21 Shades of Night, page 200
I empty the pocket of dirt into his hand, and shudder as his face changes to mirror mine.
“Hide, and then go here.”
An address imprints itself in my mind, and I only have a moment of confusion before accepting the knowledge. “Who am I looking for?”
“You'll know him when you see him.”
May's strange behavior sticks to the inside of my eyelids, but she's still looking for me with them, though woozily, not in proper control of her own movements. Much like Ronnie, when Imogene was next to him. “Are they going to hurt her?”
His eyes are cold—I've asked the wrong question. “Are you going to hurt her?” I correct myself.
“They might burn her out. I might need to burn her out to get some space from them.”
“What? No. Don't.” I don't honestly know what he's talking about, but I sure as hell know what it sounds like.
He gives me a threatening look. “Don't tell me how to do my job.”
“Please—for Genie, if not for me.”
Something softer flickers in his eyes, and he bites his lip. “I'll try to see she's not in the crossfire.”
“Thanks.” It doesn't really feel like it's enough, but it's all I can offer.
He nods. “Meet up later. Keep an eye on this man—so far as I know, it's his preferred appearance.” Another visual burns into my lids. “—But stay in the background and do not engage. He might not look like that, if he has a lick of sense. Even if he looks different, you'll know who you're looking for when you see him.”
Some part of me chafes at the orders, but I know I'm in well over my head. At least he made a promise that means I'll be less likely to end up in someone else's murder investigation.
“Stay safe.”
Chapter 33
Touch Someone, Gene
OWEN’S HANDS TIGHTEN around my throat, but since I don't really need my breath, there's no actual threat. I let him take out his aggression on me, and numb myself, focusing past the pain and discomfort. Some part of me is disgusted that I fall into that pattern so easily, that Mark could have trained me that well. But I know this isn't about Mark, it's about Owen. It's about my memories opening in his head like blossoms, of his family's final moments. Adoptive they might have been, but blood is the thinnest tie there is. Affection's far stronger.
And the bond is two-way. When this moment is over, I'll have to teach him to correct that. But for the moment, it means I'm only too happy to let him abuse me as a form of self-flagellation. I kill people; it's what I do. But I don't usually have to bear the memories of a lifetime's holiday dinners with my victims.
When he realizes the choking isn't actually phasing me, his hands leave my throat and ball into fists. He punches me, hard enough to knock my head back across the ground. “Fight back, fight back,” he growls as the tears stream down his cheeks. But when I don't, the worst of his violence leaks away; no matter how much he knows I deserve it, he's still uncomfortable beating an unarmed woman to death. Of course, he doesn't know all my weapons. Without so much as raising a hand to him, I could kill him, and he'd have no ability to stop me.
“For what it's worth, I'm sorry.” My throat rattles as I draw breath into aching lungs; it's not comfortable being choked for a long period, even if it's not life threatening.
“It's not worth shit,” he sobs, and collapses next to me.
I sit up, sore muscles pulling and making me wince. “That's fine.”
I put my arm around his shoulders, and hold him. His hands clench; he wants desperately to hit me again, but realizes he needs the comfort more, and that I'm still the closest he has to an ally right now. Whatever my sins are, he needs me, needs to believe in some sort of redemption or forgiveness. And, for my part, I need him to believe it, too.
“For all our strengths, we're not infallible. The Reapers, I mean. We're supposed to be the arm of justice, but justice is only as just as those who execute it. And from the political bullshit I've seen in the past few weeks, even the idea that those commanding us know what they're doing is a little laughable. I mean, think about the amount of mistakes that happened here. You being the main target, but not even being in the house anymore. Abel's intelligence backing up their claim that your family was demon hunters, because they had holy water and could fight.” I swallow, hard, at the thought of Abel kissing me before the hunt. Is it ever gonna stop hurting, when his face pops into my mind? I could lower the barriers, let him find me, try to talk it out—
No. If that thought was even slightly more forceful, I'd take it to mean Abel'd eroded my barriers enough to implant it, and was just looking for a slightly stronger connection to track me. I can't think like this.
