21 Shades of Night, page 201
I release my physical presence into the corpse. I open foreign eyes and inhale from strange-feeling lips.
Owen shudders. “I'm gonna miss you looking like, well, you.”
Abel shrugs. “A rose is a rose is a rose.”
Chapter 35
Stalker, John
THREE DAYS I’VE been here. I know I should get a phone, or a charger for mine, and call Casey, but it seems like there's too much else to do. Abel was right; I knew who I was looking for when I saw him. At the address, a young woman with darkness in her eyes was cleaning a car, and when I blinked, there was a man behind her, waving and kissing her cheek hello.
When he was with her, the darkness wasn't in her eyes. They were the crystal blue of Casey's sapphire wedding ring. He said goodbye and she turned back to her task, and when I blinked, he was gone, and her eyes were dimmed.
Just like Abel.
I tell myself I'm acting crazy, that I'm letting delusions pull me into stalking an innocent girl. But after his second appearance, once again out of nowhere, I give up trying to rationalize it.
I haven't seen or heard from Abel. Hopefully that's a good thing, but it's hard to actually say. Last I saw him was the graveyard, with the shadows closing in. One moment they were there, the next all were gone, and I was hauling an unconscious woman to the hospital. They said May Taggert would be okay, that it was a mild cardiac incident, nothing more. I know better, though.
I don't feel right leaving her alone. But I don't know what choice I have. I'm two states away, sleeping in my car and following a twenty-six year old graphic designer to work. And even had I stayed with May, I don't actually think I could make a difference; I have no clue what those things that attacked us were, or whether a punch would even phase them. My best bet to ending this is to stick with Abel.
Or at least follow his directions, since he can't be arsed to be here.
I don't even know her name. She seems nice enough, though. Smiley as all hell. I remind myself I'm protecting her, and whatever hides in her eyes. There's a coffee shop across from her office suite, where I can discreetly wait for her to leave, and observe her.
She does, but something's wrong. Her passenger isn't there at all.
I follow her the rest of the day to be sure, but it never goes back into her eyes. Settled back in my car, and there's nothing to do but watch, and take periodic naps.
Abel is suddenly next to me, appearing fast enough my sleep-crusted eyes can't adjust. “Where is he?”
“What?”
“Where is he?”
I shrug. “The woman's in there, but I haven't seen anyone weird visit her since earlier today. Her eyes look empty, too.”
He swears, and it's several seconds before he explains. “Shit, you were noticed. He rabbited.”
“Rabbited?”
“I'll need to get Gene on the scent, see if she can get a new lead.”
I'm too tired for this shit.
Abel notices my surliness. “Otherwise, it's waiting for him to pop out again and starting from scratch.” Then his head jerks, and his brows pull together. “Run. I don't give a shit where, but hide.”
“What?”
“Someone's coming; someone powerful. Guess he didn't like you watching him.”
I pull away from the curb, and notice a shadow seeping through the tree behind me. “Is that—”
“Think so. I'll talk to him, try to stall him. But you've got to get out of his range before he learns your name, takes control of you. Don't look back; if you give him mental energy, he can use that.”
I slam on the accelerator as Abel vanishes. I fight to not look in my rearview as I drive, not knowing where to go.
Chapter 36
In Memory, Gene
I TRIP SLIGHTLY, but ignore the way it jars my stomach. I have never been less happy to return to a meatsuit. Long walks are for chumps. But it's been easy to fade into the background, let Abel talk to Owen. There's sparks, and Owen doesn't want to trust him, but I was right; Abel knows far better how to push Owen's abilities into something useful. It gives me a slight pang—how many people died so that Owen wouldn't be given a Limbo education? All that and now he's getting one, secondhand.
He keeps giving me sheathed glares, and I wonder how much of the incubi condescension toward Reapers is Abel passing on. It makes me feel isolated, even with a man I once considered a friend, a lover, and another I have had to get entirely too close to to be able to brush his opinion of me off.
But isolation is nothing new. Neither is guilt.
