Haunted

by Kelley Armstrong

  "A death," I said. "Or deaths. Let's go, then. We have to--"

  Trsiel put his hand on my shoulder. His touch was almost as hot as the sword. "Slow down. This is what she wants, for you to rush off after her."

  I hesitated, my gut telling me to ignore him, move fast, head her off. Another classic Eve Levine error-in-judgment in the making.

  "She may succeed," Trsiel said. "She probably will. You have to be prepared for that."

  "She'll kill someone, you mean. Take a partner before I can intercede." I nodded. "I know. But if I'm going to move cautiously, then the first thing I need to do is make damned sure that the Fates don't have any tips to help me contain her. Could you visit Amanda Sullivan by yourself?"

  "You want us to split up again," he said with a soft sigh.

  "This is the best use of our resources. Now, give me an hour--or do you guys keep time?"

  "We can." He hesitated, then nodded. "Let me give you a code. Someplace safe you can wait."

  I waited until he was gone, then headed to the house to meet up with Kristof.

  25

  ROSS HADN'T KNOWN ANYTHING ABOUT THE NIX, AND he was pretty damned freaked out to learn she'd been under his nose--and in his bed--for several days. It was enough to make a guy swear off nymphs for good...or at least for a few weeks. The Luther Ross Poltergeist School for Nymphs was closing its doors until the Nix was captured, and in the meantime, its headmaster was packing his bags. As for those poltergeist lessons, the subject never came up in front of Kristof...thankfully.

  "Trsiel has been here," the middle Fate said as soon as we appeared. "He has some concerns about Kristof's involvement."

  "And didn't waste any time voicing them," Kristof muttered.

  "We believe he may have a point." She lifted a hand against Kris's protest. "Hear us out. This Nix, having now met Eve, clearly feels this is personal, and we fear she may lash out at Eve by hurting someone close--"

  My gut went cold. "Savannah. Oh, my God."

  Kristof's head shot up, eyes wide with alarm. The Fate lifted both hands this time.

  "To go after Savannah, the Nix would need to know who you are, and what is important to you. She's a demi-demon. She has no patience for that--not when she's already found one way to hurt you."

  I saw the Nix whipping Kristof toward that open portal, felt my gut go cold again. One look my way at that moment, and she'd know exactly how to get to me.

  "While I appreciate your concern, ladies," Kristof murmured. "I believe that, ultimately, the risk is mine to accept or decline."

  The oldest Fate shot in. "Is it?"

  Kris snuck a glance my way. "Well, of course Eve can voice her opinion, but if I feel I can help, I will."

  "If that Nix opens another portal and tries to toss you into it, I'm sure Eve will say, 'That was his decision,' and let you go while she captures the Nix."

  Kristof looked at me again. "Very well. I'll step aside. But if you need me, Eve--"

  Before he could finish, the Searchers whisked him away.

  It turned out that the Fates didn't know a way for me to contain the Nix, so I used Trsiel's code and teleported into a room that looked as if it had been carved out of pearl, with iridescent walls that glimmered with streaks of pink and blue. The wall looked as hard and solid as pearl, but felt like loosely wadded silk. As I stepped back, my feet sank into what felt like plush carpet, yet the floor appeared to be made of the same material as the walls. From somewhere came the softest strain of music, almost an undercurrent of the air itself.

  Typical angel quarters? Hardly the way I'd want to spend my afterlife. But places like these would be for full-bloods like Trsiel. I wondered where the ascendeds lived. In the ghost world? Keeping their angelic identities a secret? Another of a million questions I'd need to ask...if Trsiel was right that the Fates intended to offer me angel-hood.

  "Where the hell did you send me?" I muttered. "A celestial waiting room? Damned angels--"

  A discreet cough. I turned to see a man and a woman standing half-turned toward me, as if I'd interrupted their conversation.

  He was tall and dark-skinned, and she was also tall, with strawberry blond hair. Neither would have been out of place on the cover of any fashion magazine...if they wore something more fashionable. But both wore garments of a diaphanous fabric the same luminous pearl white as the walls. The woman wore a toga that left one shoulder bare, while the man was dressed in a loose-fitting shirt and billowing pants. I've heard of people looking so healthy they glowed, but these two literally did; their skin gave off an unearthly shimmer.