And it's disrespectful, worrying about my clusterfuck of a love life when we're trying to figure out why this kid's family died. Maybe it's disrespectful of me to call him a kid, since he's probably the same age I was when I was killed, but he still seems so young.
“The whole thing was a shitshow, one I hope to fuck I can see unraveled, and the guilty punished for. You can hate me—when you've come into your powers you can fight it out with me, even. But for now you need to trust me.”
His arms wrap around my ribs, holding him to me tightly.
“If you feel like it, you should try to sleep. I don't really need to, but you still might. And we've got more to do in the morning.”
He nods into my shoulder, and detangles just enough to lay on his side. But he pulls me down with him, and weighs me down with his tears as he cries himself to sleep. Apparently seeing his family's demise for himself, the distance he's felt since he found out they were dead has evaporated. I might not be able to make him move until the grief's subsided.
He's forgotten the connection is open, if weak. A steady stream of images leak into my head through the night, connecting a framework of reminiscence and nightmare all bookended by those bitter stolen memories: his little brother and sister dying, burned by his blood—metaphorically and now literally, since he might find himself growing into that ability, too.
Finally, I push as hard as I can to shove a few of my memories into him, to give him a proper fucking restful dream.
Chapter 34
Family Feud
IN THE MORNING, Owen stirs in my arms, his eyes still red and swollen, but alert.
“You're up.” I reclaim myself slowly, inch by inch sliding away from him. “We've still got a lot to do. I've got to teach you a few more things before we can get through a scrying session, try to—”
“Scrying session—you mean spying or prying?” The hostility is back, and I sigh wearily.
“Either. Both. Besides the point.”
“I don't want—”
I put my finger on his lips to shush him. “Doesn't matter what you want. It's the only way to help you, or to find your dad.” I remove my finger, when he's stopped arguing. “First things first. You know how you closed up our pathway? You need to learn to do that with your head.”
“What?”
“If you're going to push into other people's heads for our defense or research, we can't have you leaking yourself into them when you do. So, when you reach for someone else's mind, weave a little bit of your attention around your own. I'm not a very good teacher, and it's not something Reapers are very good at. Abel could—”
His gaze darkens. “Abel? The one whose intelligence said a house of kids was a threat? Who betrayed you?”
I drop my chin. It makes it hurt all over again, knowing Owen's seen it, too. “Forget I said anything.”
He glares into the coals from last night's fire. “Probably best.”
I shiver, as a presence resonates through our landscape. “You feel that?”
“No, what?”
I seize his hand again, fight to push my perception into his head. Finally, he accepts it, before dropping my hand like burning embers. “Now I do.” He flashes a tense smile to me. “Now what? Run again?”
I focus on it, try to decide how far off it is. There's something familiar to this particular touch. “No. If it's who I think it is, he'll be better at tracking us, and will still catch up. Only you'll be tired and worn down.”
“So what, then?”
“We fight. You latch on to his mind as soon as you can—try to make him confused, or sluggish. If you can get in deep, push every other memory to the front so he's overwhelmed.”
“And you?”
I wink at him. “I have tricks.”
That makes him blanch.
“I'll beat the shit out of him. And if I can get a foothold in him, myself, I can drag him to another plane.”
“And what would I do?”
I fight to push something into his mind, but the connection's too weak. I lean up to him, and kiss him, to get in close enough to make up for my own lack of power. He opens his mind to me reluctantly, but parts are sectioned off. He learns fast. I force a texture into his head. “Feel for that. That's what you need to get home.”
“I have no home.” His voice is bitter.
“You know what I mean. Shush.” Only then does it occur to me that our lips are barely an inch from each other's, but the intruder is much closer than he had been. “Brace yourself; it won't be long now.”
