21 Shades of Night, page 198
He laughs, again. “Have it your way.”
Chapter 29
Rattle, Gene
AT FIRST, I wonder if a muscle spasmed and made me shoot again, as the door crashes open. Johnny Law is there, and behind him is Abel. My heart twinges. Shit.
If I can rattle the cop, Abel might lose his grip. “How'd you know it was me, John?”
“I know the girl you're hiding in.”
Abel hangs back; he knows I know how to hurt him, and he's waiting for his moment.
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. Saw pictures of her suicide.”
Owen pales, and even Dougie, stirring at our feet, mutters a confused swear word.
But I have an opening. She's indignant at the implication, and both the flutters in my stomach, and the strong, masculine hand pushing into my mind from her show me why. I laugh, as harshly as I can. “Not a very good cop, are you?”
His eyes flick between me and Owen. “What's it to you?”
“Oh, not to me. To the poor—” I break out the Jessica Rabbit again, forming my face into a frightened but attractive rictus. “—Scared girl who only wanted her baby-daddy to acknowledge her in public, but was fake-suicided for it.”
His face falls. I let one hand drift off the pistol, onto my midsection. Guys are always a little more reactive to the realities of the female body with visual examples. And in the process, I can twitch my finger suggestively, pointing it straight down, and massaging my stomach in light circles.
Put on a show, and they'll drop their task to come watch.
But he doesn't. The gun stays high, so I return my other hand to the pistol. Dougie tries to grab my ankle, and I kick him away.
Abel seizes that as his moment, starts up the stairs toward Owen, his form already warping to let him loose blood into his palm, almost ready to fling. Owen is moments away from dying the same way as his siblings. I react instinctively by attacking Abel's host. A shot rings out, nearly deafening me, and a bullet tears through the good detective.
Abel wavers, struggling to maintain his form. I could easily rip him out of there, return for Owen later. But others hearing my shot might expose Owen to danger and... I can't do it. I can't latch myself to Abel and drag him to Limbo. I can't watch everything I was attracted to in him—everything he was to me—bleed away into the unforgiving landscape. I can't take away even the good memories of us from him, any more than I'd give them up, myself.
I can't do it.
Dougie, and the other boy hiding in the living room swear, and I tell them, “Get him help. I've still got a conversation to have.” I jerk my chin at John.
Abel is gone from John's mind on my way past. “Sorry about that. Pick your teammates better next time.” It's the best apology I can offer, under the circumstances.
He manages to raise a middle finger to me, and I squeeze it and shake it affectionately, as I continue up the stairs.
I reach as deeply into the likely dying detective's mind as I can, as well as the dazed boys in the house, and pull energy to make us an exit. I need enough to take my meatsuit with me, and the longer they're out, the sooner before anyone can find me. I widen my net, seeing how much strength I still have, and pull spirits from the entire block. It'll be a week before the shockwaves calm enough for the Reapers to track me, or cue a Whirlwind in to my position, once I've unleashed that energy. And Dearborn's residents will sleep soundly. I hope I don't cause too many car accidents, or house fires.
“We only have a minute before they're back, and we've gotta be gone by then.” I seize Owen's arm and propel him down the stairs. He stumbles over the cop's legs, in shock. “Time for hellos later.”
Chapter 30
Hunt, John
I WAKE UP in the hospital, confused as fuck. There should be itchy carpet beneath me, not a soft bed. And the blankets and gown against my skin are much lighter than my jacket and jeans. I look around, fight to get my bearings. My effects are on a table next to the bed, and I lean over to pick up my phone. It hurts like nothing I've ever felt; lines of fire spread from my ribs, to my groin, spark dots in my vision.
There's a shadowy shape sitting in the chair next to me, but only when I don't focus on it.
A message appears on my phone. You're too weak for me to talk to you, but we can do this in the meantime.
I jump. “Who are you?”
Bruce Levitt, last we talked. Call me Abel, though; Imogene will, and if we're going to have a hope of catching up to her, we can't be dithering over nomenclature.