I wish I could take some time out, talk to Cole. I think I understand him a little better, now. Swapping memories with Owen made me feel closer to who I was, and his lips on mine reminded me that there's still life in who I am. At the time, it was easy to brush the little touches off as facilitating his education, and our survival. Maybe that was what I looked for in Abel, and in my peeks at my family.
But now that Owen can touch my mind without the little touches, I miss them. The physical contact made things seem less dire. And I hate the distrust in his eyes every time he looks at my duly bound meatsuit.
As the pattern grows clearer, as Owen's world approaches our focus, Abel gives my shoulders a quick squeeze. “I'm gonna pop over, make sure things are okay with my eyes on the ground.”
I nod. “We'll stay here then.” The obvious unless goes unspoken. And that discomfort hides the real source of my awkwardness: I don't want to be alone with Owen.
Abel is already gone, pulling himself through, before I've managed to sit cross-legged, and start stretching the kinks out of my meatsuit.
Owen grudgingly sits next to me. “Do you have to...”
I raise my eyebrow, but wait for him to finish. It takes him a while. “Your—” his eyes flick over me. Finally, he sends an image over to me. My natural face, eyes closed in relaxation.
“I can't go out there on my own. I don't exist out there, unless I'm housed in another form. I'm not even a ghost.”
“Oh.” He hesitates. “Don't take this wrong, but it's so much more awkward. I think I understand you; I don't think I can hate you. But I see you in a dead body, and it's hard not seeing all of the harm you've done, too.”
I shrug. “There's no true heroes. Everyone leaves a trail of ruination. It only varies how wide.”
He shakes his head. “I don't believe that.”
I raise my eyebrow. “You're also still building that trail, too. How do you know where your breaking point is, how far you have to be pushed before you would do the exact same as me? Or Abel.”
His eyes darken at the sound of that name. “I don't like him.”
“Few people do. He's thorny, even for an inky.” I smile, tolerantly.
“I don't know why you l—love him.” He changes the word mid-sentence, I think to test me.
“I don't.”
He doesn't seem convinced. “Then why—” I don't even need the telepathic visual this time. And him sending it back to me just feels like a little bit of a rebuke. I'm not as shy about my nudity as most, but it feels like a judgment.
“Because he's the closest I've got to family. You may have gotten the idea that the rest of you guys don't look kindly on half-bloods like me. He accepts me, even when he doesn't agree with or understand me.”
“But he—”
“He had reasons to do what he did. I don't agree with him. I don't forgive him, and I do fault him for how he acted on it. But I've got other shit to work through right now.”
He ducks his head, and accepts my warning. “You know, it seems like I should be hungry or something. I mean, I miss the taste and texture of food, but I'm not actually hungry. And we've been here for days.”
“I know. More proof that you're already in your powers.”
He closes his eyes, likely reaching for my mind, but since he hasn't gotten through, he holds his hand out to me. I offer it to him, and his presence blooms in my skull, warm and comforting. “I know this is a huge ask, but—” his presence quivers, something like insecurity making its touch fade intermittently. “You were in my mother. You said you got things from her. May I see?”
I think it through; for the first time, I think I understand Abel's conviction that where now-distant loved ones are concerned, there is a such thing as too much information, too much connection. “I'm not sure it's a good idea.”
His other hand drifts to my cheekbone, traces it, meatsuit or no. “Please?”
I take a moment to revisit those memories, and then shove them through the connection. The associations Abel and I pulled to track him, the rosemary-covered dreamscape where I/she drew him, eyes shaded black. Even the last memory I gleaned from them, as I severed ties with her, and with him, and left him in the stadium seats.
I pull back, leave him staring, processing. He doesn't care about the tears on his cheeks, so I won't worry either. I stretch out on the floor and turn on my side. I breathe, ready myself for what's ahead while we wait for Abel. As much as I wish he'd get back soon, I also want him to take his time. It's confusing being around him, torn between forgiveness and wariness. I miss the days when I could simply act, and look in his eyes, and see his pride in me.
