by Jenn Burke
My presence wasn’t enough of an apology, but that’s all I could do for now.
I left Hudson and the other detective in the foyer—which was no more than an area delineated by a sturdy, natural-fiber area rug in the open space of the loft. A quirky red tin watering can stuffed with flowers sat on a nearby table, next to an oddly shaped bowl containing a set of keys and a couple of loonies and quarters.
So far the space gave off no weird vibes—but hey, Meredith’s hadn’t, either.
Framed photographs covered the walls—and I mean, covered the walls. The two-story brick wall next to the entrance held nothing but pictures of various sizes and color treatments. One in particular must have been four feet tall and six or seven feet wide, depicting Toronto’s skyline. God knew how he’d produced a photograph that large, but it was stunning.
Crime scene techs were investigating the flat, hard surfaces in the living room, but it didn’t appear that they were making any headway. Nothing seemed to be out of place—no empty glasses on the coffee table, no magazines waiting for someone to pick them up and read them, no books, not even a remote control for the wide flatscreen TV. The coffee table was one with drawers, so probably everything was put away—which was an insight into Cyril’s character. Often people equated quirky and creative with messy and chaotic, but that wasn’t the case here.
I followed the dark-washed hardwood floors past the modern kitchen—also immaculate—toward the gentle spiral of cast iron stairs leading to the sleeping loft, where I could hear multiple soft voices. A familiar tread on the stairs behind me indicated Hudson was heading for the bedroom too. Given the lack of evidence elsewhere in the apartment, I assumed something unpleasant was going to greet me when I reached the top of the staircase, and I wasn’t wrong.
The massive loft bedroom stretched nearly the entire length of the apartment, capped on one end by what I assumed was a bathroom, from the glimpse of tile I could see at this angle. A king-size bed crouched against the wall opposite the bathroom, but the room’s expansiveness dwarfed it. A seating area formed a vague semi-circle in front of three huge rectangular windows—I’d noted them from outside. Like the spaces downstairs, everything was incredibly neat and tidy, nothing out of place.
Except for the dead body beside the couch.
My gaze slid over him—I really didn’t want to see this—but I forced myself to look. Dead body. Yep, that was a dead body lying in a pool of congealed blood, with discolored skin, and open, glazed eyes and everything. The otherplane obscured nothing, since there was no life left in him. I could see him as easily as I could see the birdcage with its cascading bunches of fake flowers on a nearby bookshelf.
Swallowing hard, I tried to focus on individual details instead of the whole picture. He had short, dark hair. He sported three gold rings on the one hand I could see. He wore a knee-length robe with a weird gradation—oh, Christ, because it had soaked up his blood. I gagged and stumbled back a step. Thank god smells didn’t transfer from the real world to the otherplane, because I would have likely vomited ghostly puke all over the floor.
Okay, so, I didn’t need to look at the body. I’d let Hudson take care of that part—which he was, crouching down to get a good long look at Cyril’s face. Gah. How could he do this every day? Was he that numb inside? Maybe I’d been all wrong about his resentment for me. Maybe he didn’t feel enough to have any emotions where I was concerned.
I turned away from Hudson and the body and focused on everything but. More pictures peppered the walls here, all with Cyril’s stamp. Portraits rather than the landscapes featured downstairs—oh, and some explicit portraits too. Wow. I tilted my head as I tried to assign limbs to one black-and-white photo’s entangled subjects, but I quickly gave up.
Absolutely nothing stood out from an otherplane perspective. There were no spirits, no lingering miasmas—violence like this left a mark on the energy of the world and beyond. But... I didn’t feel anything.
I should have.
The urge to run had been present at Meredith’s—and yes, it had been mostly my instinct to get the hell away from the scary, shadowy killer, but in hindsight, my need to flee had been partially fed by the viciousness of the attack imprinting on the otherplane. I should have recognized it, since I’d felt it in other places where violence had happened, sometimes recently, sometimes years before. I should be feeling the same aversion here, well beyond the discomfort brought on by the proximity to the gory body a few feet away. The fact that I didn’t meant...