  "Eve," the woman said, her beautiful voice leaving no doubt that she was a full-blooded angel.

  "Uh, yes," I said, suddenly flustered. "I'm looking--"

  "For Trsiel," the man said. "He gave you the code to come here?"

  When I nodded, the two exchanged a look that I was sure was more than a look. They were speaking to each other telepathically, like the wraith-clerks did. Did full-blooded angels naturally communicate by telepathy? I'd never considered that with Trsiel, but then, except for the voice and picture-perfect beauty, he and these two seemed like members of different species.

  "Is Trsiel...around?" I asked. "He was supposed to meet me here but--"

  "But he is late."

  The woman gave the barest shake of her head, as if this wasn't surprising. She looked at the man and they communicated something. The man looked over at me.

  "I will find him," he said.

  "Find who?" Trsiel swung through the doorway, still dressed in the cargo pants and jersey he'd been wearing earlier.

  "We need to get you a watch," I said.

  He grinned, eyes glinting. "At least this time you aren't dueling anyone." He saw the others. Dismay flickered across his face, but he forced it back with another jaunty smile. "Have you guys been introduced?"

  "No, we guys have not," the woman said.

  "Eve, this is Shekinah." He gestured at the woman, then nodded at the man. "And Balthial. Eve is--"

  "We are well aware of who Eve is and what she is doing," Shekinah said, voice rippling with annoyance. "We are also aware, Trsiel, that you have been having some...difficulty helping her with that task."

  "Difficulty?" Trsiel's jaw twitched. "I haven't had any--"

  "Eve found the Nix and you failed to capture her. You were late, and--"

  "He wasn't late," I cut in. "The Nix took off as soon as I summoned him."

  As soon as I said this I wished I hadn't. Shekinah shook her head as if to say, "What's the universe coming to, a ghost defending an angel?" When her gaze met Trsiel's, I'm sure that's pretty much what she did say to him, telepathically.

  "We should be going," I said. "We have a lot to do--"

  "Of course you do," Balthial said. "It was a pleasure meeting you, Eve, and I am looking forward to renewing the acquaintance when you ascend."

  "Yes," Shekinah said. "It was indeed a pleasure. And if you require any assistance with this quest, any assistance you might not be currently receiving, you may contact either Balthial or myself through the Fates."

  At that, Trsiel's jaw set so hard I feared he'd start snapping teeth. The other angels nodded a farewell, as serene and composed as ever, and faded away.

  "What the hell is her problem?" I muttered when they were gone.

  Trsiel's jaw relaxed into a crooked smile. "Shekinah and I have some...philosophical differences. Balthial and I do, too, but he's better at hiding it."

  "Seems like there's more than philosophical differences between you and them."

  Trsiel tensed. His gaze studied mine, as if trying to interpret my meaning. Then he relaxed again and reached for my hand.

  "Let's go see Amanda Sullivan," he said. "I'll explain on the way."

  "So the Nix has resurfaced in the living world?"

  He nodded. I laid my hand in his, and he teleported us there.

  26

  WE EMERGED IN A DARK, DANK ROOM THAT STANK OF something indescribably awf
ul.

  "Guano," Trsiel said in response to my gagging. When I gave him a "huh?" look, he translated. "Bat shit."

  "There's a special name for it? Can't imagine why that never entered my vocabulary before. What's guano doing in--"

  I stopped as my brain made an abrupt logical click. Where there's bat shit, there must be...I looked up, way up, and saw rows of little bodies suspended from the ceiling. I shuddered and wrapped my arms around my chest.

  Trsiel smiled. "You'll wrest a burning sword from an angel, but you're afraid of bats?"

  "I'm not afraid of them. I just don't like them. They're...furry. Flying things shouldn't be furry. It's not right. And if I ever meet the Creator, I'm taking that one up with him."

  Trsiel laughed. "That I'd like to see. Your one and possibly only chance to get the answer to every question in the universe, and you'll ask, 'Why are bats furry?'"

  "I will. You just wait."

