A Courtroom of Ashes

by C. S. Wilde

  “Leave him alone!” I snarl, spit escaping between my bared teeth.

  Bowman chortles. “Boss’s orders said we mustn’t kill you.” He licks his lips with a thin, gray tongue. “He said nothing about this little thing.”

  The knife reflects the dim light of the room, right by Bowman’s foot. Damn it, I need to think. There must be a way out of this. If only I could reach that knife…if only I could move.

  Bowman stretches his jaw like a python, showing sharp brown teeth. Tommy’s head fits right in. I’m falling inside myself; I need to do something! Tears trickle down my cheeks. “If you hurt him I’ll fucking slaughter you, dipshit!”

  Bowman moves Tommy away from his mouth and closes his jaw.

  It worked.

  “Never took you for one of us, Ms. Jones.”

  “How do you know my name?” My vision blurs, but I need to focus. As long as he’s talking he’s not eating Tommy.

  “Everyone does. Boss made you into quite a celebrity.”

  “Please, take me and leave the boy. If you do, I’ll come willingly.”

  He lets out a loud, mucous laugh. “You can’t even stand up!” He opens his mouth again and Tommy screams.

  “Agh!” The second Shade cries. A sword has pierced his stomach. The blade retreats faster than thunder, and before I know it, it slashes his neck. As his head falls, he starts being consumed by black ashes until dark dust swallows him whole. When his head hits the ground it shatters into a cloud of dust, and then his whole body dismantles.

  “Drop the child, Bowman.” John steps forward through the black cloud. Blood smears his face, paints his ripped suit, drips from his sword.

  Bowman swallows dry but keeps Tommy in his grip. He nods at the sword. “That was supposed to be mine, Braver.”

  “Your men ran away. I advise you to do the same.”

  “He’ll be coming for her.” Bowman nods to me. “It’s only a matter of time.”

  John’s expression reveals nothing. “Why didn’t he come now?”

  “I’m his second in command.” He bares his brown teeth. “I can do the job.”

  John wields his sword. “Apparently, you can’t.”

  Bowman seems to consider his options one last time before he slowly puts Tommy back on the floor. Tommy runs straight to me, helping me up.

  “My men were supposed to keep you busy until I found her,” Bowman grumbles.

  John’s face is a wall, though he seems slightly bored. “Obviously, your men are as incapable as you’re foolish.”

  Bowman looks at John in a way that says he’ll pay for his words. Then he bolts to the window; a blue blur breaking the glass.

  He’s gone.

  Tommy helps me sit on a chair. The room dances around me, but I manage to stay conscious.

  “What the hell was that thing?” I gasp.

  John drops the sword and before I know it, he puts his hands around me, checking for injuries. “He hit you pretty hard.”

  “I’m fine,” I wince as he runs his fingers over my ribs. “Those things were Shades, weren’t they?”

  Demons from Hell.

  “Yes and no,” he says, reading my thoughts. “No one can escape Hell. Molly says it’s because of the gravity.” He sighs and stares at me from below his eyebrows. “Your mind is bursting with questions. It’s maddening. I couldn’t answer all of them even if we had the time.” He beams that full on movie-star smile of his, which looks odd against the sprinkles of blood on his face. “You look distressingly cute when you pout, Ms. Jones.”

  Oh, I was pouting. Lowering my head to hide my blushing, I say, “Can you at least tell me about Shades?”

  “They are the worst kind of spirits, too attached to their human needs, consumed by anger, they become monsters.”

  He runs to the kitchen and grabs a small glass with a translucent green paste, plus white cloth from a small drawer. He pulls my shirt up and I force my arms down. I’m certain I’m blushing all shades of red.

  John raises an eyebrow at me. “Your ribs are broken.”

  “I don’t care. I’m not taking off my shirt in front of you and Tommy. Besides, this isn’t my real body, so it doesn’t matter.”

  A tiny hand rests on my arm. It’s Tommy.

  “Please?” he says, worry all over him. “If you don’t take care of it,” his voice trails.