I didn’t know what it meant. Probably nothing good. Retreating to Hudson’s car so we could talk it out—later, and at a good distance—was the best plan. I started for the stairs, only to stagger to a stop when I heard a sibilant whisper behind me.
I glanced over my shoulder at Hudson, but he was still crouched by the body, nodding as a fuzzy figure explained something to him. I wouldn’t have heard a whisper from this distance anyway, so what...?
Another whisper drew my feet forward, almost of their own accord. If I could get a little closer, I’d be able to make out what was being said. Was it a name? Was Cyril trying to communicate with me? That would be odd. Any spirits I’d encountered in the otherplane had been fully in the otherplane, visible to me and able to interact with me via speech, touches, whatever. Being able to hear a whisper but not see the spirit making it was beyond weird.
And compelling in a way I couldn’t quite explain.
I moved closer to the body. Something was hovering in the air above Cyril’s still form. A glint, or...a wrinkle. I’d never seen anything like it. I leaned closer, reaching out, cognizant of Hudson’s proximity but needing to touch it—
My fingers brushed the nebulous something and all hell broke loose.
Sparks flashed through both the otherplane and the living realm. The cops in the room cried out in surprise—but I couldn’t check if anyone was hurt. I couldn’t even look around.
Because a force had latched on to me.
I jerked back, fully expecting that whatever it was would give way at the first sign of resistance. It didn’t. Instead, it held on tighter. Not only my hand, but my chest, my neck, my head, my legs—imprisoning every bit of me as it dragged me inexorably forward. I struggled, hard, but the grip only tightened. I screamed, then regretted it, because I couldn’t draw in another breath to scream more as a dark portal opened in front of me.
Whatever this force was, it was dragging me through the otherplane. To the other side. I didn’t know if what I thought of as the beyond was heaven or hell or another version of Earth, and I didn’t fucking care. I didn’t want to go.
It wasn’t giving me a choice.
I kept struggling. I kept trying. Black spots speckled my vision, but I wouldn’t go without a goddamned fight, and when I got there, wherever it was, I’d scream bloody murder until they sent me back for being such a pain in the ass. I’d make them regret every moment I was—
Something grabbed me from behind and yanked. Again. Harder. And, suddenly, the inescapable motion toward the other side washed away. I popped into the real world for an instant and all pressure ceased, but I instinctively sought the otherplane again—part of me was intent on staying hidden from Hudson’s fellow cops, though a panicked glance around assured me there was no one else left in the loft. I turned to face whatever it was that had pulled me from harm...
And everything stopped.
Standing in front of me, highlighted by the glow of the streetlights pouring through the windows at my back, was the jagged, sharp-edged shadow figure I’d seen straddling Meredith’s body, strangling the life from her. Dark, bottomless eye-holes stared at me, unwavering. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t make sense of—
“Wes?”
That was Hudson’s voice. Coming from the figure. I blinked, and his shadow self shrank, the edges smoothing out, growing lighter. In moments, all of the jagged-
edged darkness was gone, and his shadow form looked like it always did. Murky, but normal.
I—Was I imagining things? Did I see what I thought I saw? I couldn’t have—but did I? Ice shot through my intangible veins, and even though I shouldn’t feel warmth or chill on the otherplane, I was suddenly as cold as I’d ever been. It was all I could do to keep my teeth from chattering.
Why the hell did Hudson have the same shadow form as Meredith’s killer?
Chapter Eight
When in doubt, run.
Hudson called after me, probably seeing my “wrinkle” moving, but I ignored him. I ignored all of it, because none of what had just happened—fucking none of it—made any sense. Something trying to suck me into oblivion? Hudson grabbing me out of the otherplane?
Hudson looking like the murderer?