  As Trsiel prodded me forward, I tried hard not to glance up. Judging by the damp chill and the flying rodents, we were either in a cave or a really lousy basement. The stacks of moldering boxes suggested option two.

  "I thought we were going to the jail," I said.

  "We are."

  I scanned the room. "I think your teleport skills need a tune-up, Trsiel."

  "Close enough."

  He led me through a door and into a cleaner part of the basement. As we walked, he made good on his promise to explain about Shekinah and Balthial.

  Earlier, Trsiel had mentioned a structural reorganization in the angels' ranks, whereby only ascended angels went out into the world on missions. The full-bloods did other tasks, higher tasks. Most of the full-bloods were more than happy to leave the daily grind as "divine instruments of justice" to the ascendeds. A few, though, like Trsiel, chafed at this new world order like career beat cops assigned to desk duty. Can't say I blamed him. Give me the down-and-dirty life of a warrior over a sanitized office job any day.

  That, Trsiel explained, was part of his "philosophical difference" with Shekinah and Balthial. They were glad to be out of the trenches, away from the taint of humanity, while Trsiel embraced that "taint," and all that went with it.

  "It's not that I want to be human," he said as he led me through the basement. "It's just that I don't see anything inherently wrong with being human. Wait--oh, this way." He swerved around a corner. "It comes down to one question. Who do angels serve? We serve the Creator, the Fates, and the other divine powers. That's a given. But do we also serve humanity? I think we do."

  "And they disagree?"

  "Vehemently." He paused at the bottom of a rotted set of unused stairs, then took my elbow and guided me up them. "So that's part of the problem. The other part, not unrelated, is that I'm younger than they are."

  "So you weren't all created together?"

  "For full-bloods, there were three waves. As the human race grew and expanded, the Creator saw the need for more angels. I'm from the third wave, the last one. Since then, the ranks have been increased by recruited ghosts. The ascended angels."

  "So how old are you?"

  "Only about a thousand years."

  I sputtered a laugh. "A mere tot."

  He tossed me a smile. "Well, according to the old ones, that's exactly what I am. A child--a willful, uncouth, inexperienced child--one who definitely shouldn't have been assigned this job."

  "Seems to me you're doing just fine."

  Another smile, broader. "Thanks."

  We found Amanda Sullivan sleeping fitfully in her cell, jerking and moaning with dreams...or visions of the Nix. I hoped they gave her nightmares, horrible nightmares, the kind that disturb sleep for months and scar the psyche forever.

  Again, Trsiel offered to scan Sullivan's brain for me. I refused.

  Since he'd been here only minutes before, he knew exactly where to look for the visions, and zipped me over to that part of her sleeping brain without so much as a glimpse at the putrid wasteland elsewhere.

  As we coasted to a stop, I braced myself. Colors and sounds flickered past. A man's face twisted in anger. Ripples of simmering frustration. A pang of envy. A woman's taunting laugh. A newspaper clipping. More clippings, like a scrapbook. A grainy photo of a sprawled body. An announcer's voice with feigned gravitas, words cutting in and out. "Deaths." "Wounded." "Notorious." "Manhunt." A wave of excitement. Then harsh words raining down like hail. "Stupid." "Ugly." "Useless." "Wasted space."

  The images flipped faster, out of focus, like a movie reel hitting the end. Then nothing. I waited, straining for voices, but nothing came. After about ten minutes of this, Trsiel pulled me out. When I opened my eyes, I saw Sullivan on the cot, sleeping soundly.

  "So that's it?" I said. "She's gone?"

  "It seems so. Her old partners aren't connected to her all the time."

  "We can't sit around here, popping in and out of this woman's brain, hoping she links up with this new partner again."

  "And what would you suggest? Unless you noticed more than I did, there wasn't anything to go on. Only a few news articles with no solid connection to the partner herself."

  "No? What are they, then? Random images?"

  Trsiel shook his head. "The Nix is plucking them out of her memory, showing them to her, hoping to incite a reaction."

  I slumped against the wall. "So we have nothing, then."

  "Be patient. More will come."

  We spent the rest of that night in Sullivan's cell, with Trsiel logging in to her brain every five minutes, checking for fresh data. At about four, he suggested I go hunt down the little boy, George, see how he was doing. Very considerate...though I suspect he was just tired of watching me pace.