  James the bunny sniffs the air from below a dresser, making sure the area is safe again. His red lava body shines in the dark like neon. Tommy opens his arms and the bunny jumps on his lap. Then they turn away.

  Damn this kid. How I can say no to him? I can’t believe I’m being manipulated by a ten-year-old.

  I look up to John. “Fine, let’s get this over with.”

  His eyes are dark and intense. He lets out a long, rascal smile that makes me overly warm. For a split-second, I believe he will take me right here in this room.

  “I cannot say I won’t thoroughly enjoy this,” he whispers.

  Me neither.

  But against all my instincts I say, “Behave,” glancing pointedly at Tommy’s back.

  John rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah.”

  I lift my arms slowly, because pain shoots through every inch of my body with the slightest movement. John carefully takes off my shirt. Thank God I’m wearing a bra.

  There’s a dark purple imprint of a long fingered hand on my skin, covering half of my torso. It looks as horrible as it hurts. Bowman’s hand wasn’t that huge, so the impact must’ve had a massive spread.

  John kneels and looks at it for a moment, lips pressed into a hard line. “I should’ve killed him.”

  I caress his cheek and he leans his head over my hand, eyes closed. His slight stubble brushes against my palm. It feels so good…but it doesn’t last.

  He starts spreading the ointment over my skin and it’s cold-shower chilly. I wince when John rubs it carefully over the outskirts of the bruise.

  “That thing wanted to eat Tommy,” I say.

  “Cannibalism is only one of the worst things Shades can do.”

  I bite my lip when he touches the center of the bruise. John removes his hand but I assure him I’m okay, so he moves on.

  “Why do they eat spirits?” I ask.

  “Don’t worry about that now.”

  “But it knew you, John.”

  He stops and eyes the floor. “Yes.”

  “Irving said you didn’t wake up at the Home after you died, that you came to in a bad place.”

  John nods. “I woke up in the Wastelands.” He glances at me and adds. “Shadeland.”

  “So you met Bowman there.”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you meet Red Seth there too?”

  He keeps caring for my wound, pretending he didn’t hear. I’ve already spent enough time with him to know he won’t answer, no matter how hard I insist.

  “Fine. Why did you wake up in the Wastelands then?”

  “That’s the million dollar question.”

  I won’t get much clarification today, will I?

  I glance at the sword and sheath on the ground. I’ve seen some beautiful Katanas decorating Mr. Baker’s apartment, but this one is majestic, like a stealth royal tiger. The sleek black scabbard is a work of art by itself, carved with blue lines that shape puffy clouds. The sword’s blade is incredibly thin, shiny where it’s untouched by dark red.

  “Why swords?”

  His eyes tell me I shouldn’t be asking questions. There are more pressing things to be done, like fixing my ribs. They tell me I’m too stubborn for my own good.

  Indulge me, Senator. And get out of my head.

  “Sorry,” he says. “Swords are sharp extensions of our souls. We use them to protect the Home.”

  “So Spritebreaker is a part of you?”

  “No.”

  “Then who?”

  He doesn’t say.

  I’m usually pretty good at getting information out of people, but John is a whole new ball game.


  “What about that blue plasma ball you made?”

  John chortles as he rubs the back of his hand over his forehead. I think he’s trying to figure out how to tell me things without confusing me any further.

  “Plasma balls require a lot of energy. It takes time to recharge, like flying. Besides, not many spirits can make them, so we need swords.”

  “Molly didn’t have a sword.”

  “Well, Molly is…Molly. Spirits as old as she are their own swords. But Shades are strong and fast, so most of us need swords to fight them.”

  I wonder what happened to the Shade who turned into ashes. What happens when you die in Death?

  John stares at me and I know he read my thoughts.

  “You’ve been doing this a lot,” I chide. “You promised you’d stop.”

  “I promised I’d try.”

  Man’s got a point.

  “So, what does happen when someone dies again?”

  He thinks about this for a long moment, his gaze turning away from mine. “They cease to exist.”

  “As in truly dying? Atheist style?”