“What happened? Why do we want to catch up to her?”
Because otherwise, they'll kill her. Her, and the kid. The powers that be are distracted, looking for his dad now. But they'll be back to those two eventually. Or do you want to kill her yourself? She intended to do the same to you, after all. Both when she shot you, and when she ripped your remaining life force away for her own getaway. You're lucky she pulled from others, too, to spread the burden out. It's the only thing that kept you alive.
“Who'll kill her?” I don't know how to respond to the last bit; seems like my near death should be more of a priority in my head than it is. But I don't know enough of what was at play here to know why she acted as she did. Maybe whatever pain meds they have me on are making it impossible to see anything wrong with my own mortality.
The Reapers.
“Why?”
Because she didn't follow orders. Even the incubi want her dead; everyone's disavowed her, so it's easier to clean up the mess.
“What mess? What about you? Incubi?” I can only understand every third word; he can not be talking about reality, here. Am I hallucinating?
A mess of mortals and incubi, reaped on false information. A crime both against demon-kind and mankind. And to your other question, about me—they blame it on her. That's partially my fault. I bear responsibility for both; I made them believe the worst.
“So why chase her?”
To set things right. Her information made the Reapers suspicious of me, so I am not a part of the team hunting her. But I don't want to be a party to this kind of murder, either. And she's my partner.
The letters take forever to appear on the phone, but when they do, I'm a little upset at the jolt that the last word gives me. I've only spoken to the woman a handful of times, none of them pleasant. Maybe it's just that I'm possessive of her memory, and everything 'Abel' says seems like a corruption of it. Or maybe it's that his facial expression is nowhere near as unconcerned as his words.
I'm in your head, asshole. Work partner. Among other things. But keep her in your spank bank for all I care.
“I wasn't—” A visual comes to me, I have no idea from where. A beautiful, tattooed woman who looks akin to Imogene Taggert's senior photograph, before the strains of fleeing the state and starting her life over wore her down. But she's older than that childish picture, with somewhat less roundness to her cheeks, and torso's covered in very familiar tattoos. She's smiling, pulling away, all bare skin, slender limbs, and aggressive energy. Her lips part and she arches her back. Dimly, I realize someone's touching her right before a moan escapes her lips. I feel her skin under my fingers, taste her sex on my lips.
I shut my mind to it. That doesn't seem respectful at all; am I looking at telepathic revenge-porn? “Stop. Stop that.”
Abel—if that's what he chooses to be called—has a look on his face that on a different man might be called masochism. Tight jaw, hunched shoulders, narrowed eyes, with just the wrong amount of self-recrimination. Another visual overtakes me. She smiles and leans forward, her small breasts bouncing as she writhes. All lean curves and rosy areolas tightened to peaks. Her skin is soft—so soft—and cool under my hands, and I'm drowning in her body wrapped around me. I'm drowning in her scent, her touch, her kiss. Her hair falls against my face, soft, loose, a thousand feather brushes.
I force myself to remember May's pendant, that hair knotted in a funeral memento.
More letters on my phone. Fine then. Have it your way. If you're done sidetracking us... Abel shakes his head almost wistfully, that same bitter set to his expression. The way he pokes at that wound, pushes it into me makes it perfectly clear; those're his own memories of her, and with her in danger, he's overwhelmed keeping them to himself. I don't know whether he's trying to devalue them in case she dies, or in case there's just no repairing the bridge he burned, or if simply having them seen means having them acknowledged in some new way. It's almost heartwarming to know that an apparent demon can still be brokenhearted and petty.
But god, the balls of him, demanding I watch—no, feel—him fucking her, just hoping that it's twisting the knife in someone other than myself.
I roll my eyes. But the next note is finished. I know where the boy's father is. We're watching him, but we can't visit, lest we tip off the Reapers. You need to go help. Watch him, watch for them. You know what you're looking for already.
“I'm fucking shot, asshole. I'm not going anywhere.”