I slipped through the floor, into Cyril’s first-floor studio, and streaked out through the wall toward home. Moving through the otherplane was a lot easier and faster than walking in the real world, so I didn’t make any attempts to rematerialize. I kind of wished I could feel air rushing past me, though—it would be a welcome distraction. And maybe it would blow all of these whirling, unanswerable questions out of my brain.
Hudson wasn’t the murderer. That fact reverberated in my head over and over again. I refused to consider that he could have changed so significantly, so fundamentally, in the time we’d been apart. I’d know, wouldn’t I? There’d be some clue? Even when he’d been prickly as hell with me, there’d been an underlying, if weak, emotional current that reminded me of the idealistic, noble man I’d loved.
Pushing emotions aside, logic also said he wasn’t. Hudson wasn’t stupid enough to invite me to accompany him in the otherplane if he thought I would identify him as the killer. So that meant he didn’t know. And that meant he wasn’t the killer.
But none of that explained the—the thing waiting for me over Cyril’s body. If Hudson hadn’t been there...if he hadn’t...
God, I wanted to throw up.
I half expected Hudson to be waiting for me at my building, since his monster car beat my otherplane walking speed easily, but there was no sign of him. Instead of heading upstairs immediately to hole up in my sanctuary, I stared at the place I’d called home for nearly forty years. It was a good place—a safe place. But it wouldn’t protect me from my thoughts.
And I really, really didn’t want to think tonight. Thinking would lead to acknowledging that I’d almost—I’d—
Yeah. No. I was done thinking.
I turned on my heels and headed for Lexi’s place a few streets over. The houses were newer than the ones on my street—by about eighty years or so—smaller, and they definitely had less character. But the tiny front yards were generally well kept, and though some of the houses were worn, they weren’t in disrepair. Lexi would be the first to point out that all she needed was a place to crash between shifts. Oh, and a comfy couch to watch movies on.
I passed through the front door and paused, my brain catching up to my actions. What the hell was I doing? It was well past midnight, and Lexi and Marissa were probably in bed—an educated guess based on the fact that the main floor was quiet and dark except for a pale light emanating from the kitchen. I should have called, or at least fucking knocked. But as usual, I’d been focused on me. What I needed.
“You are such an asshole, Wes,” I muttered as I turned back to the door.
Something thumped hard on the ceiling and someone yelled. Without thinking, I darted upstairs and emerged into Lexi and Marissa’s bedroom to find Lexi standing beside the bed with a cellphone in her hand. She gestured wildly, a silk scarf protecting her microbraids, and Marissa blinked up at her with a befuddled, half-asleep look on her face. Her short brown hair was mussed, and thank god both of them were wearing T-shirts.
“What the fuck is this?” Lexi grabbed a book from the nightstand with her free hand and tossed it against the wall. It flopped down next to another casualty—the sound I’d heard from downstairs. “Wake up, goddamn it!”
“I’m up, I’m up, Jesus. What the hell, Lexi?”
“You got a text while I was in the bathroom.” Lexi shoved the phone at Marissa. “‘Remember this, baby?’” she said in a sing-song voice dripping with ice. “‘How long did we keep each other on the edge that night? I never came so hard in my life.’”
Even in the dim light cascading in from the bathroom, I could see Marissa’s face grow pale. “That’s not—”
“That’s you in the video, right? Taking that guy’s cock from behind? Fucking bareback?”
“I—That’s not—Someone’s screwing around.”
“I recognize your sounds, Marissa! Jesus Christ.” Lexi was shaking, she was so mad. I wanted to wrap her in my arms and share some warmth, but I didn’t dare appear now. “How long?” Marissa stared at Lexi, and Lexi lost it. “How long have you been fucking around?”
“A year, okay?” Marissa sneered. “What did you expect? You’re never home. And when you are, you’re always too tired to do anything fun. Or you’ve got plans with Wes.”
“Oh no, don’t you turn this around on me. I did nothing wrong.”
“You did something wrong, or else I wouldn’t have had to go looking elsewhere.”
“You—” Lexi bit back whatever she was about to say. “Did you get tested?”
