and torn to shreds? I can hardly walk without doubling over.”
Zeke patted Sebastian’s hand, his face and eyes loosening in an open and warm manner. “Alright, my boy. Alright,” he said, his voice gentle.
Sebastian felt his insides turn to cinder. He despised himself, his damn inability to protect and save Kyra. He should have broken the rules that day in Purgatory, seen her safely back to the living. He was already breaking the rules by being there and helping her. She never should have landed in the hospital with no memory of who or what she was. And she certainly shouldn’t be in a relationship with any man morally capable of what Marcus had done to Sebastian. Marcus was a complete dickhead.
If only he understood Marcus’s motives.
“The answer is often right in front of you. You only need know where to look.”
Zeke’s words were spoken so quietly it was a wonder Sebastian heard them. Though he suspected Zeke knew he’d hear, regardless of the low volume. Despite his exhaustion, Sebastian’s mind started running over everything he knew regarding Kyra’s situation. There had to be something. Something he was missing.
“What are you fellas up to?”
Chelsea was walking their way. She wore a delicate smile and the usual white dressing gown, featuring a flared base along the bottom four or so inches of the skirt, puffy sleeves, and vintage medallion lace. Today she also wore a light blue robe with a princess waist tie and slippers to match. She usually showed up in her night attire, like she’d crawled out her window after retiring to her room. Or out the hospital room window. Wherever it was she was staying these days. If only Sebastian had known the young cancer girl would become a permanent fixture in his life, he might have handled things differently the day he had given her a reprieve from death.
He hated getting to know her. Hated that she tried to make him care. It would make things more difficult, more painful later, when he was called to reap her soul. There would be no third chance for her. The cancer slowly chomped away at her anatomy. Her Grim bell would soon chime.
“We were only talking, child.” Zeke reached back and patted Sebastian on the back. “I’m sure this young man would enjoy your company immensely.”
Sebastian shot Zeke a what-the-hell look. Even if the old man wasn’t aware of how Sebastian felt, the prompt was uncool. He wanted to crash, and that Zeke did know.
“Chelsea, hon.” Zeke’s hand reached in her direction and shook in the air. “Why don’t you see Sebastian to his trailer?”
Zeke’s dark skin vibrated in front of Sebastian; it was all he focused on. Everything else blurred at the edges. He didn’t hear Chelsea’s response. Her words blended with the hum and roar of the carnival crowd beyond the gates. He felt the desire to yak churning in his stomach.
Planting his hand firmly on the bench arm, Sebastian steadied himself and began to stand. “If you see Talia, can you ask her to swing by my place?” Sebastian didn’t know the odds of Zeke running into Talia, but the forever-present carnival visitor sure had a way of knowing everyone and everything in the most magical way. Sebastian needed to talk to the young witch about Kyra, and felt confident Zeke would make it happen.
He stood, his weight shifting, muscles straining, pain pulsing sharply through his core. White dots popped into his vision. They expanded quick and enveloped all the cosmos. Sebastian lurched forward, throwing a foot out to stop and correct his maneuver. It failed. He teetered to the side and succumbed to gravity.
A groan hissed from between his lips, the grass racing toward his face at a tilt.
“Oh!” Chelsea hurried to close the distance. Her hands came into view seconds later.
His vision dimmed. Then it was gone. All gone.
Dancing midnight, like black silk waving in a breeze atop a silver mesh, floated above. The Mara Web. It was an impenetrable cloud cover, spanning as far as Sebastian could see. There was no escape, only net. Beneath him, soft ground mimicked his bed. It moved, molding itself to his form. His body trembled, unwilling to move, and a trickle of
sweat ran down his temple. The only sky visible below the dangerous sky-high trap flowed in dark squiggles of purples and grays.
Sebastian stared at the shimmering crisscross pattern of the Mara snare, reason dictating in his ear, reminding him to be terrified. Of all the things he’d come across, the Mara Web made him the most vulnerable. But tonight his logic switch had flipped to off, because Sebastian felt oddly at ease among the foreign terrain. No tension existed. He only wanted tranquility. Sleep.
As far as his average dream went, this one was seriously strange. But there was so much about Mara nature he had yet to understand. His mother hadn’t exactly been the nurturing type, and when she’d left, he was a mere three years of age.
He closed his eyes. Only for a short while, he promised himself. He’d rest for a few minutes—fifteen or so—then he’d explore the new dream world. After his energy returned. He took a deep breath and released the tension he’d been holding. Warmth radiated across his body, generated from the pulsating pain in his abdomen.
What happens to the dreamer if he dreams within an already active dream? The curious notion had barely taken form in Sebastian’s synapses when the memory of the mesh above faded into a crowded sky of flapping wings. Dragons. They covered the celestial sphere. Flying in swirling mists of burning embers. He couldn’t blink, couldn’t look away. It was mesmerizing. Extraordinary numbers for a supposed dying race.
Something pushed against his leg. Flushed and firm, it pressed, gliding up his body in one long, fluid motion. The something was a someone, and she was devastating and stunning and Mara. Her appeal went beyond exquisite. No doubt, Mara-magically conceived. The first Mara Sebastian had seen since his mother. The mother who hadn’t wanted him.
Curvaceous bohemian dream: raven hair, cherry bruised lips, and eyes that even the devil would work to please. Sebastian pushed up on his elbows and his breath caught in his chest.
“Relax,” her voice sang, washing over him like soothing bathwater.