It's only a flesh wound. And how much blood do you want to get on your hands because you were too much of a pussy to give up your naptime.
“Fuck you. Fuck you.” My shoulder twinges, and the words become a mantra.
The choice is yours. At exactly eight PM, I'll distract the hospital staff. If you want to help, get out, get clothes, and wait for me. Otherwise, you'll get to attend Gene's second funeral.
I swear. But his words sting, hit nerves. I've come too far to let this play out without me.
Chapter 31
Trust, Gene
I HUSTLE OWEN through the first rent, into a nightscape dream mainly populated by sentient bats. One skitters around him, staring in between its wingbeats. “Calm down, a minute, buddy?” I address it, and it settles on a branch a ways away. “Gracias.”
The bat looks me in the eye, and says, “Move along, bitch.”
I nod. “That's what I'm doing, cocksucker.” Give them an inch, they'll take a mile. If he wants to be rude, I need to respond in kind.
Owen is shaking.
“Buck up. We've got a ways to walk to get them off our trail.”
“Why? Who—”
“Those dudes? Not your friends.”
He snorts, a little life coming back into his pale cheeks; the redness of anger. “And you are?”
I tug him a little harder on our way to a weak spot. The less the motion carries when I cut across worlds, the better. “I'm the closest to a friend you have right now. Don't take that for granted.”
“What are you?” he asks, as I find my spot and focus on it, tugging threads apart to make a crawlspace for us into our next plane.
I pull him through. “I'm a Reaper. A demon charged with keeping the peace. A cousin to the incubi, specifically.” His face contorts in confusion, so I clarify, “That's you.”
“What?”
“We don't kill our own if we can help it. Why do you think I let you live? You'd have to be a mass murderer or something to warrant the contract they put on you.”
I tuck his hand into my elbow to keep him with me, and pretend not to notice how clammy it is. He accepts my direction, but protests. “I'm not an incubus. That's not—”
“Real? What about this is real, according to the rules you're playing by? I know what I saw; we're more or less psychic, you know.”
“No. I'm not.”
“Believe what you will. I've got better shit to do than argue it.” I almost feel bad for being so curt, but I've got to get us to safety, and get him hidden before we sit down for the hard conversations.
“Where are you taking me? What are you doing?”
“We're hiding, dipshit. We've got to lay a false trail, blaze it so fucking wide an idiot could track it and then backtrack to go off it with barely a ripple. They're regrouping, but that only buys us so much time.”
Violet light bathes him as luminescent birds flutter above us. For the first time since I pulled him away from the dying cop and his unconscious buddies, he shuts up to take in the view. The silence is welcome.
Two more massive tears, and I lead him to the 'quiet' part, searching for subtle shifts I can use, rather than breaking open new paths. I don't have time to look around, aside from memorizing the weight and heft of the world around me in case another Reaper enters it. But Owen is entranced with each change in scenery.
I move him quickly enough that he can only wheeze, keep his questions to himself. So far so good.
Finally, in a temperate if drought-stricken rainforest, I decide it's as good a time as any to stop for the night.
This body is gonna get worn down very fast, if I have to wear it much longer. And I do need it, since I have no doubt that the Reapers will be watching the morgues. I shove Owen into a sitting position, since he seems too preoccupied to answer to my voice.
When I have his attention, I make him look at me. “Watch this while I'm gone.” I gesture down my body, and though his eyes trace along my curves, he doesn't understand. “I'm going to leave my shell with you. Watch it, make sure nothing happens to it. We'll need it later, and they'll track it if it stays here when we leave. Don't move. Not even a step. Trust me when I say that's life or death.”
In the end, he doesn't understand 'til I lay down and temporarily sever my connections to my body. I pour myself out of it, and his eyes widen in fear. Right up until he realizes that I'm a full foot shorter than him, and butt naked. A smirk twitches across his face before it falls off as his eyes drift back to the corpse at our feet. He snaps his look back to me, gets an eyeful, and looks away again.