Owen hunkers down near me, and squeezes my hand. I could fight better without it, but his touch in my mind is a warm fizzle, and I don't want to complain.
His eyes shut, as he focuses on the intruder nearing, the world warping and bending around the weight of our follower's power. I try to smile at him reassuringly when his eyes open; he's too weak yet to listen for it without closing his eyes, but it does come with more vulnerability.
I stand straight, and brace myself for a fight.
Abel appears in the underbrush, though one might not recognize him since he's still wearing the good cop's face. How the hell did that happen? His form shifts, his features blending back into his own. For a moment, I'm paralyzed by the urge to run into his harms—he's leaning on me, hard, to make that option seem appealing. “Good; I found you.” He grins lopsidedly, flashing me an exhausted grin, as though he hadn't previously lured me into a demonic ambush.
Owen can't get a grip on Abel's mind, but still seems to be trying; I didn't expect he could, but he's putting up a hell of a fight. I go in to work, myself, little sharp attacks on Abel's psyche, to pull fragments I can use to bind him to me and run.
He repels me sharply, advancing on me and pulling me into his arms for a kiss. I bite his lip and knee him down low. Not as crippling as it would be on a human opponent, but painful nonetheless. I latch onto him, and reach for a rent. “I'm on your side, idiot,” he gasps, and I punch him, breaking his nose before his flesh rebuilds it. I tighten my grip on him, leaning harder to keep him immobilized while I find our getaway and seal him away from Owen.
Suddenly all of his barriers are gone, dropping my presence unnervingly into his. I'm deeper in his head head than I've ever been, even during our trysts. My mind is a swirl as I relive every affectionate moment we've shared in the decade we've been hunting together. Every tender touch, every wicked grin, every heart-to-heart talk. The enormity of it is almost enough to knock me on my ass, as echoes of his hands, tongue, cock overwhelm me in sensation.
I'm subsumed in him, unable to pass messages between mind and body, unable to lash out at him.
He takes advantage of my hesitation to put the brunt of his control into Owen, still his muscles and mind. Owen's eyes are wide, terrified at his forced petrification. But they flick between Abel and me, and it occurs to me that this probably erodes some of the trust I thought we were building.
If I drag Abel away now, pieces of Owen might come with him. I've got to separate him from Owen, so Owen won't be hurt.
“Owen, hun? Give me a sec. Mommy and Daddy need to have a conversation away from the kids.”
I bend down to kiss Owen, and when I do, reopen his link to me, shoving as much reassurance as I can his way. His mind thrashes in mine, with a combination of relief and agitation. But that's the best I can do. I send him a silent plea to be calm.
“You've gotten stronger, Gene.” Abel looks at me with a little admiration, and more than a little jealousy. “You've never been able to get that deep in.”
I shrug. “Necessity breeds invention and all that. Tell me why I shouldn't flash you right now.”
“Because you need all the friends you can get.”
“You aren't my friend.”
He averts his eyes. “I'll grant that I haven't been the best friend. But I'm trying.”
I snort, and brace myself for another attack, while his guard is lowered. But as I whip my attention out, he counters it with a memory.
Him and the detective, running in a graveyard. Several shadows attempt to maneuver them into a corner, acting with a precision I've never known an incubus to have with others. My mom is behind them, her movements uncoordinated enough that I can only assume she's been possessed. The detective darts left with slightly wobbly steps and a fresh bloodstain wearing through the shoulder of his shirt, and every time the demons make to follow, Abel lashes out at them, strongly enough that they stumble and turn back toward him.
My mom is graying, as they drain all of her strength. But Abel is connecting spiritual strings, and right as she falls to her knees, her tired heart beating overtime to carry the weight they've thrust on her, Abel pulls himself into a tear, and takes the pack of hounds with him.