  “Yeah, you can say that. Think of it as a Russian doll. Your body was the outer shell, your spirit the inner one. If the spirit shell is destroyed, you run out of shells.”

  Does that mean that Barbie…no. No, no. Barbie can’t have ceased to exist. He’s wrong. “Russian dolls have lots of little inner dolls, not just two.”

  “Two is all we have; at least that’s what Molly says.”

  “Molly could be wrong.”

  “She rarely is. But being obliviated— it’s how we call it—isn’t as easy as it appears. Our spirits can endure an absurd amount of punishment. We can also heal pretty quickly.”

  Maybe Barbie is okay after all. John had to behead the Shade to kill him, so maybe a cut throat was not her end. That’s it! Barbie disappeared because she’s probably healing somewhere.

  “Well, my wounds aren’t healing quickly.” I wince as Bowman’s imprint throbs under my skin.

  John chuckles. “You’ve been here for what, one day? Give it time.”

  He finishes up and wraps the cloth around my upper body. “There, this should make it better.”

  “So a paste can heal a broken rib?” I carefully put my shirt back on.

  John smiles. “It’s not just any paste.”

  “Are you finished, Spritebreaker?” Tommy asks without turning to us.

  “Yup.”

  Tommy comes to me, asking if I’m all right. James sniffs my arm, and I think this is his way of checking to see if I’m okay. I pinch Tommy’s cheek and assure him I’m fine.

  Meanwhile, John walks back to the sword, takes a tissue from his pocket and cleans it with care, as if that sword is his last best friend in the world.

  “Spritebreaker,” I mumble.

  John lifts the sword. “Well yes, that’s what it does.”

  14

  Molly surveys the scene from the doorway, then runs to me when she sees how terrible I must look.

  “Heavens, Santana! Are you all right?”

  “Yeah, it’s not as ba—” There are six bullet holes on her chest. Now ghosts have guns too? “What happened to you?”

  She looks at her wounds. “Oh, these have been here for a long time, dear.” She brushes her hand over the bullet holes and the surface of her dress shifts, covering them.

  So this is how Molly died: six bullets straight to the chest.

  “Do they hurt?”

  “Not anymore,” she says. “When you’ve been dead for long, you start forgetting what pain feels like.”

  Crossing all personal boundaries, I put two fingers under Molly’s jaw. No pulse. She isn’t a very old spirit, she’s a detached one.

  “I thought people like you didn’t hang out for long.”

  “Guess my job here isn’t done.” Her glance shifts from me to Tommy, who’s holding my hand. James hides behind Tommy’s legs and a smile brushes Molly’s lips. It flees once she focuses on my ribs. “That must hurt.”

  How did she notice? My shirt conceals the bruise quite well.

  She looks at John. “I trust you’ve cared for her?”

  He smiles mischievously. “I sure did.” But Molly doesn’t notice the playfulness in his tone, or maybe she doesn’t care.

  She puts her hand gently over my wound. “After a while, we lose our sensations of bodily functions, even autonomic ones. I have no idea what it feels to breathe. Tickle, pain, they’re all gone. Can’t smell anything either.”

  Molly’s lost gaze seems to be reaching for precious memories. I think she misses being alive or at least, recently dead.

  She blinks, smiles weakly, and goes to the kitchen.

  ***

  Molly and I cut vegetables for supper, while Tommy babbles about our great adventure against the evil Shades. He makes me sound like a brave, fallen warrior. It’s fiction, of course, and it only serves to remind me how useless I am.

  “Time for dinner,” Molly shouts to the living room so John and Irving can hear. They’re drowning in books lent from the library, scattered all over the sofa and floor. They’re searching for a way to get me back to my body without Belaphona, but by the look on their faces, they haven’t made much progress.

  Dinner begins without conversation, and I find myself playing with the steamed vegetables on my plate. I know it’s impolite, but watching a demon almost bite a child’s head off can really kill an appetite.

  I barely notice when the question comes out of my mouth. “How can spirits eat each other?”

  “Good spirits don’t. Shades do,” Molly says. “Spirits eat what Death gives them, they don’t consume other souls.”