  Morning came, and a guard roused the women for breakfast. Sullivan stayed in bed. The other women were released from the cells, but no one even stopped at Sullivan's door. Maybe she wasn't a breakfast person.

  After every other woman had filed out, Sullivan rose, groggy and sulky, and yanked on her clothing. A few minutes later, a guard brought her a food tray.

  "It's cold," Sullivan whined, without even taking a bite. "It's always cold."

  "That so?" the guard said, hands on her broad hips. "Well, Miss Sullen, we could always let you go down and eat with the rest of them again. Would you like that?"

  As Sullivan turned away, her hair tumbled off her shoulder, revealing a slice across her neck that had yet to scab over.

  "Didn't think so," the guard said. "Be thankful for the room service."

  The guard strode away.

  "Fat cow," Sullivan muttered.

  She scooped a spoonful of oatmeal, then stopped, spoon partway to her mouth. Carefully, she lowered the spoon, head moving from side to side with the wariness of one who's learned she has reason to be wary.

  "Who's there?" she whispered.

  When no one answered, she rose, noiselessly laying the tray aside, and glided to the cell door. A long, careful look each way, head tilted to listen. The cell block was empty.

  "I can hear you," she said. "I hear you singing. Who is it?"

  I looked at Trsiel. The same thought passed between us. If Sullivan was hearing voices in an empty cell block, they could only come from one place. Trsiel reached for my hand and transported me back into her mind.

  I came to a stop in a pit of darkness. Sure enough, after only a moment, I picked up the whisper of a voice. Someone humming off-tune. Then words. I'm usually damned good with songs, but it took me a moment to place this one, probably because the singer kept mangling the lyrics.

  "Invisible" by...someone. Didn't matter. The voice only sung a few lines from the refrain, and when she hit the end of those lines, she started over again. Something about being treated like you were invisible.

  I vaguely remember the song, probably because it had always triggered a childhood memory of the neighborhood grocer. I'd stood head and shoulders above all my friends, but the grocer always served all of them first, then served every other customer in the store, only taki
ng my money when I tossed it onto the counter and walked away with my candy bar. I figure now it was anti-Semitism--East Falls being the kind of small town where even Catholics are eyed with suspicion. My mother never talked to me about stuff like that; she preferred to pretend it didn't exist. When I told her about the grocer, she'd said I was imagining things. I knew I wasn't, and being unable to put a label to his dislike, I had assumed it was my fault. Like my teacher, Mrs. Appleton, he saw something bad in me, something no one else noticed.

  "Invisible," the woman crooned. "Oh, yeah, I'm invisible." A sudden shriek of laughter sent me jumping like a scorched cat.

  "That's me," the woman chortled, voice shrill with manic glee. "Miss Invisible. They treat me like I'm not even there. And they sure as hell don't care. Dah-dahdah-dah. Miss Invisible."

  Another voice, the soft, insidious tones of the Nix. "And what are you going to do about it?"

  "Make 'em notice me, of course. Make 'em stand up and salute. All hail, Miss Invisible." The woman's laughter screeched like nails down a blackboard, drunken bitterness infused with a teaspoon of madness. "Gonna show them that I'm somebody. Somebody important. Somebody who can make them tremble in their pretty little Pradas."

  The darkness cleared and I found myself in the young woman's memory, inside her body, looking out her eyes, as I had with Sullivan and the death-row inmate. I stood in a long hallway, sweeping the floor with a wide, industrial-size broom. Two well-dressed women walked past, chatting and laughing. One unwrapped a stick of gum and dropped the wrapper. Dropped it right where I'd just finished sweeping. The woman laughed.

  Laughing at me--at the stupid, ugly cleaning girl. No need to find a garbage can. Not when Lily is right there. That's her job. Make her earn her pay.

  If the Nix was retrieving this memory for Lily, it had to be important. I struggled to pull myself away from Lily's thoughts, to look around for myself. Long hallway. Well-dressed women. An office building? Look, Eve. Look harder. You'll need to find this place. Farther down the hall, sheets of paper dotted the walls. Notices of some kind. Dog-eared and brightly colored. Not very businesslike.