He's not good at traveling with this kind of encumbrance, but he does it anyways, giving pieces of his own mind to Limbo. I see the pieces as they fall away, growing into the landscape and then vanishing, a drop of dye disappearing into an ocean. It's his own boyhood; stuff he held closely enough to never even show me. The only stuff he whips away from the world is his memories of me. He clings to those hard enough that they can't be stolen. I know from my own rebirth how much that must hurt him.
He swears, realizing he no longer remembers his mother's name, but holds the hounds there as their own consciousnesses are purged. Strangely, their memories coagulate into a single tome, a sentence beginning with one shadow, continuing into another, and finishing in a third. Somehow, they're pieces of the same thing, the same entity, simply split tenfold. But in the tome, they become one.
He shows it to the incubus librarian. Several sections particularly, hold his attention. The Hound he caught witnessed the former incubi elders making a deal with the demons who command the Reapers for help, in exchange for keeping their demotion quiet. As part of that deal, they reaped some incubi, imprisoned them, then fragmented into these packs of hounds.
Abel knew this fellow's name, worked with him closely on a number of other assignments. And they chose him to silence Abel, ensure that even if he was defeated, his memories wouldn't be recovered. They hadn't anticipated the entire creature being unwound at the same time, though.
He lets himself feel a stab of pity for the fellow as the tome is archived. But he knows he has to get back to us, to stop this, protect both unborn and reborn incubi from their own elders' treachery.
And he has to apologize to me, for even suspecting that I might have been helping attack those new incubi intentionally. He has to find me, to reassure himself he hasn't broken something he can't bear to lose.
“Well?” I process it, shove the relevant bits on to Owen. I doubt he'd understand the whole thing, but I want to remind him that I'm still on his side.
“Well what?” Abel flashes me a look of annoyance, still braced for an attack.
“You haven't apologized.”
He leans in and kisses me, but I push him away. “That's not an apology.”
“You know exactly what it is. And I'm just relieved you're intact.” His anxiety at the thought rumbles through me. “I've brought you a gift.”
I raise my eyebrows as he takes my hand and guides it into his pocket. “Honey, not in front of the kids.” I try to pull it away, but his grip tightens, until I know what I'm touching. Dirt. Dirt that calls to me, that knows me.
“Let's put on your war paint.”
“Meatsuit's over there.” I nod, and turn back to Owen.
Owen's face is closed off, but his emotions bleed into me.
“Let him go, Abel.”
Abel shrugs, in the middle of removing my body-in-reserve's shirt to begin painting bindings on her. Owen stretches, tenses, looks for an attack, but almost immediately realizes that I'm warning him away from it. Abel wouldn't have let him free if he had reason to worry about one. He's gotta know that. He's gotta have some indication of Abel's strength; if he does fight him, it won't go well.
“He's on our side. Has some good information, too. We know why they're attacking you two. And he has a lead on your dad, to get him to safety,” I explain to Owen, keeping my voice low in the hopes that neither of them will hear any tremors.
When I have more time to process, maybe I'll be okay with how hard Abel fought to keep our memories intact. But for now, I want to keep that to myself until I know how to handle it. If I can keep this to expediency, I don't have to confront the chills that ran through me at Abel's devotion.
Owen's expression changes to relief and confusion. His eyes flick from Abel to me. “And you trust him?”
I kiss my fingers and touch them to my temple. “As much as I trust anyone. I was in deep enough that I don't think he could have lied to me.”
Owen's mind probes mine, pokes around for associations with Abel, and nudges a very x-rated recollection.
“That's just rude. Why do you care?”
He bites his lip, and falls quiet, his eyes drifting back to Abel. Abel has been largely ignoring us, but taps my hip, and interrupts us. “This is so much weirder when you're not in there. Ready to suit up, Gene? We've got an incubus to hide. I sent the Well a message asking if they'd take him, but they haven't responded yet-” His expression is tight; he seems to be talking business purely for the sake of talking. That means there's no point to me troubling myself to respond.