“He said he’s clean.”
I winced. Lexi hated that term, since it implied anyone who had HIV or another STI was dirty. I’d had the lecture once and I couldn’t say I disagreed with her arguments, so I made a point of changing my terminology. I imagine Marissa had had the same lecture, and the fact she didn’t change her words? That said a lot about her lack of respect.
“He said? He said? Did you see a test result? Anything?”
Marissa rolled her eyes. “Why would he lie?”
“Why would he—” Lexi dashed a hand against her cheeks, wiping away tears. “Get out of my house.”
“Oh, fuck you, Lexi, it’s 2:00 a.m.” Marissa kicked off the sheets and pushed herself out of bed. She was bigger than Lexi, taller and more muscular. Lexi stood her ground even as Marissa tried to intimidate her. I couldn’t remember what Marissa did for a living, but in that moment, she reminded me of the new Hudson.
Fuck, I didn’t want my brain to go there.
“You need to leave. Now,” Lexi said through gritted teeth.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Marissa growled.
“I said, get out.” Lexi grabbed Marissa’s T-shirt and tried to yank her out of the bedroom. Marissa’s larger hands banded around Lexi’s biceps and tossed her toward the bed without much of an effort.
Marissa loomed over her, her stance threatening, and I had had enough.
I moved toward Marissa, letting her body and mine occupy the same space. The skin of her arms pebbled into goose bumps, and she staggered back a step.
“What the—” Her breath emerged as a puff of vapor.
I gathered energy and shoved her. She jerked back and her eyes darted around the room, trying to see her assailant. Of course, she couldn’t—so her attention turned back to Lexi.
“W-what’s going on?”
“You should have left when I asked,” Lexi said with a shrug.
I took that as my cue to let loose. I shoved Marissa again, and poked her stomach, her arms, and, when she spun around, her back. Expanding my energy outward, I manipulated the lights, making them flicker. I even managed to trigger the video on Marissa’s forgotten cellphone, and turned up the volume until her moans and the sound of fucking reverberated throughout the room.
Marissa was breathing heavily now, panicked. “You’re doing this somehow.”
She didn’t know Lexi was a witch, but it was a logical conclusion that Lexi had somehow set up...what, a remote control to mess with the lights? Though I didn’t know how Marissa’
s little brain was dealing with the whole bodiless touching thing.
“How?” Lexi countered, motionless on the bed except for a gesture of I’m not doing anything, see?
I sidled up to Marissa and materialized enough to whisper in her ear, “Get. Out.”
“Fuck this shit.” Marissa scrambled forward to grab her jeans and yanked them on, nearly falling on her face. She reclaimed her phone—the video still moaning away—and darted down the stairs.
“I’ll leave your shit on the porch tomorrow!” Lexi called after her.
“Fuck you!” The slamming door punctuated her final words.
I rematerialized fully and turned to Lexi, my lower lip caught between my teeth. “I, uh... I’m sorry, Lex.”
All of Lexi’s bravado dissolved, and she crumpled in on herself. I hopped on the bed and gathered her close.
“I believed her,” she whispered.
“I know,” I replied, and I held her as she cried.
* * *
The next morning we packed up Marissa’s shit and left it on the front porch as promised. I’d thought the act would be an emotional trial for Lexi, but she never wavered, never hesitated. Things she identified as Marissa’s went into boxes without so much as a tear shed. There was no revisiting memory lane, nothing except getting the job done. I was proud of her, but also a little heartbroken that she had to go through this.
Breaking up with Hudson had been less explosive but similarly painful. There’d been arguments at the end—lots of arguments, despite the fact that we hardly spent any time together. I always went into one of Hudson’s days off with the idea that this time, I’d keep my mouth shut. This time, I’d enjoy his company. But he’d get called in for an overtime shift, or I’d get a job I couldn’t pass up, and either situation would always provoke comments from the slighted party. And then on the days when we were together without interruption, all the shit from all the other days weighed on us. Finally, we stopped connecting.