After an hour, Owen curls up behind me, wraps himself around me. I assume it's to tell me he's not mad. I pretend not to feel his hands shaking, or his sniffles, muffled by my hair.
Chapter 37
Bond
I DON’T BOTHER disentangling when Abel's movements ripple through the world, but simply being back isn't good enough for him. He shakes Owen awake, and only my knocking his hand away prevents him from grabbing me, too.
“Well, isn't that comfy.” His jaw clenches, and I know it's more than just imaginary jealousy. If I ever doubted he cared, I've been proven wrong. Incubi are generally used to sharing, and public displays of jealousy are a weakness—like my own attachment to my mortal life.
Still, I'm not in a mood to humor him. Not when he might betray me again, if I let my guard down, if I let myself fall into his arms like nothing could split our friendship apart. “Fuck off. What'd you find?”
“He's gone. I need you two to come through, help me track him.”
“What?” Owen asks.
“He fled, abandoned the chick he was with. And the others thought my eyes on the ground were hunting him, and scared him away. We've got to get back there.”
There's enough anger to him that I don't argue. I help Owen to his feet, and Abel opens the rent for us, his mind brushing against ours with the force of his agitation. Stepping into the physical world hurts, opens a new realm of pain in my partially decomposed form. I heave a gasping sigh at the renewed aches, and Abel reaches for me instinctively, tucking me under his arm. I let him for a moment, then duck away. As much as I need the comfort, I don't want him to hurt me again. He could be manipulating me while I'm wounded.
We're in an ill-lit hotel room now, and I wait for Owen's eyes to adjust. We aren't alone.
“You remember John Camden, right, Gene?” Abel asks, casually.
I bite my lip, look for a non-smarmy response. “Of course.”
John tips his chin up to look me in the eyes. “Surprised you didn't kill me?”
I roll my eyes. “A little. But apparently your dickitude overwhelmed your body's frailty.”
Owen fumbles for a lamp or lightswitch, flicks the light on, and looks around.
“And, I'm not sure if you've formally met Owen Jonas yet.” Abel waves at him vaguely.
John hesitates, still wanting to antagonize me, but also not wanting to poke at Owen's dead family. “I knew you were bringing Genie, but why is he here?”
“To help me, and because it's his fight, too.” I set my jaw and wait for his challenge, but none comes.
“Okay. It's your move, then,” John said, giving me a hard look.
I turn to Abel. “Start ASAP?”
He nods. “If you and Owen are willing. Please don't mind if John and I wait behind. If they're watching, you two will be far less conspicuous than us, since you each have a one-body-one-soul balance.” His jaw works; he isn't happy about sending us off alone. Whether it's fear for our safety, or possessiveness over me, I can't be sure, with how he's been acting since he found us. If I trusted Owen not to shove me away, I'd try testing Abel a little, grab Owen's ass on the way out. Just to make Abel squirm.
I take Owen's arm and make to leave. “Got an address to start?”
A vision blooms in my head, along with a series of numbers and a street name. Then, a set of car keys whips toward my face, from John. “Thanks.”
Owen resists slightly, and I can't tell if it's some kind of social anxiety or desire to not just be my lapdog, or if he's actually apprehensive. The door shuts behind us. “Genie, hunh?”
I bite my lip. “When we first met, he mentioned talking to my mother. It was what she called me.”
He chuckles, and I don't need telepathy to know he deserves a smack. “And if you make a Genie In A Bottle joke, you will lose very important man-parts.”
Even without giving in and vocalizing it, he keels over in a string of almost hysterical chortles.
“Asshole. Come along, wickle Owie.” He stiffens, and I realize that someone probably actually did call him that. Someone whose memory I don't want to dredge up, at least not yet. Damnit, can't you keep your foot out of your mouth for ten minutes?