“Oh, for fuck's sake. We're all grownups here. And I can't take clothes into a shell.”
He flushes. “Still, where am I supposed to look?”
“Like I care.”
I put out a mental tendril, bind a piece of myself to him, and to the body, so I can find my way back. Truthfully, my efforts are at least partly to distract myself from worrying whether Abel's already in my footsteps.
I couldn't do it. I could have removed the threat he presented, ensured he never could hurt me again. And I couldn't.
What the hell kind of Reaper am I? When did I get so soft?
I don't really need help to get materials together for a fire; there's enough of that on hand that I let Owen rest, and take care of our comfort myself. Finally, after he's warming himself, I sit on the other side of the fire, and push more mental roots out, to let me know if any natural predators get too close.
“What now?” he asks, subdued.
I sigh. “Well, Abel was the only one there. That means, likely the rest are watching someone else. I'd bet it's your dad. Are you sure you—”
He cuts me off. “No, I can't help.” There's a flash of pain in his expression, haphazardly buried. “I don't even really know who he was. He just came by sometimes, but I never even heard Mom call him by name.”
I've forgotten what it's like to talk to people who actually carry their history with them. “I'm—I'm sorry. If it makes you feel better, that wasn't what I meant.” I know I'm about to ask something huge of him, and I don't have the option of getting it wrong.
“What did you mean, then?”
I shake my head. “Later. Just tell me about him, what he was like.” Every bit of connection helps.
He shrugs. “He was nice. Quiet. Didn't talk about sports, didn't talk about movies. Absolutely nothing except whatever was happening with me in the here-and-now. But sometimes I had these weird dreams...”
He stares at me. “Who are you? No offense, but, I don't really want to rehash family history with a freak demon.”
I snort.
“Am I going to be like you?” There's an actual fearful undercurrent there.
I don't think I turned out that bad. “Like me?”
His eyes search my face. “Is this what you really look like? When you're not...” He trails off, but his gaze drifts to the body on the ground.
I raise an eyebrow. “As much as anything is. Look, if it'll make you feel better—” I hold out my hand. His eyes work their way up to mine, slowly, taking in my curves. I cross my arms over my chest at the scrutiny, my hand unshaken. “Gene Taggert.”
“How did you end up like—”
“End up like? It's natural, man. You finish one kind of existence, and begin another. One kind of my existence finished, and the next began.” Just to scare him a little, I add, “Just like it will for you, too. I ran with it. You will, too.”
He pales. “I—I don't want—”
“Who really does? But I'm just pulling your leg. You'll be immortal. If you're full incubus, you'll be able to look like whatever the hell you want to look like. If you're only part incubus, you'll look like yourself.”
It doesn't hurt to hide my confusion from him; I've never seen the bloodline show so clearly in a mortal's eyes, but he plainly hasn't been reborn, since he's not psychically dependent on a host in the mortal plane, like the others are. So I can't really tell what the hell he is, much less tell him. “Now will you tell me a little more? You mentioned dreams? Many full-bloods work in them. I can't. What'd you dream?”
He leans a little further into himself, and against my better judgment, I scoot closer to him and put my hand on his. His flesh is warm, almost burning me, compared to Abel's. “It's important, or I wouldn't press.”
He sighs, and turns to look at me, starting slightly at our newfound closeness. “Just, weird things. Things that could have come out of a period movie. Only he was there. Or someone with eyes like his. Or other people with eyes like his.”
“How far back? What time period? Any specific places that recurred?”
He thinks. “I don't know. I always hated history; it bored me.”
I sigh. “Can you show me?” There's no reason he should be able to; he's not yet reborn. Our abilities don't manifest until after our mortal life's finished.
“How do I?”
I imagine my communication with Abel, and with my meatsuits, trying to figure out how to explain the mechanisms that are mostly instinct, at this point. “Well, it works different ways for different people. Open your mind, stop thinking, and just say or experience whatever comes to mind.”