  “But I thought every soul that dies becomes dust. So, Shades feed on dust?”

  “As long as the soul does not face the ultimate death, its parts don’t turn into ashes.”

  This means that if Bowman had bitten Tommy’s head off, Tommy would have turned into ashes. Bowman wanted to kill Tommy just for fun. I cringe at the thought.

  “We eat what we produce,” she continues. “Cows still make milk, corn fields still grow. There’s no need to cripple a soul in the name of an illusion. Because much like pain, that’s what hunger is.”

  I notice Molly’s plate is empty while everyone else’s is full. Point taken.

  “I do miss a big steak though,” Tommy adds as he munches by my side. “Had it once, a nice old gentleman let me eat with his grandchildren. A good soul he was.”

  I pet Tommy’s head, wishing I could traffic him back to life and see him grow up; give him the chance that was taken from him. Maybe John could come with us. But of course, such musings are madness. Tommy will never grow old, nor will John.

  “Where’s your house?” I ask John, mostly to ignore such silly thoughts.

  “Don’t have one,” he says. “But I crash often at Irv’s.”

  Irving shoves a forkful of food in his mouth, eyes glued to the book he brought to the table. “What can I say, lass? He’s a keeper.”

  I giggle and John lets out a soft smile, his eyes gazing at me in an adoring way. Then he catches the silly ‘John’s-got-a-girlfriend’ looks Molly and Tommy shoot him, and clears his throat.

  Molly asks Tommy, “Are you sure?”

  They clearly just linked.

  Tommy nods, and Molly goes on, “Tommy said you two had intercourse.”

  What? Is my head as red as it feels? We were nowhere near intercourse! We need to have a little conversation with this kid.

  John slams his hands on his face, laughing. “No Molly, we did not have intercourse.” He peeks at me from below his hand and winks. “But I can’t say I oppose the thought.”

  “John! Can they hear you?”

  “Nah, I blocked them.”

  “Sometimes you can be very naughty.”

  “Oh Santana, you have no idea.”

  Tingles spread all over my body, blood rushes to my cheeks. I trap the goofy grin that wants to escape, but
fail miserably.

  John beams a smile that speaks of eternal joy. “I like the effect I have on you. I wish you could feel the effect you have on me.”

  “Will you two stop? I can’t bloody concentrate.”

  Shit, it’s Irving! “Hey!” my pitch higher than intended.

  “Sorry lass, but the two of ye can continue this later, aye?”

  I’ve never been so embarrassed in my life!

  Irving looks at John. “I need to talk to her in private.”

  John rolls his eyes and waves his hand in a go-ahead.

  “Don’t be sorry, lass. John’s not often this free-spirited. Get it? Free-spirited? Anyway, it’s nice to see him without the weight of the world on his shoulders. Sometimes he can be a happy lad without a worry in the world, but then he remembers he’s dead, and all the shait he went through, and that lad just…vanishes. But not when yer ‘round. I guess ye remind him of how he used to be.”

  Is this Irving’s way of saying I’m good for John?

  I can’t help but feel honored. Quite frankly, John is so good to me too. I never felt like this with anyone—as if the world is my oyster and nothing is bad enough as long as he’s with me. But I’ve seen glimpses of the man Irving talks about: the John with the weight of the world on his shoulders. I wonder what Irving means by “all the shait he went through,” but his eyes tell me I shouldn’t ever mention this to John.

  Irving finishes eating, stands up and picks another book, then comes back to the table to read.

  “All right, Tommy, bedtime.” Molly rises. “Say night to everyone, love.”

  “But you don’t sleep,” he whines, rubbing his eye. “Why do I have to?”

  “I’ve been dead for much longer, dear.”

  “That’s your excuse for everything.” He pouts, but gets off the chair and grabs James. “Night.” He hugs John and Irving and then me. “Night, misses.”

  I kiss the top of his head. “Night, Tommy.”

  Molly and Tommy disappear up the stairs, and as they do, Irving frantically starts leafing through his book.

  “It’s remarkable that you people have books,” I whisper to John.