The camaraderie is gone as we find John's car in the parking lot. I talk to him on the way, keeping my voice quiet and calming. “This is like meditating to feel for worldly stuff, only you're looking in yourself, not outside. I'll be giving you words, ideas, and if you want I can be present to help you clarify things, since I'm used to spotting these cues.”
He bites his lip and pats my hand. “Don't take this wrong, but I'd rather you not. I'm—I'm not sure I can handle you being that deep in my head right now.”
I nod, and focus on the road.
We pull over outside the last place John saw Owen's dad. “Do you have a name, or anything? That might make this easier.”
Owen shakes his head.
“Well then, just focus on him, on your memories. Cast your mind wide and see if it reacts to anything.”
I fight to not fidget while he concentrates. After ten minutes, he opens his eyes. “Nothing. Maybe I just don't know him well enough.”
I squeeze his hands. “Maybe you just aren't relaxed enough. Tell me what you need from me.”
A mischievous glint burns in his eyes, and I glare. “Not that.”
He laughs. “I know, but I knew you'd respond to that, too. I wouldn't mind getting out of the car. It's hard to feel I'm really here, without even a connection to the ground.”
I hesitate, and nod. “It's a little risky, but I can't feel anything around us, so we should be okay. It does look like their attention shifted when he fled. Worst case, you run. I can take care of myself, and I'll make my way back to you, though I might look different if it gets too rough.”
He flinches at the thought of seeing me wear someone else. Knowing his luck, I'd accidentally grab his best friend's body. I'm amazed the guy didn't try to strangle me more than the once. I would have, in his shoes.
We get out of the car, stroll a few blocks, and then I bend down to ostensibly tie my shoe, and he sits on the pavement. I pretend to fidget, take the shoe off and look for a splinter, so it looks like we have a reason for pausing here.
He shakes his head again. “I'm just not good at this.”
I put my arm around his shoulders, and lean my cheek against him. “It's a hard thing to learn. You're doing fine.”
He tries focusing again, and I withdraw my arm.
“Nope. Nothing. That didn't help at all.” He looks at me, and his eyes are awkward, full of a conflict he hasn't come around to articulate to me yet. “I need your help.”
“I'm here.” I put my hands on his cheek, and let him into my head when he presses forward. Given his anxiety, I focus entirely on my own scrying experiences. I keep my head clear, but wait for him to pull back. Instead, he hooks me, pulls me deeper into him. I look through his eyes, and through my own lips, begin whispering words to him.
“Father.”
A young Owen and a man on the swing next to him. But beneath that, an acrid, smoky smell. He pulls back slightly from me; he hadn't even caught the tang.
“Dad.”
The same memory, but without the tang. That's a little strange. What man rearing a kid in the past seventy years doesn't answer to 'dad'?
“Family.”
His sister staggering under a box almost as big as her while helping him move in to his dorm. His brother spitting up on his back while he babysat. A mixed set of resentment and faith, newly compounded with guilt and confusion. And beneath that, nothing.
“Hide.”
The dark-eyed man talking to him in a low voice, strange stories of demons who could find you when you hid. And beneath that, a child shrieking at him in a rough British accent. One his overall self recoils from for its strangeness. I can feel his thought as though it was my own; where did that come from?
“Safe.”
A baseball game, and a really good play, one that scraped his leg badly. His mom thought he might need stitches, but it seemed to heal just fine with only a bandaid. Fast, too. He was thrilled, and couldn't understand why she wore a pained expression for days after.
Beneath that, a different man, red haired and dark eyed, talking to his dad. “Please, keep him away from them. He has a chance for something better than this.” The two hug, and a shadow shifts from the red haired man to the other one. The red haired man's clothes are bloodstained and antiquated, and Owen's nausea bleeds through to me. Was his dad an actor? Does he just not remember seeing him in whatever performance that was? The blood must be fake.
No, hon, I sincerely doubt it, I think to myself, but take pains to withhold that from him. I don't need him freaking out to realize the world's so damn brutal.
We're getting closer. I shift the focus from Owen's recollections, to the ones that seem to have been placed there like ornaments.
